"Frost Lawson, we’re already married. What are you pulling now?"

"My big brother’s gone. I just wanna leave her a kid. And if you dare run out there flapping your mouth, don’t even think about stepping back into my room again!"

The moment Frost Lawson opened her eyes, she saw a fairly decent‑looking man standing right in front of her.

He was staring at her with a sour face, impatience dripping from his voice.

"You’re an orphan with nobody left. I’m the only one willing to take you in."

"Tonight I’m staying with my sister‑in‑law. You stay put right here. I’ll come back to our room tomorrow morning."

Orphan? Frost? Sister‑in‑law?

Her head throbbed so hard the man in front of her turned into two… then three.

Frost shut her eyes and sucked in a few steady breaths. What was this…

She’d crossed into a book?

The very trashy era novel she’d binge‑read last night?

The original Frost really was an orphan. Her dad died a martyr, her mom drowned herself in grief, and they still hadn’t found the body.

The man’s family—who had a marriage arrangement with the original Frost—only brought her home for her father’s pension. They talked like they were being kind, but in reality…

She was treated like hired help. Before dawn she had to get up to work, and she didn’t stop till it was dark. She barely even ate enough.

Finally, on the day she got married, this man actually suggested “sharing himself between two branches,” wanting his widowed sister‑in‑law to sleep with him first on their wedding night.

The original Frost refused, of course. But this scumbag slapped her so hard she fell straight to the ground, smacking her head on a rock—and that’s when she, the unlucky one, ended up crossing over.

And what came after in the book only made her chest hurt with rage.

Using the glory of Frost’s father, the so‑called male lead moved up fast in the army, even took the widowed sister‑in‑law along with him, leaving Frost behind to wait on his parents like a servant.

Then his father got bedridden, his mother had a stroke, his younger brother needed a wife, and his two sisters needed dowries. Frost got sweet‑talked into doing twenty years of hard labor for that family, working herself half‑dead.

Meanwhile, the great male lead? He strutted around with his sister‑in‑law like a proper couple, made a fortune, became the richest man around, had two sons and a daughter, and the whole bunch lived happily ever after.

She’d stayed up all night just to see the original Frost Lawson stand up and fight back.

And what happened? In the end, the poor woman worked herself half to death her whole life, got stomach cancer, and just when she desperately needed money for treatment, Marcus Adams swaggered back with his widowed sister‑in‑law and three kids. He even had the nerve to say the widow had never remarried, that all three children were his, and that they’d secretly gotten their marriage certificate twenty years ago. Frost Lawson was so furious she dropped dead on the spot.

Even the book title was ridiculous: “The Seventies Widow Becomes a Tycoon, Little Brother Please Be Gentle.”

She had no idea which heartless troll had written that mess. The morals were shattered beyond repair.

What was worse—right after she finished cursing the author’s ancestors up and down, she suddenly woke up inside the story itself, becoming that soft, easily‑bullied cannon‑fodder Frost Lawson.

Seriously… this was about as unlucky as it got. She’d been so mad while reading that she clenched her fists hard enough to cramp more than once.

“Frost Lawson, your sister‑in‑law is like your mother. You better serve her well. When she gives me a son, then I’ll treat you better, maybe even consummate our marriage. If you behave, I might give you a child too. But everything in this house goes to her son…”

Her head throbbed so badly she reached to touch the back of it. The bleeding had already stopped.

The man from earlier had run off long ago. Under the dim light, Frost looked around. She seemed to be in a firewood shed: yellow earthen walls, a packed‑dirt floor, a kang not far away covered with a patched, color‑faded sheet, and three sacks of grain stacked in a corner. The tiny window was plastered with old yellowing newspaper.

Right—this was the exact place where the original Frost had lived in the novel.

It was the seventies now, somewhere deep in the poor countryside of Northeast China. Everything smelled of that era.

Frost pushed herself up and walked to the door, realizing it had been locked from the outside.

That bastard. He was scared she’d mess up his fun and interrupt his big “wedding night” with his sister‑in‑law?

But this cheap excuse for a lock—did he really think it could keep her in?

She tugged at the wooden door. The gap was wide enough, and she was thin enough that slipping a hand out was nothing. She pulled off the only hair clip on her head, a little black one with chipped paint, fiddled with the lock for a moment, and it clicked open.

And he thought this thing could trap her?

If that jerk dared to abandon his own bride on their wedding night and sneak off to sleep with his widowed sister‑in‑law, then she sure as hell dared to make his filth public to the entire village.

Perfect. She’d cut ties clean, tear up the marriage, and be done with him for good.

She had to get back her father’s pension, his medals, and the house that had been taken from her.

Marcus had already taken every advantage he could, and still he picked at her like she owed him something. Wanting both his wife and his widowed sister‑in‑law? As if things were that easy.

Rural nights didn’t offer much to do. Folks saved on kerosene; most wouldn’t even light a lamp and just turned in early. By this hour, nearly everyone in the village was fast asleep—except the Adams household, where the front gate was being hammered like someone meant to break it down.

Thud, thud, thud—each hit loud enough to rattle the hinges.

Victor Adams had been dreaming sweetly when the racket yanked him awake. He grumbled, his voice thick with annoyance, “Who’s out there? Middle of the night like this—can’t it wait till morning?”

Laurel Adams was already pulling on her coat. “Victor, someone knocking this late… something big must’ve happened. Go see what’s going on.”

Their house sat right at the center of the village, so neighbors were jolted awake too, poking their heads out their doors to see what all the fuss was about.

“You… you’re Frost? Didn’t you just get married today? Shouldn’t you be…”

Seeing the girl at his gate, Victor froze, mouth open, words stuck somewhere in his throat.

Frost Lawson was still wearing that red corduroy jacket from earlier in the day, only now it was smeared with mud. Her hair was a mess, blood streaked her forehead, and her face was so dirty her features barely showed. A bright handprint marked her cheek.

“Captain Adams… I can’t keep living like this. I just can’t… Marcus is—he’s not human…”

Frost’s voice shook as she sobbed, her body swaying like she might collapse. And every word out of her mouth was more shocking than the last.

“Tonight was supposed to be our wedding night. But he… he said a man should honor his elder brother’s line first. Said the family can’t let his big brother’s branch die out. He told me he had to give his sister‑in‑law a child, and until she gave birth to a big healthy son, he wouldn’t be sharing a room with me!”

Her words hit the crowd like a bucket of cold water—everyone stared in utter disbelief.

Before sleeping with his own wife, he wanted to get his widowed sister‑in‑law pregnant? What kind of person even said something like that?

“I told him it was wrong, that it went against every bit of decent morality. And he beat me for it… locked me in the woodshed while he went back inside with her… Look at my face, my arms—every bruise is from him… Captain Adams, I really, truly can’t live like this!”

“A younger brother fooling around with his sister‑in‑law… If word gets out, where’s this village supposed to put its pride?”

Frost cried so hard she could barely breathe. Her thin frame trembled in the cold, making her look even more pitiful than before.

"What? Marcus Adams actually slept with his own sister‑in‑law?"

Laurel Adams, the big‑mouthed wife of Victor Adams, practically lived for this kind of gossip. The moment she heard it, her eyes lit up like someone had struck a match in the dark.

"Frost, you mean the two of them are really sharing a room now?"

Laurel was so worked up her fingers were trembling, like she was ready to storm over there right that second just to see it with her own eyes.

Frost sniffled, trying to keep her voice steady, and finally gave a small nod.

"That Marcus, he’s really something else. On his wedding night, of all times, he runs off to do something this shameful!"

"And if he had to fool around, he just had to pick his widowed sister‑in‑law? What kind of man does that make him?"

"No way. Folks like that don’t deserve to stay in our village."

The more she talked, the hotter Laurel got. She grabbed Frost’s hand and tugged her toward the door.

"Come on, girl. Tonight, I’m standing up for you!"