One day, while living as a money-grubbing, unscrupulous lawyer, I found myself transmigrated as Elena Christie, a penniless extra in a fantasy romance novel.

“Let’s see, who has the biggest bounty on their head?”

To escape a poverty hell more terrifying than the inferno itself, I decided to defend Benedict Richard, the story’s ultimate villain, a duke on the verge of execution for mu*der. My reward for success? Half of his confiscated fortune.

“Is there any evidence here, in this courtroom, that the defendant committed this mu*der?”

I thought I’d torn the courtroom apart with my flawless arguments…. What? They’ll only return his assets if I catch the real culprit? Fine. I’ll catch the real culprit. I’ll get the money. And so, I ran myself ragged chasing the true mu*derer, even going so far as to fix the Duke’s finances, which were on the brink of collapse after his assets were seized. I even managed his public image, tarnished by the mu*derer label, thinking it might help secure his acquittal. I was utterly swamped, all to protect my future payday.

“We have a contract, nothing more. Don’t expect anything else.”

The Duke delivered the unnecessary, and rather dramatic, pronouncement that there would be no special incentives beyond the agreed-upon fee. I shook my head at his surprising stinginess, so unlike his imposing figure.

* * *

“Ha….”

Benedict Richard sighed, a sound heavy with anguish. This was a serious predicament. He pressed a hand to his forehead, his face etched with worry, and muttered, “I think Elena Christie likes me.”

Something decidedly unusual was happening. He was certain of it.

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