Fiery Hearts was a wildly popular reverse harem novel-one that had me completely enthralled. Like countless readers, I devoured every chapter, gasped at every plot twist, and shamelessly swooned over the male leads. It wasn't just a story to me-it was an escape from my dull, overworked reality. At least, that's what I thought. Because that "escape" turned terrifyingly real when my life came to an abrupt and unceremonious end one ordinary evening on my way home from work. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in the world I knew. Somehow, I had been reincarnated inside Fiery Hearts. Not as the glittering heroine or one of her fated lovers, mind you-but as a nameless, utterly irrelevant noblewoman who barely existed in the background. Still, I tried to stay positive. If I couldn't be the protagonist, then maybe I could at least enjoy a quiet life of pastries, tea, and drama viewed from a safe distance. That dream lasted precisely until one of the male leads-yes, one of them!-decided, for reasons beyond my comprehension, to kidnap me out of nowhere.