The day I was reborn, my parents were forcing me to sign an agreement that would hand over my beloved Lynn to my sister, Camilla.

I remembered how my last life ended. I had cried and begged, trying to make him believe I was the one who had cared for him at that countryside villa, not Camilla, but my pleas only deepened his disgust.

Heartbroken and dazed, I crashed my car. I dialed his number, only to hear his cold voice on the other end. “Enough with the theatrics. You’re interrupting my engagement party with Camilla.”

He then hung up and blocked me.

I bled out in the highway wreckage, my consciousness fading to the sound of their party’s live broadcast crackling on the radio.

This time, I clenched the expensive fountain pen, my fingertips turning white.

This time, I would never beg again.

————————

1

Camilla and I are twins.

Our talents were worlds apart. My gift for design was innate; she was utterly mediocre.

To bolster her image, my parents forced me to let her take credit for all my designs. Over the years, they turned me into her ghostwriter, attributing every one of my achievements to Camilla's name.

This went on for years.

At first, everyone was grateful for my "sacrifice."

But as Camilla gained countless accolades on the back of my talent, their world began to revolve around her. She grew jealous of the talent that was rightfully mine and began slandering my name, stripping me of everything I had.

My parents were completely on her side.

I gave up everything.

Except for the only person I had ever loved—Lynn Sterling.

Lynn was the heir to the Sterling Group, a man poised to become a powerhouse in the East Coast business world.

But when I first found him, he had lost everything. A car accident had left him with severely injured legs and amnesia, wiping his memory so clean he couldn't even recall his own name. His family, believing he had lost all immediate business value, exiled him to a remote countryside villa.

I stumbled upon him during a research trip for design inspiration.

From then on, I snuck out every day to care for him.

He once asked for my name.

I drew a letter in his palm—G.

He couldn't see my face, nor could he remember me. But he would describe how he imagined I looked. He would read me passages from Nietzsche to make me laugh. On stormy nights, he would hold my hand tightly, calming my fears.

The night before doctors were to restore his memory, he held my hand and made a solemn vow.

He said the first person he would recognize after his recovery would be me. That he would marry me. That we would be together forever.

But on the day of his treatment, my parents discovered that Camilla wanted Lynn, too.

They locked me in the wine cellar for three whole days.

They presented Camilla to Lynn, swearing it was she who had been by his side all along.

When Lynn's memory returned, the first person he saw was Camilla.

He believed the "G" I had drawn in his palm stood for "Camilla."

He never doubted it. Not once.

The treatment was a success. Lynn reclaimed his position as heir to the Sterling Group.

He and Camilla officially became a couple. Preparations for their engagement ceremony began.

I tried to explain, over and over. No one believed me. Not until I died.

This time, I looked my parents straight in the eye and, in front of the lawyer, signed the cruelest agreement imaginable.

"I, Giselle Hawthorne, hereby forever renounce any and all connection to Lynn Sterling and his family. If I violate this agreement, I will be liable for one hundred million dollars in damages."

I stared at them. "Satisfied?"

My parents stared back, shocked.

In my past life, I would have rather died than sign.

My mother was the first to recover. She stepped forward, patting my shoulder with a practiced look of relief.

"Good, Giselle. You've finally come to your senses. Lynn is about to propose to Camilla anyway. Getting involved would only bring you trouble."

I said nothing. I turned and went to my room.

A little while later, Camilla sent me a message.

"Lynn said there's something familiar about you. He wants to talk."

In my past life, I had believed every word.

I had rushed over, my heart pounding, convinced he had finally remembered us.

I pushed open the ajar door and saw Lynn, shirt half-open, holding Camilla tightly on the sofa, his lips pressed to her neck in a deep, possessive kiss.

It was all a setup. She wanted me to see it with my own eyes.

This time, I glanced at the screen and deleted the message.

I never wanted to see either of them again.

I pulled out my suitcase and began to pack in silence. All I wanted was to leave.

But Camilla wasn't finished with me.

That evening, as I was packing upstairs, she brought Lynn home.

I froze for a second, then understood immediately.

If I wouldn't go to the show, she would bring the show to me.

Soon, sounds drifted up from the living room. Camilla’s laughter, deliberately loud and piercing, was punctuated by deeper murmurs that could only be Lynn's.

With my back to the door, I shoved clothes into my suitcase.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably, but I didn't stop packing.

While going through a drawer, I found a silver locket.

In my past life, I had spent my savings to have a craftsman make it. Inside, it held the first design sketch I had ever drawn for Lynn—a testament to our time at the countryside villa.

I had planned to show it to him, to prove everything.

But the doctors had warned that his memory was unstable. Too great a shock could wipe it clean again. So I had waited, hoping he would remember on his own.

In this life, I no longer needed it.

The sounds from downstairs dragged on.

I finished packing.

Finally, the house fell silent.

I stood and went downstairs for a glass of water.

At the top of the stairs, Camilla was waiting.

She leaned against the railing, her shirt pulled low. The fresh mark from Lynn’s lips burned a glaring red on her collarbone.

She blocked my path, her voice low and dripping with satisfaction.

"You heard all that, didn't you? He only loves me."

"What are you even holding on for?"

I stared at her, my face a blank mask.

"Move."

I tried to step around her.

Just then, Lynn emerged from the kitchen.

In that instant, Camilla screamed.

She threw herself backward, tumbling down the stairs. As she fell, she grabbed my arm, dragging me down with her.

We crashed to the bottom, one after the other.

Camilla had a scratch on her arm. That was all.

She curled up on the floor, clutching the scratch and wailing as if she were grievously injured.

My forehead had slammed into the sharp corner of a step. Warm blood gushed from my hairline, streaming down one side of my face.

Camilla looked at Lynn through her tears, her voice trembling violently.

"Why does she hate me so much..."

"I was just trying to talk to her..."

Lynn's jaw tightened.

He crossed the distance between us in two long strides and swept Camilla up from the floor.

He examined her arm, his eyes filled with concern.

He didn't look at me once. He stepped right over my body as I lay in a pool of my own blood.

He carried Camilla toward the door.

"You'd better pray to God she's okay."

The door slammed shut.

The last of my spirit, hollowed out by years of theft, finally shattered. My creative spark—the one thing that had always been mine—was extinguished.

The pain dragged me into an abyss. The edges of my vision turned black.

Before I lost consciousness completely, I fumbled in my pocket for my spare phone.

I opened a contact and sent a message.

"I'm in. Come get me."

After hitting send, my hand dropped to the blood-soaked floor.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a storage room.

No one had tended to my wounds. Blood was still seeping out, warm and thick, crusting over my left eye.

I tried to stand, to find a doctor, but the door was locked from the outside.

I pounded on the wooden door, screaming until my throat was raw.

I don't know how much time passed before a sympathetic housekeeper heard my cries and unlocked it.

That was how I found out what had happened.

My parents had come home to find me unconscious in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs.

My mother hadn't even glanced at me. She had the maids handle it.

"Look what she did to Camilla. She is no daughter of mine. Put her somewhere out of sight—just don't let her die in the living room and disgrace us all."

Pressing a hand to the throbbing wound on my forehead, I struggled to my feet.

I checked my phone. A new message glowed on the screen.

"On my way. Three days."

The tension in my body instantly eased.

Three days. I just had to hold on for three more days.

Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I stumbled out of the storage room.

I limped down the hallway to the family infirmary and pushed the door open.

Camilla was lying comfortably in bed, her arm wrapped in a ridiculously thick bandage.

Lynn sat by her bedside, holding her hand and murmuring something low and gentle.

My father stood by the window, giving quiet instructions to the family doctor.

My mother sat on the other side of the bed, lovingly stroking Camilla's hair.

I knew the truth. Camilla's arm was barely scratched—it was probably almost healed by now.

I stood in the doorway, watching this picture of domestic bliss.

Four people, filling the entire room.

Not one of them looked at me, as if I didn't exist.

I slowly let go of the doorknob.

I turned and limped back to the storage room to find some expired ointment.

I crouched on the cold floor, doing my best to treat my own wounds.

As I bit down on a strip of gauze, the door was thrown open.

Camilla strode in.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching me for a moment with an air of leisurely amusement.

"Lynn was just holding my hand. He's going to buy me the most expensive penthouse in Manhattan after we're engaged. All for me."

Her tone was light, filled with smug satisfaction.

She paused deliberately, her eyes full of mockery.

"You spent all that time in that villa taking care of him like a nanny. What did he ever give you?"

I didn't look up, focusing on cleaning the gash on my forehead.

My lack of reaction seemed to annoy her.

She took a step closer and crouched in front of me.

"I'm warning you—back off. Stop doing all these pathetic, pointless things. Save your energy. No one is ever going to be on your side—"

She stopped mid-sentence. A vicious smile spread across her face.

She reached out and clawed open the nearly healed scratch on her own arm.

Before I could react, she lunged, smearing her blood all over my hands.

Then she screamed and scrambled backward.

"Let go of me! Somebody help! She's crazy!"

I froze, staring at my blood-covered fingers.

I didn't have time to say a single word.

My parents and Lynn burst into the storage room.

Camilla was backed into a corner, sobbing hysterically.

Blood dripped from her arm.

"I just came to see if she was okay..." she accused between sobs.

"And she just—she grabbed my arm—she tore it open—"

My mother shrieked and rushed to hug Camilla.

She was shaking at the sight of the blood, looking like she might faint.

My father lunged forward and grabbed me by the collar.

He hauled me off the ground with brute force.

"Are you trying to kill your sister?"

"You think if she's gone, Lynn will finally be yours?"

"You signed the agreement. Have you forgotten already?"

He was holding me so tightly my feet were almost off the ground. I could barely breathe.

I looked at my father's face, twisted with rage.

I looked at my mother, cradling Camilla, wailing over her precious darling.

I had had enough.

I grabbed my father's wrists with both hands.

I looked him dead in the eye. "Lynn was mine," I forced out through gritted teeth. "You locked me in the wine cellar. You helped her steal him from me. Do you really think he'll spare any of you when he finds out the truth?"

The room fell silent.

Then, from the doorway, came Lynn's voice—as sharp as a knife's edge.

"What truth?"

The blood drained from all three of their faces at once.

Camilla was the first to react.

Tears immediately streamed down her cheeks.

"What on earth are you talking about..."

"Did you hit your head on the stairs? None of what you're saying makes any sense..."

My father sprang into action. He turned to Lynn, his face plastered with a fawning smile.

"Giselle's been talking nonsense ever since her fall."

"She must have hit her head. Don't take anything she says seriously."

My mother quickly chimed in.

"That's right—Giselle has always been like this. Making up wild stories for attention."

Camilla clung to Lynn's arm, still sobbing.

"She's always been jealous. She's always trying to take you from me. That's why she's saying these things."

Their story was seamless, perfectly coordinated.

Lynn looked down at me on the floor.

My hands were covered in Camilla's blood.

The wound on my forehead was still bleeding, drop by drop, onto the floor.

With my hair matted to my pale face with dried blood, I must have looked like a wraith from a nightmare.

He stared at me for a few seconds, his eyes filled with contempt.

"Send her away."

He dropped the words, devoid of emotion, then turned and left with Camilla to tend to her arm.

My father immediately called for private doctors, ordering them to take me to a high-end private clinic.

The place was a sterile nightmare—a pure white isolation room.

The walls were white, the sheets were white, everything was white.

The stark whiteness assaulted my fractured senses.

I curled up in a cold corner, shaking uncontrollably.

I remembered my past life. They had locked me in a place like this then, too—to get me out of the way so Camilla could stand before Lynn in my place.

The agony of the white room was all too familiar.

In my past life, I had cried for three days and three nights in here.

This time, I leaned against the white wall and didn't shed a single tear.

In the endless silence, my fingers traced the smooth tiles of the floor.

I remembered the days of caring for Lynn in that remote villa.

Back then, with his amnesia, he always asked me to walk with him in the garden.

We would sit side-by-side on the grass, and he would trace my palm with his finger, teaching me to sense his emotions through touch.

He had told me with a smile that once his memory returned, he would take me to his favorite place.

But when his memory returned, he took someone else.

The next day, Lynn came.

He stood before me, looking down at me huddled in the corner.

"Do you understand what you did wrong?" His voice was cold.

I slowly looked up. My face was pale, expressionless.

"Yes."

I did understand what I did wrong.

I should never have saved him.

And I certainly shouldn't have been foolish enough to fall in love with him.

My answer seemed to satisfy him. He gave a slight nod.

His tone dripped with condescending charity. "It was Camilla who begged me to come see you. After everything you did."

"She actually cried for you. So stop making her sad."

He turned to leave without a backward glance.

After a couple of steps, he paused, glancing at the doctor by the door.

"Get a specialist. Put her on sedatives."

On the third day, the doctors released me.

It was Camilla's birthday.

She had personally gone to Lynn, putting on her most helpless act, and begged him to let me attend. She said she wanted her sister's blessing in person.

Lynn, seeing only kindness in the request, agreed on the spot.

But I knew exactly what Camilla wanted.

She wanted me to watch as Lynn proposed to her. She wanted to obliterate my last shred of hope.

At the ceremony, my parents made me deliver the custom-made engagement ring to the stage.

I walked up the steps holding the velvet box, my face a mask.

Lynn was already on one knee before Camilla.

I opened the box in front of everyone.

On the inner band of the ring, a single, ornate letter was engraved: C.

My fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second.

That engraving should have been the "G" I had drawn in his palm.

But he had believed it was the first letter of "Camilla."

Lynn took the ring and gently slipped it onto Camilla's finger.

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

I stood on the stage, watching it all unfold up close.

Then I turned and walked off the stage without a word.

As I descended the steps, my foot caught on the hem of my dress.

My body, a patchwork of old and new injuries, had no strength left.

I lost my balance and fell heavily to the ground.

The impact tore my collar open.

The silver locket I kept hidden against my skin slipped out.

It caught the light, glowing with a soft warmth.

Lynn froze. His gaze locked onto the locket on my chest.

He had played with that locket countless times during those dark days.

He slowly crouched down, his voice barely a whisper.

"Where did you get that?"