I've crash-landed in one of those trashy romance novels I used to mock mercilessly.

Now? I'm a drop-dead gorgeous nobody, cashing in on every plot twist like a boss.

Male lead chases his runaway girl? I sell flowers.

She ditches him? I sell cars.

He begs her back? I'm the love guru with a fat invoice.

A cold, mechanical system in my skull tracks his bank account—it's the only anchor keeping me sane in this melodramatic hellhole.

This plot's garbage, but it's my ticket out—until today.