"Morgan Foster said, 'About you stepping in as the bride, I'll let it slide for now. The Fosters still need to save face. Give it some time, and we'll get a divorce.'

Joanna Mitchell finally snapped back to reality and lifted her gaze, only to see a strikingly handsome face right in front of her.

The man wore a perfectly pressed suit, one hand stuck casually in his pocket. A watch hugged his wrist, and on his chest sat a big, bright red flower.

The little tag on it had one word written on it: “Groom.”

He was tall—really tall—and from where he stood, he looked down at her with this chilly, unreadable stare, as if waiting for her to give some kind of answer.

Joanna blinked, her brain still buffering.

Did she… actually time‑travel?

She didn’t have time to process any of it. First priority: send this man away before she had a mental breakdown. She cleared her throat. “Yeah. Got it.”

This man, Morgan Foster, was the husband she had just finished bowing to at their wedding ceremony today.

He nodded slightly at her reply, reached up, yanked the red flower off his chest, and tossed it straight into the trash.

“I’ll sleep in the guest room next door. Handle your own stuff.”

The moment he threw that out there, he spun around and walked off like staying any longer would contaminate his air.

The door shut.

Silence.

Joanna stood alone in the room on her so‑called wedding night.

A brand‑new bride spending her first night alone—yeah, that was almost funny. Almost.

She walked to the mirror and examined this new body carefully. It resembled her past self by maybe thirty or forty percent—pretty eyes, good bones. But the skin was darker, the hair was yellowish and frizzy, and the posture? Completely collapsed. No presence at all.

She straightened her back and glanced down at her figure.

34D.

Okay. Not bad.

Her last life had been the classic wealthy‑family princess setting—pampered since birth, raised like a precious doll. Unfortunately, she died before hitting thirty due to a serious illness.

Right before she passed, she had even urged her parents to try for another kid. They weren’t that old; doing IVF was totally possible. At least they’d have someone to hold on to after she was gone.

But who could’ve guessed that the next time she opened her eyes, she’d land in 1983—some alternate‑universe version of it—and become another Joanna Mitchell altogether.

And this Joanna’s family? A walking disaster.

A father so blindly filial it hurt.

A mother soft as dough.

A timid original Joanna who couldn’t stand up for herself.

A younger brother who was basically a walking target for bullies.

Only the little sister had some fight in her—but she was too young to make any real waves.

The whole Mitchell family had always been painfully honest, practically lining up to be Mrs. Mitchell’s free labor. The job slot went to Abel Mitchell, the house was handed over to Claudia Mitchell, and the whole family was living from one meal to the next. Life was already a mess, yet Mrs. Mitchell still forced the original Joanna to marry in someone else’s place, waving around a so‑called one‑thousand‑yuan “compensation” like it made everything okay.

The one who was supposed to marry into the Foster family was Briony Mitchell from the second branch. She’d lucked out before, rescuing Morgan Foster’s kid Andrew and thought she could cash in on that favor to become his “stepmom.”

Who knew that on the wedding day she suddenly acted like she was possessed, bawling and screaming that she’d rather die than get married.

Mrs. Mitchell couldn’t bear to give up the Foster family’s bride price. After hearing Briony’s idea, she shoved the original Joanna into the bridal gown. The girl was soft‑tempered and timid; she could only follow orders.

The Fosters were a big name in Jing City. A few decades back, they’d swapped pens for guns. Mr. Foster was a military commander, Mrs. Foster was a university professor, the eldest son was a battalion commander, and Morgan Foster was basically a science prodigy.

Even if their brilliant son got tangled up with someone “beneath him,” fine. But on the day of the grand, formal wedding, the bride actually got switched—and not even for someone decent, but for the clueless, timid original Joanna.

How could the Foster family not be furious? If not for saving face in Jing City, they probably would’ve called the cops right then and there.

“What a mess.”

Snapping back to reality, Joanna narrowed her eyes. Since she’d taken over this body, she had to live well for the original owner. She pulled out a chair and sat down, took off the gaudy hair ornaments, then went looking for clothes to change into.

The original owner was really pitiful. She’d come to marry with nothing but two worn‑out quilts and a couple of outdated dresses. With no real options, Joanna simply kept on the red wedding dress and went to wash up.

After scrubbing off the colorful, clownish makeup, she twisted her long hair into a loose bun and pinned it with a floral hair stick. Once she dried her hands, she walked out confidently and knocked on the room next door.

Knock knock knock.

After a moment, the door opened. Morgan Foster stood there.

He’d changed into a silk pajama shirt and wore thin gold‑rimmed glasses. Behind the lenses, his dark eyes were unreadable. One hand rested casually against the doorframe, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, fingers long and elegant.

Joanna had seen her fair share of men, but Morgan still made her heart skip a beat.

“You need something?” he asked, surprised by the direct way she looked at him. Ever since she entered the Foster house today, she’d kept her head down like she was terrified. How did she suddenly grow guts?

Joanna pointed at his pajamas. “I need sleepwear. Grab me a set.”

“?”

Morgan almost laughed at the way she said it—like it was the most natural thing in the world. But he was always composed, so he kept his expression flat. “You didn’t bring any clothes?”

Joanna gave a small smile. "I forgot to bring my pajamas."

Morgan clearly had zero interest in chatting. He just nodded and walked right past her.

Joanna, not feeling the slightest embarrassment, added, "I want silk ones. Nothing else."

"..."

Watching Morgan head straight into the room across the hall without even glancing back—probably to look for a new set—Joanna called out again, her tone light and airy.

"Just leave them in my room."

Right now she needed food more than anything. Since the wedding started, she hadn’t even had a sip of water.

Her stomach kept growling nonstop, and she was starving so badly her vision was starting to blur.

Back in her previous life, near the end when she was so sick, everything she ate came right back up—she basically survived on nutrient injections. Being able to live again, being able to feel hungry… honestly, just being able to sit down and have a decent meal felt like a blessing.

She walked downstairs into the living room, then poked around until she found the kitchen. She asked Mrs. Woods, the housemaid, to fix her something to eat.

While she waited, she went to the dining room and sat down, casually picking up the newspaper on the table and flipping through it.

She wanted to see what kind of news they were talking about back in ’83.

"Young Madam, your food is ready."

Mrs. Woods came out holding a tray. Zucchini steamed dumplings, sautéed diced chicken, and a bowl of shrimp soup.

She’d been working for the Foster family for nearly two years now—grocery shopping, cooking, all of it fell on her. The Fosters were easygoing, the pay was good, and the job wasn’t hard. She was more than satisfied. As for Joanna stepping in to replace her cousin at the wedding, Mrs. Woods knew the whole story. Thinking about how someone like Morgan got tricked like that, she couldn’t help giving Joanna a colder attitude.

But Joanna didn’t care at all. She was starving—like truly starving—and those two dishes plus a bowl of soup were already half gone in no time. Even so, her upbringing showed; she ate fast, but her manners stayed neat and elegant. Watching her eat was actually surprisingly pleasant.

She’d always believed in eating a good breakfast, eating enough for lunch, and going light for dinner. Now that she’d taken the edge off her hunger, she set down her chopsticks, picked up a handkerchief, and gently dabbed the corner of her lips.

Just as she was about to stand, her peripheral vision caught a small figure coming down the stairs.

The kid looked about five or six. Short-sleeved shirt, shorts, soft hair with one piece stubbornly sticking up, and a surprisingly delicate face. His skin was pale, almost glowing. But those eyes—calm and guarded in a way no child his age should be—gave him this tiny-adult vibe.

This was Morgan’s son with his ex-wife. Andrew.

Her cousin had insisted she deserved to marry into the Foster family because she had supposedly saved this kid. But according to the memories in Joanna’s head, the one who actually saved him that day had been the original Joanna—her cousin had simply stolen the credit.

And now Joanna had stumbled into this marriage by accident. In a way, it felt like cause and effect circling back.