After the inner voice was overheard, all the characters collapsed

Lena Hart jerked awake, her temples throbbing like jackhammers. Sunlight streamed through the silk curtains, but the luxurious master suite felt like a prison. Her throat was dry, and memories flooded back—she had been transported to a pulpy, wealthy novel, trapped in the world of the villainous Lena Hart. The original plot? Divorce in 24 hours, death by fire 90 days later. The phone buzzed on the nightstand. She fumbled for it, her heart pounding. A blood-red timer lit up: [Countdown to Death: 89 Days, 23 Hours, 59 Minutes]. "Mrs. Hall." A cold voice cut through her daze. The Halls' impassive lawyer, Mrs. DuBois, stood in the bedroom doorway, the housekeeper at her side. The woman held a manila folder, its edges as sharp as a guillotine. "Mr. Hall has instructed me to finalize the divorce." Lena's fingers curled into the sheets. She knew what to do—it turned out that Lena had thrown drinks on Sophie's birthday, crashed the anniversary dinner, and yelled at Alexander in front of the shareholders. Now, the family wanted her gone. Forever. The lawyer slid a document across the nightstand. Divorce papers. Underneath them was a medical report: [Diagnosis: Schizophrenia Tendencies]. It was a clever way of declaring her unfit for marriage and stripping her of her premarital assets. Panic tightened her throat. If she refused, they would send her to the Hall family's "private clinic"—a glittering prison. No one ever left. She forced her voice to tremble, her eyes to gleam. "Please... give me another chance. I love him. I'll be better." She roared inwardly: [Love him? This guy named Alexander looks like a marble statue with a stick stuck in his a*s! The author must hate happy endings—killing his wife before the plot even begins?] A mechanical beeping interrupted her thoughts. [Ding! Global Drama System linked.] Lena was stunned. A holographic screen flickered before her eyes, words drifting like ghostly smoke. [Function: Access the "Life Script" (destiny + secrets) of key characters. Inner Roar = "Drama Seed." Each seed changes the plot by 1%. Then, two records appeared. [Alexander Hall | Life Script: Bloodily betrayed within three years. Died alone in an Arctic oil rig explosion.] [Nathan Hall | Life Script: Winning an Oscar, no one in attendance. Found his mother's suicide note in the hospital after the shooting.] She was stunned. [This isn't a script—it's a death warrant. The original novel never threw this grenade!] "Mrs. Hall." Mrs. DuBois's voice sharpened. "Sign now, or we'll proceed without your consent." Lena stared at the pen. Her palms were damp with sweat. The system's voice echoed—if she could interfere with the plot, perhaps she could avoid the fire. But first… She bit her lip, tears streaming down her face this time. "Let me see him once. Just once. Before I sign." The lawyer's brow arched. "Mr. Hall is in a board meeting." "Please." Her voice cracked. "I have to leave." Mrs. DuBois hesitated, then nodded. "Ten minutes. He's in the West Wing study." As the door closed, Lena breathed a sigh of relief. In the mirror, her eyes were wild—but beneath the terror, a spark of light. If Alexander's script said he'd die in three years...perhaps she could rewrite it. What if she survived? Well, for starters, circumventing the 90-day deadline. She smoothed her hair, her heart racing. It was time to meet the man who would soon understand: Lena Hart was more than just a villain. She held his spoilers. The west wing study was a mausoleum of power—mahogany paneling, a desk the size of a small yacht, and a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the estate's manicured gardens. Alexander Hall stood by the window, his back to the door, his features sharp as a knife. Lena held her breath. He was tall—more robust than she had imagined, even in the photographs from the source novel. His suit was dark, sharply tailored, clinging to his muscles, as if he spent his weekends bench-pressing on the rig. His raven hair was slicked back like a storm cloud, revealing a chin strong enough to cut diamonds. The only tenderness? A faint scar on his temple, like a c***k in marble. A marble statue with a stick stuck in its hip? She scoffed inwardly. More like a marble god who had forgotten his personality. Alexander turned, and Lena's performance reached its c****x. She stumbled, clutching the doorframe, her eyes wide and gleaming. "Alexander..." His gaze swept over her, colder than fire. "Lena." These few words were tinged with disdain. There was no warmth, no curiosity—just the bored irritation of a man who's mentally signed a divorce agreement. She took a step forward, her voice trembling. "I know I'm... I'm terrible. But please—don't do this. I love you. I need you." She rolled her eyes internally, so hard she nearly strained a muscle. Love you? More like I need you to live long enough to avoid dying in 89 days! Lena's original "love" was just a script—you're lucky I'm a better actor. A faint "ding" echoed in her mind. [Plot Seed +1% | Plot Change: 1%] She concealed a wink. The system counted her sarcasm as progress. Good to know. Alexander gritted his teeth. "Your 'love' has caused a scandal that cost the family millions, Lina. Sophie's birthday? You've ruined Castle Mal."