Chapter 1

I was doing just fine as a boxing coach, living my best life, and then I woke up as the pathetic female lead in some tragic romance novel.

The male lead cheated on his wife. Big surprise.

His precious first love came back to town, and the two of them ended up in bed together.

The original me? She stood outside the bedroom door that the other woman had deliberately left cracked open, crying her heart out in silence.

The new me?

I held up my phone, walked straight to the door, and kicked it open.

I grabbed my phone, kicked the door wide open, and brought the cops with me.

"He's soliciting prostitution, and she's selling it. Officers, please arrest them both!"

*****

Thanks to my parents' hard work, I didn't have to worry about making ends meet. I opened a boxing gym because I loved it, not because I needed the money.

Besides boxing, reading novels was my soul food.

But I fucked up. Right before bed, I opened one of those toxic romance novels.

The story was crazy. The male and female leads entered a business marriage.

The female lead, Claire Summers, was the quiet, suffering type—delicate and pitiful. She'd had a crush on the male lead, Leonard Grant, since they were young. When her sister backed out of the arranged marriage, Claire finally got to marry the man she loved.

After the wedding, Claire devoted herself completely to him, slowly trying to win his heart.

But then Leonard's first love, Vanessa Cole, came back, and everything Claire had worked for crumbled.

Leonard couldn't let his first love go.

When Claire finally gave up and asked for a divorce, Leonard accused her of cheating. He started controlling her, crushing her spirit, and eventually it escalated to violence. He forced himself on her, and she got pregnant.

The novel tried to frame all of this as Leonard's "yandere charm" and "possessive obsession."

Claire couldn't take it anymore. After the miscarriage, she fell into severe depression and jumped off a building.

Leonard held her corpse with bloodshot eyes and vowed to make everyone pay.

I finished skimming it and looked out the window as the sky turned pale. What the hell was wrong with me? I'd stayed up all night reading this garbage?

A wave of dizziness hit me, and my ears started ringing. Then I woke up inside the novel.

*****

I opened my eyes and found myself on the floor.

Across the room, the mirror on the vanity showed me everything—dried blood trailing down from my temple, my cheek swollen and marked with five distinct fingerprints.

I knew exactly where I was in the story now. About a third of the way through.

Last night was the first time Leonard hit Claire.

He'd been drinking and shoved her in a rage. She hit the corner of the desk and passed out.

But the woman who woke up wasn't Claire anymore. It was me.

I pushed myself off the floor and waited for the dizziness to pass. Then I found my phone in the corner, angled it carefully, and took photos of everything—my injuries, the blood on the floor, the stains on the desk edge.

Then I called the police.

*****

I steadied myself and walked out of the study.

As I passed the master bedroom, I heard it. Breathless sounds. A woman's voice cooing, "Leonard."

I knew this scene. I'd read it before.

Vanessa was back.

In the original story, this was where it happened—Vanessa came home, and they went at it right here in the house.

The old Claire would've stood outside that deliberately cracked door, suffering in silence.

But I wasn't her.

I held up my phone, walked straight to the door, and kicked it open.

The two of them scrambled for the sheets.

At the exact moment, the police I'd called arrived downstairs. "Who reported a domestic disturbance?"

I raised my voice. "I did."

Leonard had already thrown his clothes back on. "Officers, this is all a misunderstanding."

The officer looked at me, and I pointed at Leonard, then at Vanessa. My voice was steady and clear. "He solicited prostitution, and she's a prostitute. Please handle this according to the law."

"Claire, are you insane?" Vanessa screamed.

Leonard was a public figure, so naturally, he wouldn't let a scandal like this get out. I didn't expect this one incident to bring him down anyway.

But after the two of them went with the police to give their statements, I pulled aside the female officer who'd responded to the call. "I've been abused. I want to file a report."

The female officer told me to go back inside and get dressed. Then I followed her to the hospital to document my injuries.

The police report, the dispatch record, the injury assessment, the photographs—all of it could serve as evidence of domestic violence.

After I finished the entire process, I returned to the police station.

I sat in the interrogation room and calmly laid out my case.

"I'm filing charges against Leonard Grant for intentional assault. Last night between ten and eleven, he beat me at Emerald Villa and unlawfully harmed my physical health."

When they heard his name, the two officers across from me exchanged glances. "Ms. Summers, please give us a moment."

One of them, a middle-aged officer, stepped out to make a phone call.

When he came back, his tone had changed completely. "We're sorry, Ms. Summers, but we can't accept your report."

Their reasoning? I didn't have concrete evidence proving Leonard was the one who hit me.

And even if I did have proof, they told me, my injuries only qualified as "minor." At most, it would be classified as "domestic violence" or "negligent conduct", nowhere near the threshold for criminal charges.

I walked out of the police station in silence, but whispers followed me.

"Mr. Grant always seemed so gentle and refined. I can't believe he'd actually hit his wife. Do you think there's more to the story?"

"Right? Why would he hit her?"

"Maybe Mrs. Grant did something wrong?"

Every word reached my ears.

I couldn't help but laugh.

This was how most people viewed domestic violence.

They always asked why he hit her.

I'd almost reached the exit when a clear voice cut through the murmurs. "Abuse isn't caused by the victim's 'mistakes.' It's about the abuser's need for power and control. Stop making excuses for abusers!"

Something sparked in my chest. I turned around and saw a female officer pushing through the crowd.

"Ma'am, I hope these can help you." She pressed a stack of papers into my hands.

I looked at the top page. [When domestic violence occurs, defending yourself against the abuser is considered self-defense.]

She pulled me into a brief hug. "This isn't your fault. Justice might take time, but it will come."

Before she left, she told me I could gather evidence and file for divorce.

I hugged her back, and her badge gleamed in the sunlight.

After the officer drove away, a black stretch Lincoln pulled up to the curb.

Five or six bodyguards in black suits stepped out.

"Mrs. Grant, Mr. Grant is waiting for you at home. Please, this way."