A crazed woman barged into my home. She pulled my hair, tore at my clothes, and screamed, calling me a mistress. The neighbors, pretending to care, rushed over, phones out, live-streaming every second and making millions off my misery. During the chaos, I was shoved down the stairs. I ended up in a coma, my body rotting away until I died. It wasn’t until much later that I realized the true cause of my death: a single, misplaced food delivery. And then, I opened my eyes… and found myself back on the day the delivery arrived. This time, I wasn’t going to let it happen. The first thing I did was snap a photo of the delivery and post it in the building’s group chat. “Who ordered food to my apartment?” 1 “Hey, that’s mine! Thanks so much!” A shrill, overly-sweet voice pierced the air, jolting me back to reality. Christina Sherman stood there, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. She reached out to grab the delivery from the guy’s hands. “Wait!” I shouted. Both the delivery guy and Christina froze and turned to stare at me. I snatched the bag out of the delivery guy’s hands and glanced at the receipt. My eyes widened in disbelief. It actually was addressed to my apartment—20
Christina’s smile faltered, her brows furrowing in irritation. I clutched the bag tightly. No way was I giving this to her. Swallowing hard, I said, “The receipt says 201. You live in 202.” Christina’s tone turned sing-songy, her words laced with a fake Californian accent. “Oops! My bad. I must’ve accidentally put the wrong address!” I shot back, “Or maybe my boyfriend ordered this for me. I need to check with him before I hand it over.” Christina pouted. “Oh my gosh, you’re being so mean! This is obviously my food, and now you’re trying to steal it.” The delivery guy, clearly uncomfortable, mumbled, “Look, I don’t care whose it is. It’s delivered. You two figure it out—I’ve got more orders to run.” And with that, he bolted. Christina crossed her arms over her chest. “Seriously? You’re making such a big deal over one delivery?” I held the bag behind me. “If it’s yours, show me the receipt from your app.” Her face turned red, then pale, then red again. “No receipt? Then I can’t hand it over. This wasn’t cheap, you know.” I knew she couldn’t prove it. Christina never ordered food herself—her sugar daddies always did it for her. Grinding her teeth, Christina spat, “Fine! Keep it, you shameless beggar. Consider it charity.” In my last life, I’d believed her when she said it was hers. Without a second thought, I’d handed it over. I never imagined that one delivery would become the spark that set my entire life ablaze. This time, I wasn’t going to make the same mistake. Back in my apartment, I snapped a photo of the delivery receipt and posted it in the building’s group chat. “Who accidentally sent food to my apartment?” Christina wouldn’t dare claim it publicly. That wasn’t the point. I did this to make sure someone else saw it—someone who needed to know. Because Christina’s sugar daddy? He lived in the same building as us. Christina was a small-time influencer—a wannabe star who spent her days making cringy TikToks and livestreaming at night. Her earnings weren’t much, but they were enough to keep her afloat. Through her streams, she’d met her sugar daddy, James Whitmore. And James’s wife lived in the same building. “501: @201 That’s my husband’s order. I’ll come down to get it.” My heart skipped a beat as I read the message. Moments later, there was a knock at my door. I opened it with trembling hands. Standing there was a gentle-looking woman, her hands resting on her pregnant belly. It was hard to believe that this kind, soft-spoken woman was the same person who had once turned into a vengeful storm that destroyed me. My heart pounded as her warm smile greeted me. “May I come in?” she asked, her tone polite but firm. I nodded stiffly, chills running down my spine. She stepped inside, her movements calm and deliberate. Last time, she’d done the same—entered quietly, with an air of control. And then, moments later, she’d grabbed my hair and dragged me to hell. My breathing quickened, my legs felt like jelly, and my heart thumped like a drum. But instead of attacking me, she suddenly grabbed my hand. Her voice cracked, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. 2 A Wad of Cash? What’s Going On? A thick stack of paper bills was shoved into my hands. I glanced down and froze. It was a pile of crisp, freshly-printed cash—each bill adorned with the face of President Harper. I’d never seen so much money in my life, not even in my wildest dreams. My fingers trembled as I ran my thumb over the edges. So thick. As I watched the woman walk away, carrying her takeout order, I couldn’t help but sigh. Must be nice to be rich. I thought that would be the end of it—that after what happened, Christina’s takeout orders would stop showing up at my door. But the next day, I woke up to yet another delivery. Same address: Apartment 201. Same phone number: that all-too-familiar one. At this point, I was certain—this wasn’t a mistake. It was a setup. They were doing this on purpose. In my previous life, even James had implied to his wife that I was his mistress. All of this had been orchestrated for one reason: to protect Christina. That night, I bought a security camera and installed it by my front door. I thought about using the cash James’s wife had given me to rent a new place and move far away. But when I remembered the hell I’d been through in my last life, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Not without fighting back. After I fell into a coma, I learned the truth about James’s wife. She had bipolar disorder. In my last life, she’d stormed into my apartment in a frenzy, yanked my hair, and screamed that I was a homewrecker. It took everything I had to calm her down. But just as she was starting to settle, Christina showed up with her phone camera rolling. “Homewrecker?” Christina shouted dramatically. “I always thought it was weird that someone kept sending her takeout. Turns out she is a homewrecker!” Those words were like gasoline on a fire. James’s wife snapped, lunging at me again. Christina, still filming, yelled, “Don’t worry! I’m here to help!” But instead of helping, she subtly steered James’s wife toward the staircase. I was trapped. Christina kept egging her on, and before I knew it, I was falling. I hit the stairs hard, my head slamming against the edge. The world went black. When I woke up, I couldn’t move. I was a vegetable. The police came, and James put on the performance of a lifetime. He removed his glasses, dabbing at his dry eyes as if he were weeping. “Officers,” he said, his voice trembling, “I won’t cover for my wife. “She has bipolar disorder. Her mental health has been fragile for years, but I love her deeply. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, and I let my selfishness blind me to the harm she was causing others. “After this… I know what I have to do. I’ll have her committed to a psychiatric facility. “And as for Miss Lee…” He gestured toward my unconscious body. “I’ll take full responsibility for her medical expenses. I’ll make sure she gets the best care possible.” Then Christina jumped in, acting like we were the best of friends. Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed, “Let me take care of her! We’re neighbors. We’ve always been close. I never imagined something like this would happen to her.” Normally, the hospital would’ve contacted my parents. But my parents didn’t care about me. They only had eyes for my older brother, and I was nothing more than a forgotten shadow in their lives. When they heard Christina was volunteering to look after me, they happily signed the papers, took the settlement money, and washed their hands of me. James’s promise to “take full responsibility” turned out to be a joke. They moved me to a private hospital, not to help me recover, but to keep me out of sight. And Christina’s offer to take care of me? A lie. She only showed up when James wanted her there. My hospital room became their love nest, my body nothing more than a convenient excuse for them to spend time together. I was the bridge that connected them, the cover story that hid their affair in plain sight. 3 A Chance Encounter in the Elevator A flash of beige caught my eye, snapping me out of my thoughts. James’s wife had just stepped into the elevator. Gripping the bag of ribs I’d just purchased, I hurried after her. The elevator was spacious, but it felt stifling with just the two of us inside. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I remembered her fate in my last life—locked away in a psychiatric hospital. Meanwhile, James and Christina spent their days exchanging flirtatious glances and their nights kissing beside my hospital bed. Looking at her now, so different from the deranged, broken woman I had known, I felt a pang of guilt. She didn’t deserve to stay with a scumbag like James. But… what if she wasn’t as innocent as she seemed? Suddenly, a slender, pale hand appeared in front of me. I looked up. She was smiling. “I forgot to introduce myself last time,” she said warmly. “I’m Rachel Whitmore. I live upstairs in Apartment 501.” I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lily Carter.” The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. But the sight waiting for me outside made my blood boil. Christina was standing at my door, messing with another takeout order. She loved her soups and broths, but without fail, she spilled them every time. The greasy puddles she left behind were like her personality—disgusting and impossible to scrub clean. This time, I had proof. With my newly installed camera, I had everything I needed to catch her in the act. I charged out of the elevator, my voice sharp and cutting. “Do you not know where your own apartment is? Why is your takeout always ending up at my door?” Christina didn’t even flinch. “I told you already—it’s a mistake.” “A mistake?” I scoffed. “You ‘accidentally’ put the wrong address every single time? And last time, you said the delivery was yours, but someone else claimed it!” She folded her arms and snapped back, “Maybe I misread the receipt. Is that a crime?” I pointed at the camera above my door. “I’ve installed a security camera now. Let’s see you ‘misread’ your way out of this.” Her face paled. For a moment, she was silent, but then she regained her composure and shot back, “This is illegal! You can’t just install a camera in a shared space! It’s against the rules!” “Illegal?” I raised an eyebrow. “It’s on my door. How is that illegal?” She sneered. “This is a common area! Everyone here pays for it! You didn’t get permission from the rest of us to install a camera. That’s not allowed!” Before I could respond, she spun around and marched toward the door of Apartment 210, pounding on it like her life depended on it. The door swung open, revealing a burly man with a scowl. “What the hell is it now?! You people are always making a racket!” Christina batted her lashes, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Oh, hi, neighbor! There’s a problem with the tenant in 201. She installed a camera in the common area, and when I tried to talk her out of it, she wouldn’t listen. Isn’t that so unfair?” The man’s irritation melted away the moment he recognized her. His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Wait a minute… I know you! I’ve seen you online!” Christina’s expression brightened. “Oh, really? You’ve watched my streams?” “Yeah, yeah!” he exclaimed, smacking his forehead as if trying to jog his memory. “Aren’t you… uh… what’s your name again? The one with all the cooking videos…” Christina’s voice turned saccharine. “That’s right, that’s me! I’m so glad you watch my streams!” His face lit up even brighter. “Oh, I remember now! You’re LilBabyPeachy! That’s your username, right?” Christina’s smile froze. I couldn’t help it—I laughed out loud. For the record, Christina’s username on her streaming platform was definitely not “LilBabyPeachy.” Her face turned an alarming shade of red, but she quickly recovered, grabbing the man’s arm and leaning in closer. “Neighbor, you’re so sweet! But please, you have to help me. This camera is totally against the rules!” For a moment, it seemed like the man might actually take her side. But then he glanced up at the camera, frowned, and gently pulled his arm free. “Look, lady,” he said, stepping back. “If she wants a camera on her own door, that’s none of my business. You’re on your own.” Then he slammed the door in her face. I later found out that the man was married—and completely under his wife’s thumb. Back in the hallway, Christina stood frozen for a moment, her face a mix of fury and embarrassment. Finally, she turned to me, her voice trembling with anger. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m calling the building manager. Let’s see what he has to say about this!” I stared at her, incredulous. Christina… how many men have you roped into your little web? Does James even know? 4 That afternoon, I finally met the so-called “building manager” Christina had been bragging about. He stumbled toward my door, unsteady on his feet, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face. The massive dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss, as was the sour attitude he brought with him. Without a word, he raised a hand and smashed my security camera. I stared at the live feed on my monitor as the screen went black. Then, I calmly picked up my phone and called the police. The bigger this mess got, the better. Let everyone see what was really going on. I crouched by the remains of the camera on the floor, took a few photos, and uploaded them to the building’s group chat. “This is what happens when you try to protect yourself,” I captioned the post. Soon enough, a crowd began to gather outside my door. By the time the police arrived, there was a full-blown audience. I walked up to the officers the moment they stepped out of their car. “The building manager destroyed my security camera,” I said, pointing to the shattered pieces on the ground. “I paid over $3,000 for it!” The building manager, who had clearly come under duress, widened his eyes in disbelief. “Three grand for a camera? Are you insane?” He turned to the officers, throwing his hands in the air. “I swear, I didn’t destroy anything!” I crossed my arms and shot back coldly, “I have footage.” He scoffed and tried to save face. “Even if I did destroy something, it’s not the point! She was using a shared space for her personal equipment! That’s what’s really wrong here! I was just doing my job, protecting the interests of the community. Officers, please, you’ve got to see how unreasonable she’s being!” One of the officers frowned and turned to me. “You were taking up a shared space?” I sniffled and said, “He’s calling my front door a shared space.” The officer blinked, looking genuinely baffled. “Your own door is considered shared property?” The crowd collectively gasped. It was a moment of silence for the absurdity of the “building manager.” I let a couple of tears fall for dramatic effect. “Officers,” I said, my voice trembling, “please help me. I’ve had this camera for a while, and we’ve been through so much together. I even got emotionally attached to it!” I wiped my cheeks and straightened up, my tone suddenly firm and righteous. “Officers, I have reason to believe the building manager didn’t destroy my camera on his own accord. Someone put him up to it!” From the back of the crowd, Christina flinched, her shoulders jerking involuntarily. “And,” I added, my voice sharp enough to cut glass, “I still have the footage.”
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