"Olivia Prescott, how could you be so vicious! You knew perfectly well Emma Fairmont has hemophilia—the slightest scratch could make her bleed uncontrollably—yet you deliberately pushed her down the stairs?"

"The true heiress of the Rutledge family can only be Emma Fairmont. You're utterly useless, and after the Aldens brought you back to live in luxury, you still aren't satisfied?"

"If anything happens to Emma Fairmont today, you'll be packing your bags straight back to that rural orphanage!"

Ava Kingsley awoke to the shrill, furious scolding of a woman nearby. Her long lashes fluttered slightly as she opened her eyes to the sight of an exquisitely decorated, opulent villa living room.

At that moment, she was cradled in the arms of an elegantly dressed woman, who was glaring and pointing accusingly at a girl standing at the staircase landing opposite them. The noblewoman's face was flushed with anger.

Ava Kingsley's head throbbed dully, and a faint ache pulsed from the back of her skull and various parts of her body. She couldn't quite piece together what was happening.

Suddenly, an icy sensation spread across the back of her head, accompanied by a sharp sting. Instinctively, she reached up to touch it.

Her hand was caught mid-air. A calm, composed voice spoke from behind her: "Don't touch it." The tone was gentle yet carried an undercurrent of cool detachment, like an early spring breeze that still bites with winter's chill.

The woman supporting her looked down with tender concern, her voice softening. "Emma Fairmont, Dr. Noah Chandler is disinfecting your wound."

After stopping the bleeding and bandaging Ava Kingsley's injury, Dr. Noah Chandler rummaged through his medical kit while speaking in measured tones. "Madam Sophia Alden, your daughter has lost a significant amount of blood and requires a transfusion. However, as I understand it, she has the golden blood type. You're aware of how rare this is—our hospital doesn't have reserves of this blood type in stock."

An ordinary person bumping their head wouldn't typically lose so much blood, but Emma Fairmont suffered from hemophilia, causing even minor injuries to result in uncontrolled bleeding and rapid blood loss.

Madam Sophia Alden turned and instructed the housemaid, "Bring Liam Whitaker here."

Soon after, the maid returned with a slender young man dressed in a crisp white shirt.

He emerged from the twilight like a figure stepping out of an ink-wash painting—untouched by worldly dust, exuding an aura of refined nobility and pristine purity.

With his head slightly bowed before Emma Fairmont, stray locks of hair partially veiled his eyes. His fair complexion and delicate features were accentuated by the soft press of his lips, giving him an ethereal beauty and an air of quiet docility.

When he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, his eyes were as clear and still as undisturbed water, yet faintly shrouded in a mist-like haze.

Though Ava Kingsley had once practiced as a psychologist, she needed no professional training to recognize the desolate stillness and despair lurking behind that mist—like an aged man who had spent a lifetime waiting in vain.

How could a boy in the bloom of youth evoke such a feeling? Had she misread him?

Before she could delve deeper, the boy averted his eyes. He stood motionless as crimson blood traveled from his arm through the transfusion tube into her veins.

Ava Kingsley noticed the back of his pale hand—marred by a dense patchwork of needle marks, a sight that sent a chill down her spine.

In that instant, fragmented images flooded her mind—scenes of repeatedly piercing this beautiful boy with needles. Memories that weren’t hers clawed their way into her consciousness.

Olivia Prescott. Liam Whitaker. Living blood bank. Switched identities. Hemophilia...

It took her a moment to process the impossible truth: she, who had just inherited a vast fortune, had transmigrated into a novel.

Not just any novel, but the very one she had recently read—a story of hidden identities and tangled fates, where she was now cast as the counterfeit heiress, the fake younger sister of the female lead.

The kind of character who wore elegance like a mask while shamelessly usurping another’s place, courting disaster with every reckless move, only to meet a wretched end as the story’s detestable green-tea antagonist.

And to make it worse, she shared the same name.

Meanwhile, leaning casually against the stairwell railing, engrossed in her phone, was her so-called sister—Olivia Prescott. The novel’s formidable female lead, a beauty with a wild streak and layers of hidden identities.