Tragic Heroine No More: I Read the Comments and Went Berserk

As the male lead, Henry Johnston, forces himself on me, a row of comments suddenly appears before my eyes.

"Henry is about to misunderstand and think Aria drugged him! The angst is about to begin!"

"I'm thrilled just thinking about Henry regretting dearly after Aria dies!"

"Keep up the act, Henry. After she dies, you'll be hugging her corpse and crying every day."

That is when I realize that I am the tragic female lead in a story where I am destined to be tormented until I die.

The readers treat my death as a highlight to push the plot forward. They are counting down to my death.

As I look at Henry, who is panting on top of me, anger courses through me. I grab a table lamp and smash it into him, killing him on the spot.

Who says that the one who dies in a toxic romance story must always be the female lead?

As I struggled to breathe under Henry Johnston's grip, a flood of comments suddenly filled my vision.

"The 'drugged male lead with dubious consent' scene is finally here," one read.

"Yes, this is it! After this, he'll assume Aria drugged him. That's when the whole abuse arc begins. He has no idea that she's sick and dying! Just imagining him drowning in regret after she dies is so satisfying."

"He's such a tragic, devoted character. He'll only realize that he loves her after she's gone. He'll never love anyone else again and will spend the rest of his life regretting it. Why can't I meet a man like that?" another quipped.

"What are you talking about? He marries the second female lead, Willow Keating, later on. He has a son and a daughter, and they live happily ever after. That doesn't sound like he can't love anyone else again to me."

"You don't get it. He doesn't love her. He just misses Aria so much that he uses someone who looks like her as a substitute."

"Is this another one of those abusive tropes with twisted logic? Who even reads this stuff?"

The sheer amount of information snapped my consciousness awake. In that instant, I saw the rest of my bleak and painfully short life.

My name was Aria Rowland. I lived in a novel where the male lead tormented his wife before trying to win her back.

In the original plot, Henry was drugged and walked into the wrong hotel room. That was how he and I ended up spending the night together.

When he woke up, public pressure forced him to marry me.

After the wedding, he treated me with nothing but contempt.

Even the housekeepers followed his lead and sneered at me. They made my life difficult.

After years of daily torment, I developed stomach cancer. I wanted to get treatment abroad, but Henry locked me in the house.

"What are you scheming this time?" he said coldly. "You wanted the title of Mrs. Johnston, and I gave it to you. Isn't that enough? You've always competed with Willow for my attention. Are you trying to copy her now that she's sick?"

I dropped to my knees and begged him. I promised that I just wanted a chance to leave and get treatment, nothing else.

He fell silent for a while before delivering his verdict. "Stop pretending to be sick. Willow needs a healthy kidney. You're not going anywhere. Don't be selfish."

Being locked in that house forced me to miss the best window to treat my cancer. Then, they forcibly took one of my kidneys.

I ended up dying in agony.

…

When I opened my eyes again, I regained my awareness. Henry was breathing raggedly on top of me.

Rage surged through me.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the lamp from the bedside table and slammed it into the back of his head.

His vision went black. His body slumped and fell to the floor.

The comments exploded. "What's going on? What happened to my favorite scene?"

"Why did Henry get knocked out? If this scene's gone, how's the story supposed to continue?"

Dubious consent?

A one-night stand?

Anything done against a woman's will was assault. Coercion. A crime, even.

People might have called it whatever they wanted, but it shouldn't be called "dubious consent".

A criminal like Henry should rot in prison.