Chapter One
A cold sensation started at her fingertips and crept all the way to her heart.
Lin Weiwei's eyes snapped open.
Her vision was hazy—layered shadows flickering like a faulty old television, sputtering static until the image barely came together into a room so luxurious it bordered on absurd. A crystal chandelier scattered blinding light across everything, and the air was thick with the cloying sweetness of high-end perfume.
This wasn't her rented apartment.
A sharp hum filled her head, and then—like a flood bursting through a dam—memories that weren't hers came crashing in.
Lin Weiwei, twenty-two, daughter of the Lin Group, spoiled and arrogant, hopelessly infatuated with business tycoon Gu Chen, and relentless in tormenting his beloved white moonlight, Su Qingyu, a humble girl from an ordinary background.
And she—was Lin Wei, the reader who had stayed up late bingeing this very novel, cursing the author's melodrama even as she worried for the heroine.
She had transmigrated into the book.
Into that book—The CEO's Contractual Captive—a torturous romance where the original Lin Weiwei was tricked into a mental hospital early on, only to later have her kidney and heart literally carved out.
"Bang!"
The door burst open from outside.
Several burly men in white orderly uniforms stormed in, their faces expressionless, their eyes cold. Behind them, silhouetted by the hallway light, stood a woman in a white dress.
She was slender, graceful, her presence calm and distant. Long black hair flowed over her shoulders, her face serene and emotionless—but her eyes were still, deep, and frozen over, like an icebound lake with no visible bottom.
Su Qingyu.
The heroine of this story. The one who would crush Lin Weiwei beneath her heel, reclaim everything that was "rightfully hers," and spend hundreds of chapters in an agonizing yet passionate love with Gu Chen.
And according to the plot, this was the night it all began—when Lin Weiwei, trying to drug Su Qingyu, would be outsmarted and branded "insane," then forcibly sent to a psychiatric hospital.
"Miss Lin," Su Qingyu spoke, her voice as cool and detached as her demeanor, devoid of any emotion. "Your mental state is unstable. You need professional treatment."
Here it was. The plot—arriving right on cue.
Lin Wei—no, Lin Weiwei now—stared at the approaching orderlies, a cold numbness spreading through her chest.
Run? To where? This was a novel world, with fate itself holding the script.
Resist? This body was pampered and frail, unfit to fight even one man, let alone several professionals trained for this. Resistance would only mean a beating.
She hadn't expected it all to happen so soon—she hadn't even eaten a meal in this world yet.
Fine. Whatever.
According to the book, getting thrown into the asylum was only the beginning of the villainess's downfall. There were still hundreds of chapters before the kidney-and-heart-extraction scene. Besides, the mental hospital's management wasn't too strict early on—after all, it only served as a convenient plot device to punish her.
Lin Weiwei obediently—almost willingly—offered her wrists to one of the orderlies.
Su Qingyu's gaze flickered. For the briefest instant, surprise—tiny and fleeting—crossed those glacial eyes before it vanished without a trace.
Qingshan Psychiatric Hospital.
The name sounded dignified enough, but the place sat isolated in the countryside.
Her single room was better than expected—clean, with a private bathroom. The heavy iron door had a small barred window, the only glimpse of the outside world.
After locking her in, the orderlies left, their footsteps fading down the corridor.
Lin Weiwei surveyed the space. White walls. An iron-framed bed. A table and chair both bolted to the floor. The window reinforced with steel bars. Outside, darkness pressed close.
Alright then—welcome to the villainess's first dungeon.
She sat on the bed, the hard planks biting into her thighs, and began combing through her memory of the original plot. She hadn't read the novel in full—just key moments and the villain's miserable end.
She vaguely remembered that early on, Lin Weiwei still had some influence left from her powerful family—enough to boss people around and even smuggle in contraband. Only after the Lin family fell—destroyed by Gu Chen and Su Qingyu—did her true nightmare begin.
Right now, though, the Lin family was still standing.
Weiwei patted her pockets. Empty. No phone, no wallet. But that was fine.
She walked to the door and peered through the window slot. A bored-looking orderly was leaning against the wall, yawning.
"Hey." She knocked on the iron door.
The orderly glared at her. "What do you want?"
"I want my phone. I need to make a call," she said, lifting her chin, mimicking the spoiled arrogance of the original Weiwei—even though her heart was racing.
The man snorted. "Dream on. This is a psych ward."
"Really?" She curled her lips into a cold little smile. "Do you know Chairman Lin of the Lin Group? Or should I remind you of the hospital's deputy director's surname?"
She was bluffing—completely. But the "Lin Group" name still carried weight. The man's annoyance faded into hesitation. After a pause, he muttered something and walked off.
A few minutes later, a middle-aged man who looked like a supervisor arrived. He studied her through the small window.
Weiwei repeated her demand—this time, calmer, more authoritative.
Maybe it was her composure, maybe it was the mention of names that mattered—but eventually, the man passed her an old-fashioned phone through the slot.
"Five minutes," he warned.
She snatched it and quickly dialed the number she recalled—the original Lin Weiwei's father.
The line clicked. Before he could speak, she began: "Dad, it's me—Weiwei. I'm at Qingshan Psychiatric Hospital. Su Qingyu had me sent here. I need a few things. Have someone bring them. Right now."
Then she rattled off her list: a mahjong set, a portable hot pot, the freshest beef slices, tripe, shrimp paste, vegetables, and cold Coke—ice cold.
There was silence. Long, long silence.
"...Weiwei?" Her father's voice finally came through, disbelieving, weary. "You—you're not... they said you were—"
"I'm fine," she cut him off. "Perfectly fine. Just do as I say. And make a donation to this hospital—enough that they treat me well. Otherwise, I might start talking to the media. About the Lin family. And about Gu Chen."
She hung up and handed the phone back, ignoring the supervisor's dark expression.
The rest of the day passed quietly.
Weiwei napped on the hard bed, uneasy dreams filled with images of the original's pale face during the organ-harvesting scene.
When she awoke, the sun was low—orange light filtering through the barred window.
The door opened. Several orderlies came in, carrying boxes.
A brand-new mahjong set. A sleek portable hot pot. Insulated containers filled with fresh ingredients—the vegetables still crisp, the beef still frosty, the Cokes cold and beaded with condensation.
Now this was efficiency. Money—or threats—worked the same in every universe.
They left silently, locking the door behind them.
Weiwei exhaled in satisfaction. Survival supplies: secured.
She plugged in the hot pot, poured in the chili oil base, and soon the room filled with the spicy, mouthwatering scent of bubbling broth.
She dunked a slice of beef, swirled it through the boiling soup, and dipped it in sesame oil and garlic.
The flavor hit her tongue and she almost cried.
This—this was the taste of being alive.
Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, she ate until sweat beaded her nose. Then she cracked open a Coke, gulped, and let the fizz burn down her throat—a small, defiant pleasure.
To hell with the plot. To hell with the heroine. To hell with kidney thefts and tragic endings.
Food came first. Always.
Night deepened.
The single lamp cast a dim yellow glow. The air still smelled faintly of hot pot.
Full and bored, Weiwei dumped out the mahjong tiles and began playing alone—building walls, drawing tiles, pretending to switch between four invisible players.
"Three of Bamboo."
"Pong! Sorry, self, but I win again—All Simples!"
Her laughter and the rhythmic clatter of tiles echoed down the silent corridor.
Just as she triumphantly declared another "Pure Suit" win—
BANG!!
The iron door exploded open with a deafening crash!
The metal slammed against the wall. Weiwei jolted, the tile in her hand slipping and clattering onto the table.
In the doorway stood Su Qingyu.
She was still in a black evening gown, elegant and severe, her long hair slightly disheveled, her breathing uneven. Those usually calm, frozen eyes churned with something dark, stormy—almost uncontrollable—and at their corners, a trace of red.
As if she were barely holding something back.
The air was thick with the lingering aroma of chili broth and wood. The absurdity of it all—hot pot and mahjong in a psych ward—hung heavy in the silence.
Su Qingyu's gaze swept the scene: the scattered tiles, the pot still steaming faintly, the empty Coke bottles.
Finally, her eyes locked on Weiwei—still sitting cross-legged on the floor, a mahjong tile in one hand, maybe a little oil still glistening at the corner of her mouth.
The air froze.
Time itself seemed to stop.
Weiwei's heart pounded so hard it hurt. She couldn't read the emotion swirling in Su Qingyu's eyes—only that it was deep, fierce, and terrifying.
Su Qingyu stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor—tap, tap, tap—each sound striking straight through Weiwei's chest.
She stopped in front of her, looking down. Her gaze was complicated—too complicated.
Then, in a low, rough voice unlike any Weiwei had ever heard from her, Su Qingyu said:
"Lin Weiwei…"
"Why aren't you afraid of me?"