My dad had an affair with a washed-up model. My mom was devastated, cried her heart out, and demanded a divorce. In court, the judge asked me, a ten-year-old, to decide who I wanted to live with. Under my mom’s hopeful gaze, I chose my cheating dad. I rightly explained that it was my mom’s fault for not being able to have a baby brother. I was a girl, detail-oriented and responsible, and I needed to help my dad care for my unborn brother. Mom covered her face and wept bitterly. It was hilarious—she was faking it. Because we both knew the good days for me and my mom were just beginning. Content 0 In court, the judge asked who I wanted to stay with. Everyone assumed I’d choose my mom—for the stable home, loving care, and everything else that made sense. Instead, I picked my dad, who was nervously shielding his mistress, Vanessa Thorn, and her pregnant belly. Dad was stunned but quickly shrugged it off. After all, I was just a girl—his daughter, not a son. To him, girls were destined to marry out of the family eventually. When the judge asked for my reasoning, I put on my most innocent expression and said: “Dad’s had it so rough. He just wants to be with Aunt Vanessa. What did he do wrong?” “Dad’s busy making money, and Aunt Vanessa’s having a baby. I need to help Dad take care of my baby brother.” “Mom’s always busy teaching other kids. She couldn’t even have a baby brother and wouldn’t let Dad have one with someone else. That’s mean!” Beside me, Mom covered her face, her shoulders shaking as she “cried uncontrollably.” Only I knew the truth: she was laughing so hard it hurt. Mom cried on cue. No, she was acting. We had planned it this way—I’d put on the show, and she’d bring the tears. 0
Then, out of nowhere, everything went dark. When I opened my eyes, I realized I had somehow gone back in time to the year of my parents’ divorce. At this moment, Mom still hadn’t discovered Dad’s affair with Vanessa. She hadn’t confronted him yet or demanded a messy divorce. Though it was the middle of the night, I wasn’t sleepy at all. Time was of the essence. By tomorrow, Mom would find evidence of Dad’s cheating on his phone and blow up. She’d lose control, and the whole nightmare would begin again. I bolted upright, dashed out of bed, and banged on the door to the main bedroom. This was my only chance to rewrite the past and prevent the tragedy from repeating itself. Mom groggily opened the door, squinting in confusion. “Fiona, what’s going on? Why aren’t you asleep?” Like a slippery eel, I slipped past her, locked the door, and dragged her to sit on the bed. “Mom,” I said, “you need to listen.” Then, I spilled everything I remembered about the future without holding back. Why? Apart from myself, the woman who loved me most was the woman who gave me life. I left out the part about my death, though. Instead, I rambled on about how to outsmart Dad and Vanessa. Mom’s eyes were already red and brimming with tears when I looked up. She must have sensed the words I didn’t say. She wrapped her arms tightly around me, pulling me into her warm embrace. Snuggling into her, I finally felt safe. “Mom,” I whispered, “Dad’s been secretly installing cameras around the house. He thinks you might cheat on him, even though he’s the one cheating.” “There are hidden cameras in the living room. Thankfully, he hasn’t gone insane enough to put them in the bedroom.” I wouldn’t dare share any of this with Mom here at home if he had. “Start gathering evidence quietly,” I told her. “Then file for divorce. When the time comes, I’ll choose Dad in court.” Mom’s eyes grew misty, and looked like she wanted to say something. I reached out and pressed my hand against her cheek. “Mom, trust me. I’ll make sure we have a good life. I promise.” 0
After the court hearing, I moved in with Dad at the Riverside Mansion in Savannah. I played the part of a dutiful little girl who cared deeply for Dad’s happiness. I didn’t question why a supposedly broke man could suddenly afford a luxury mansion. Instead, I cheerfully declared, “Wow! This house is amazing! Aunt Vanessa will be so much more comfortable having the baby here!” I immediately ran to Dad, making a big show of my commitment to taking care of the unborn baby. Maybe Dad still had a tiny shred of fatherly love for me because he transferred $5,000 to my bank account without hesitation, telling me to use it as I wished. Then he hurried off, claiming he had work to do. Of course, I knew better. I wasn’t an actual child anymore. I knew exactly where he was going—and so did Vanessa. As soon as Dad left, Vanessa’s sweet façade crumbled. “You shameless little brat!” she snapped. “You’re old enough to know better. Stop mooching off your father!” There was something in her eyes—something dark and desperate I couldn’t quite read. She dug her sharp nails into my forehead, snatched my phone, and transferred the $5,000 into her account. Then, in her shrill, affected tone, she declared herself my “stepmother” and warned me not to breathe a word of this to “dear Daddy.” “If you do,” she hissed, “you’ll regret it.” I blinked up at her, feigning submission. “I won’t tell him,” I whispered timidly. Inside, I was laughing. Oh, Vanessa, you think I’ll stay quiet just because you told me to? 03 The following day, I got up early and set the breakfast table. The food was already waiting when Dad finally came downstairs after his morning routine. He stopped short at the sight of three bowls of bland oatmeal and two plates of pickles set on the costly cherrywood table. His lips twitched, trying—and failing—not to grimace. I could almost hear his thoughts: How am I supposed to stomach this pathetic excuse for breakfast? But I stared at him with my big, hopeful eyes, like a kid desperate for approval. After a moment of hesitation, he picked up a spoon and took a symbolic bite. He spat it out dramatically one mouthful later, his face contorting in absolute horror. Internally, I was dying of laughter. This was no ordinary oatmeal. Oh no, this was cursed oatmeal, something I’d “enhanced” to ensure maximum misery. It took Dad a while to recover, and when he did, he glared at me. “Where on earth did you get this garbage?” he snapped. “You’re old enough to know better. Can’t even buy a decent breakfast!” Then his eyes landed on my school uniform—too short and visibly worn out. His scowl deepened. “I gave you money yesterday. Can’t you at least buy yourself clothes that fit? Walking around like that makes me look bad!” His rant woke Vanessa, who waddled lazily out of the bedroom, her pregnant belly leading the way. Leaning against the railing, she smirked, clearly enjoying the show. I bit my lip and let my expression crumble into pure heartbreak. Internally, I was screaming with joy. Perfect. Everyone’s here. Showtime! Tears streamed down my face like tiny pearls, and my voice trembled as I turned to Dad. “Daddy, please don’t blame Aunt Vanessa for taking my money.” I gasped and covered my mouth. “Oh no, I wasn’t supposed to say that! Aunt Vanessa, I’m so sorry! Please don’t kick me out!” Then the waterworks started. I sobbed and stammered apologies to both of them, making myself look like a pitiful little victim. It was Oscar-worthy. Seriously, where’s my trophy? Maybe my performance was too good, or maybe Dad was fed up with Vanessa’s overbearing attitude. Either way, he rounded on her furiously. “You’re not even my wife yet! If you can’t give me a son, you can pack your bags and leave!” To appease me, he handed me his secondary credit card. I took it with wide, cautious eyes, pretending to be nervous. “Thank you, Daddy,” I murmured, earning a dismissive, “Don’t act so cheap” from him. Sure, I got scolded, but who cared? My grin was practically impossible to suppress. I figured Vanessa might back off after that public dressing down. I was wrong. Vanessa’s energy levels were infinite. After all, she’d clawed her way to the top of the mistress hierarchy to secure her pregnancy. The next day, she crushed peanuts and mixed them into my breakfast, knowing I had a mild allergy. Coincidentally, that was also the day of my entrance exams for school placement. I guess she really couldn’t stand the idea of me succeeding. Smiling coldly, I “accidentally” spilled most of the oatmeal onto her massive belly. It was fall, so the porridge wasn’t scalding hot, but the sudden sensation still startled her. She yelped, and her bladder betrayed her—pregnancy hormones and all. Watching Dad walk off in disgust while Vanessa’s trembling fingers clenched her dress was a chef’s kiss. A week later, she paid some of my classmates to bully me. What she didn’t know? I was the class president—unanimously elected; thank you very much. I took the hush money she’d given them, used it to treat the entire class to a barbecue feast, and turned the would-be bullies into my loyal allies. Two weeks later, she staged a dramatic fall, trying to frame me for hurting her unborn baby. I raised an eyebrow, pointed at the three newly installed security cameras overhead, and asked, “Are you okay?” Her eyes widened, and she scrambled to her feet, pretending nothing had happened. After that fiasco, I walked away without a scratch, while Dad became even more reluctant to come home. Vanessa officially became the “main wife” at home, but Dad’s flings were still in full swing elsewhere. Meanwhile, I happily went to school every day, playing the role of the sweet, innocent daughter whenever Dad was around. I even convinced him to drive me to school a few times personally. Thanks to that, the entire school knew I had a rich CEO dad, and no one dared mess with me anymore. 0
After that, Vanessa Thorn seemed to have finally quieted down. She stayed home every day, dutifully resting and preparing for the baby. Meanwhile, I used every spare moment to hang out with Mom. We went shopping, grabbed lunch, and just wandered around town—on Dad’s dime. Naturally, Dad noticed the constant drain on his bank account and wasn’t thrilled about it. So, every time I went back to his house, I made a detour to the Whitestone Antique Market outside the city. I’d pick up the cheapest trinket I could find, have the seller wrap it up like a treasure, and take it home. Then I’d dramatically inflate the price and rave about how rare and valuable it was. Boom—instant profit. But I knew this tactic wouldn’t last forever, so I started plotting a new hustle. Before I could fully put my plans into motion, Vanessa went into labor. It was chaos getting her to St. Mary’s Medical Center, but eventually, she gave birth to a bouncing 7-pound baby boy. Dad was over the moon. He’d been waiting for this moment forever—since I was born. Now, he finally had his long-awaited son. Fresh out of recovery, Vanessa wasted no time asking Dad to take her to the Denver County Courthouse to make their marriage official. I sighed. Men like him weren’t just disloyal to one woman—they were disloyal to all women equally. To be fair, Vanessa had striking features. If she’d gone into Hollywood, she wouldn’t have been overlooked. But everyone has their priorities, and hers was to play the “trophy wife” instead of chasing her dreams. Having outmaneuvered all the other mistresses, Vanessa used her “mother of his son” card to climb the ranks and become Dad’s official wife. Once the papers were signed, her attitude changed. She started lording her new status over me, acting like a queen in her kingdom. She even dared to complain that I was disturbing her precious baby boy. I seized the opportunity and went to Dad, crying that I wasn’t welcome at home. Vanessa had just secured her golden position, so Dad granted her every wish. That meant I got the “short end of the stick”—a five-bedroom townhouse in an elite school district and a generous monthly allowance. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind more if this were what “suffering” looked like. 0
With that kind of money, the possibilities were endless. I started by visiting a nearby known university. I found a few fresh-faced college students there and paid them to post flyers advertising tutoring services. After interviewing the applicants, I hired nine tutors to work for me. Next, I scouted for clients at middle school entrance prep classes and nearby high schools. To reel parents in, I performed impressive “party tricks”: reciting the digits of pi, reciting poetry, and solving advanced math problems on the spot. And just like that, my tutoring business took off. Even before I officially moved into my school district townhouse, I’d secured all the necessary permits to run my tutoring center legally. No shady business here—I was a model citizen. The money started pouring in. I claimed I was paying my tutors high wages, but most of it went straight into my pocket. Then, I gave some of the earnings to Mom, who quietly used the funds to buy up small shares in Dad’s company, Skyward Entertainment Group. Dad might have been the largest shareholder, but he was too busy chasing skirts to notice the details of his business. When Mom’s shares added up to make her the second-largest shareholder, I was already in high school, and Vanessa’s son was three years old. Kids grow fast, and he was no exception. I only visited the Riverside Mansion during holidays; I stayed away the rest of the time, claiming I was focused on studying and planning to skip grades. Dad didn’t believe me initially, thinking I was just being stubborn. He tried to compensate me by sending me more money, which I accepted with a “heartbroken” expression. Little did he know the saying “a crooked bamboo can sprout fine shoots” applied to me. I got so caught up in my studies that I accidentally excelled during exams. My teacher, impressed, dragged me to the principal, who fast-tracked me ahead by two grade levels. It was a win, but I couldn’t pretend to be a child prodigy anymore. Dad was stunned and stopped pressuring me to return home. Instead, he gave me even more freedom, which, in hindsight, I should’ve taken advantage of earlier. One day, I looked at Vanessa’s son. His features were undeniably delicate, but none of them resembled Dad’s. If anything, he looked suspiciously like a particular actor who rose to fame in my past life. I scratched my head—time to dig deeper. That night, I reached out to Master Alaric Whitlock online. His live streams, in which he spilled celebrity gossip and told fortunes, had become my guilty pleasure. Sending him Dad’s ID photo privately, I asked him to analyze Dad’s “lineage fortune.” The old man squinted at the picture and said, “Too much Photoshop. Send me a candid shot.” I froze. How did he know I was a girl? My profile used a random guy’s photo from school! This guy had some fundamental skills. I rushed downstairs, snapped many candid shots of Dad watching TV—front, profile, close-up, everything—and uploaded them. Dad looked utterly confused, but I mumbled a weak excuse and fled. When the photos popped up on Alaric’s livestream, he sighed. “Troublesome kid, wasting my storage space.” Soon after, he confirmed my suspicions: Dad’s “child fortune” only allowed for one offspring. Me. Oh, Vanessa was about to face some serious consequences. Just as I was preparing to unleash my evidence, the hospital called. Mom had been in an accident. I raced to St. Mary’s Medical Center, only to see her through a pane of glass, her body covered in tubes. A wave of pain consumed me, sharp and relentless, as fragmented memories flooded back. I saw my past self standing beside Mom in a hospital bed, the flatline on the monitor, and the gut-wrenching scream that tore through me. Then, the scene shifted—dark skies, bloody hands, and endless despair. I jolted awake, my vision blackened by rage. Everything came back to me.
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