Frost on the Painting

After my mother passed away, she told me to head to the capital to find my younger brother, who had become a high-ranking official.

When I finally tracked him down, he was so despondent over being rejected by the woman he loved that he was about to take his own life.

I kicked his sword away and slapped him across the face. “Your sister is about to be forced into marriage by some local thug, and here you are, playing the martyr?”

After latching onto my powerful brother, I began living the good life, doing nothing but eating and relaxing.

I ordered him around every day, making him massage my shoulders and rub my legs.

Suddenly, bullet comments started floating across my vision:

[Ahhh! The supporting female character has the wrong person! This guy is a terrifying villain; he’s killed hundreds, if not thousands, of people.]

[There was a woman who once pretended to be from his hometown to get close to him-he had her executed as a spy without a second thought. He doesn’t have a single drop of mercy in him!]

[She’s actually making him massage her shoulders? She doesn’t have enough heads for him to chop off!]

[The most important part is that her real brother is actually his love rival!!!]

I froze.

I looked down, only to meet the man’s deep, dark gaze.

He looked up at me with an obedient expression. “What’s wrong, Sister? Is the pressure not enough?”