In my past life, I was a force of nature—a desperate, clawing mess. I fought dirty, dragged the hero into bankruptcy, drove the heroine into a convent, and shattered the villain’s heart into unfixable pieces. To restore cosmic equilibrium, the Universe hustled my soul off the stage and shoved me right back into the queue for reincarnation. The second I took my first breath in this new life, I was greeted by the heavy, suffocating scent of La Mer on my mother’s skin. I heard my father’s deep, booming laugh—a sound that practically dripped with generational, old-money privilege. Then my grandmother, draped in diamonds, carried my tiny, swaddled body to the floor-to-ceiling windows of a penthouse suite. “Look, sweetheart,” she cooed, pointing out at the Manhattan skyline. “See that glass high-rise across the park? It’s yours.” I closed my eyes in pure, unadulterated bliss. I had won the cosmic lottery. My future was rock solid. Then, the impeccably trained head nurse at the ultra-exclusive maternity retreat picked me up and lowered her voice to a whisper, muttering to her assistant: “Whatever you do, don’t let Mr. and Mrs. Julian find out. The baby… she’s a fake.” … And just like that, the quiet panic set in. Even living in an eighty-million-dollar brownstone, wearing custom-tailored cashmere as a toddler, and eating artisanal gelato imported from Milan, I couldn’t smooth over the edges of my existential dread. By the time I was five, my mother had flown in a world-renowned pediatric psychiatrist, who stood in our drawing room shaking his head in quiet defeat. “There’s nothing clinically wrong with little Margot, Mrs. Julian,” the doctor declared. “I suspect she’s simply… burdened by something.” My old-money father lost his mind. “Burdened? She’s five years old! She barely has full bowel control—what on earth could she possibly be burdened by?” In a fit of panicked paternal love, he immediately transferred three percent of his tech holdings into my trust fund. I offered him a small, polite, melancholy smile. Seeing my faint response, my father panicked further and handed over another ten percent. My mother pulled me into her arms, her expensive perfume enveloping me. “My sweet girl,” she whispered, “what’s bothering you? Tell Mommy. I will give you anything you want.” To cheer me up, she wired a hundred thousand dollars directly into my personal allowance account. My heart practically soared. Instantly stepping into the role of the devoted, sweet daughter, I wrapped my little arms around their necks. “I’m okay, Mommy. Don’t worry, Daddy.” The real cause of my agony was something I could never speak aloud. But fine. If there was one thing I brought over from my previous life, it was my relentless, obsessive instinct to survive. I didn’t care who the real Julian heiress was. The family stocks, the real estate, the vintage Ferraris, the heirloom emeralds, and every drop of this family’s love—I was keeping all of it. I refused to make friends. Instead, I spent my days locked in my playroom, counting my money. Terrified that I was developing an antisocial obsession, my parents took the psychiatrist’s advice and enrolled me in a ultra-elite private preschool. I didn’t protest. According to every narrative trope in existence, the “real” heiress was probably sitting in that very building. Standing at the edge of the classroom, I surveyed the room with grim intensity. The kids were a flock of loud, chaotic, privileged little birds—babbling uselessly, completely devoid of any helpful information. I couldn’t relate to them if I tried. It wasn’t until the end of the morning session that another child walked in. She—or rather, “they”—sat in the furthest corner of the room. Aloof, cold, and possessing an aura so distinct it practically vibrated with plot relevance. My seatmate immediately leaned in to whisper the playground gossip: “Nobody’s ever seen their parents. Word is, they’re an orphan. They never talk, so nobody plays with them.” I stared at the child. There was something about that posture—that quiet, unflinching arrogance—that mirrored my old-money father’s exact demeanor. I walked over, determined to break the ice. “Hi. How old are you?” “Five.” An orphan. Five years old. Dressed in understated, old-money chic. “Bingo.” The second the final bell rang, I cornered the kid behind the playground equipment. “I’ll give you five million dollars,” I said coldly. “Leave New York.” The kid blinked, stunned for a second, then nodded. “Okay.” I pulled out my sleek kid-sized smartwatch with supreme confidence, ready to make the transfer, only to hit a wall: “Daily Transaction Limit: $20,000.” Embarrassment flushed through me. “I… I’ll have to pay you in two hundred and fifty daily installments.” The kid looked at me blankly. “It’s fine. You can just give me five hundred bucks.” “So nonchalant. So effortlessly cool. Classic real-heiress behavior.” Using my five hundred dollars, the kid bought a commuter train ticket out of the city that very afternoon. The only problem? For some baffling reason, the kid dragged me along for the ride. By the time our panicked families tracked us down, the two of us were standing hand-in-hand at a night market two states over, waiting in line for a street vendor to hand us a stick of spun sugar. My father nearly collapsed on the pavement when he saw me. His face looked like a man who had just watched his prize-winning garden get trampled by a wild boar. “Margot! Sweetheart!” he roared, glaring at my companion. “Did this little punk kidnap you?! I’m going to obliterate his entire family! I’ll crush their stocks by morning!” A dozen towering, suit-clad bodyguards instantly swarmed the “real heiress.” “Young Master!” one of the bodyguards cried out, breathless. “Your father only wanted you to hide your identity at that school so you could learn to make friends! How could you just run away like this?!” I froze. A cold sweat broke out down my spine. I slowly turned my head to look at the striking, delicate face next to me. “You’re… a boy?” The “real heiress” blinked his dark eyes and gave a quiet, slow nod. So, I hadn’t found the real heiress. But I had managed to accidently kidnap the heir to the Barclay empire—Ezra Barclay. Once our parents realized I had finally made a friend, everyone was ecstatic—except my father, who still eyed the boy with deep suspicion. The Barclay family was particularly thrilled because their notoriously withdrawn, borderline-autistic young master had finally agreed to speak to another human being. To show their gratitude, the Barclays built a custom, temperature-controlled glass conservatory in our backyard just for me. Not to be outdone in the dick-measuring contest of the ultra-wealthy, my father promptly gifted Ezra a solid gold bar. I stared at the gold bar with undisguised envy. Ezra, picking up on my vibe immediately, passed the gold bar straight to me. I accepted it with deep satisfaction, promptly carrying it off to bury it in the dirt of one of the conservatory’s potted plants. Ezra understood my obsession early on. Once we became friends, everything—whether it was given to me or gifted to him—ended up in my possession. The more assets I hoarded, the safer I felt. I never forgot about the real heiress. But as the years bled into one another, no one matching her description ever crossed my path again. Until the night of my twenty-second birthday party. A young woman dressed in a catering server’s uniform stumbled awkwardly into Ezra’s chest. She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, her face pale as a sheet as she offered a flurry of panicked apologies. Ezra and I exchanged a brief, quiet look. Her face… she looked strikingly like my mother. A strand of her dark hair had caught on the polished silver button of Ezra’s tuxedo jacket. I stepped forward with practiced warmth. “Don’t move. Let me help you.” I untangled the hair, neatly plucking a few strands straight from her scalp in one swift, seamless motion. She had no idea she had just been sampled for a DNA test. She simply looked at me with wide, innocent eyes, brimming with gratitude. “Thank you so much, miss. You’re so kind.” “It’s nothing,” I replied gently. “Do you work here?” “Just part-time,” she said softly, her eyes sweeping over the grand ballroom with quiet wonder. “It’s… so huge here. I’ve never seen a party like this before. Or a cake that big.” She gave a small, self-deprecating smile that just oozed tragic backstory. “Actually… today is my birthday, too. If I could just have a tiny slice of that cake, it’d feel like a real birthday.” “What’s your name?” I asked. “I’ll have someone bring you a piece.” “Really? Oh, thank you!” She beamed, her eyes shining. “I’m Hallie. Hallie Luther.” Ezra and I locked eyes again. “Hallie Luther.” It was almost insultingly obvious. Ezra leaned down, his voice low against my ear. “You think she’s the one? The real heiress you’ve been hunting for?” I squeezed the dark strands of hair hidden tightly in my palm. “We’ll know soon enough.” Ezra was the only person who knew my secret. When I turned eighteen, I had gotten horribly drunk and blurted out the whole surreal truth to him. He had turned out to be remarkably reliable. Not only did he keep my secret, but he also promised to help me track down the real heiress when the time came. The Barclay family owned the most prestigious private medical research facilities in the country. Handing the DNA sample to him was the safest bet I had. The lights dimmed, and the spotlight hit the center stage. The gala was officially under way. As the sole daughter of the Julian family, my birthday was always a grand, high-society affair. My mother, dripping in diamonds, took my hand to lead me up the stairs. My father let out his signature booming laugh, thanking the crowd of elite guests before turning to me. “Margot, my darling,” he announced into the microphone. “You’re twenty-two today, and your mother and I have a very special gift for you.” My father never did anything by halves. The velvet curtain behind the stage pulled back to reveal a giant, high-resolution rendering: a private, lush tropical island in the South Pacific. The crowd gasped in awe. But I froze, unable to react. “What is it, sweetheart?” my father asked, his voice wavering slightly. “You don’t like it?” My mother promptly kicked him in the shin right in front of the entire room. “I “told” you a private island was impractical! But do you ever listen to me?” My father looked genuinely panicked. “Margot, baby, I can get you something else! Anything!” “No, Daddy,” I breathed, stepping forward to wrap my arms around both of them, forcing down the sudden, suffocating lump in my throat. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” Even though I knew this life was stolen, I couldn’t stop myself from craving the warmth of their love. My mother smoothed my hair back lovingly. “Alright, darling. Make a wish.” My gaze drifted down to the edge of the crowd, catching sight of Hallie standing near the catering doors. I looked back at the glowing candles on the cake, closed my eyes, and made my silent plea: “To whatever gods are listening: Give me endless money. And give me endless love.” The Julian family was already an untouchable force in New York. Paired with our decades-long alliance with the Barclays, our position was impenetrable. Naturally, people were desperate to climb our social ladder. Ever since I turned eighteen, ambitious young men had been swarming around me like moths to a flame. “Margot! Do you remember me? I’m your second cousin’s step-brother’s college roommate! We played sandbox together when we were kids!” “Margot, I just picked up a limited-edition Aston Martin. Would you do me the honor of taking a drive out to the Hamptons this weekend?” “Margot, you should really come over to my penthouse. My cat can do backflips—” The moment Ezra walked over, the crowd scattered like autumn leaves in a gust of wind. “Margot,” Ezra said, his voice smooth and ice-cold as he watched the men retreat. “If they bother you, you can just tell them to go to hell.” I blinked up at him. “Why would I do that?” Ezra raised an eyebrow. “If I stand here and talk to them for five minutes,” I explained plainly, “they send luxury gift boxes to my house the next morning.” Ezra pressed his lips into a tight line, his dark eyes shadowing over. I nudged the toe of his polished dress shoe with mine. “Where’s my gift?” Ezra pulled a vintage bottle from behind his back—a Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. My eyes lit up instantly. Ever since my eighteen-year-old drunken disaster, my father had placed a strict ban on my alcohol consumption. “Margot,” Ezra murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “Want to taste it now?” “Obviously. Hurry, before my parents see us!” It truly was one of the finest wines in the world. I closed my eyes in pure bliss as the rich flavor washed over my tongue, and Ezra immediately topped off my glass. I had always loved to drink, even in my past life. Toward the end of that first existence, I had been practically dependent on it. Back then, of course, I didn’t have the luxury of multi-thousand-dollar vintage wines. Nor did I have such an obedient drinking companion. In that former life, the man I spent my nights drinking with was always snatching the glass out of my hands, lecturing me to slow down. I would scramble to grab it back, clinging to him like a koala because he was so infuriatingly tall. “Who was he again?” I frowned. It had been so long. The memories of my past life were beginning to blur at the edges, fading like an old photograph. “What are you thinking about?” Ezra’s voice sliced through the haze. I offered him my empty glass, gesturing for another pour. Ezra had always listened to me. Whatever I asked for, he gave me without question. I leaned back and drank, glass after glass, completely losing track of time. When I finally blinked my eyes open, the bright morning light was streaming through sheer linen curtains. I was curled up tightly in Ezra’s arms, my head resting against his chest. My brain stalled. Ezra fluttered his eyes open, looking slightly dazed. He reached out, smoothing a strand of hair from my face, and pressed a soft, warm kiss against my forehead. “Good morning, Margot.” My mind spun into sheer panic. “…Did I… “again”?” Ezra gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Holy shit.” How on earth did I manage to sleep with Ezra Barclay “again”?!
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