"Have you ever done anything you feel guilty about?"

My colleague blindsided me with the question during our lunch break.

My heart plummeted.

My fork, laden with salad, froze halfway to my mouth. I slowly lifted my gaze.

She pointed at her phone, her lip curled in disdain.

Intrigued, I tapped the link she sent me. It was a blog post.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the pinned comment at the very top—

"Does murder count?"

————————

1

Murder.

That single word was enough to make the post spread like wildfire.

Hundreds of replies quickly piled up beneath it.

Seeing the situation spiral out of control, the blogger quickly jumped in.

She posted a clarification in the comments section.

"I didn't kill her, but her death is on my hands."

"I grew up thinking I was an only child, but at twenty-one, I suddenly learned I'd been switched at birth."

"I couldn't accept it, so I staged a fake kidnapping."

"I wanted to see if my family truly loved me."

"And just as I expected, my parents, my brother, and her fiancé all chose me."

"It should have ended there, but…"

"Those kidnappers went back on their word and abducted her instead."

"By the time she was found, she had been tortured into a complete mental breakdown."

"My parents were going to send her to a psychiatric hospital, but she couldn't take it and threw herself off a cliff."

"I took her place, married into a prominent family, and became my parents' only daughter again."

"I've lived a wonderful, happy life all these years, though I do occasionally feel a pang of pity for her."

"I just lit a candle for her. I hope she can rest in peace."

Her words were laced with a thin veil of apology.

But she ruthlessly shot down any comment that dared to question her.

Watching the blogger, Blair Whitmore, flaunt her condescending, utterly remorseless attitude, my colleague across from me slammed her salad fork onto the table.

"I swear, this bitch is infuriating."

"How can anyone be so shameless?"

"An adopted daughter who stole someone else's life."

"Not a single word of thanks, and she drove the real daughter to her death."

"People like her should burn in hell!"

But it's always the cruelest ones who live the most charmed lives.

Someone in the comments had already dug up Blair's real identity.

The daughter of the Whitmore Group's CEO.

The wife of the Ashford Group's heir.

She lived in a hundred-million-dollar mansion and wore a ten-million-dollar diamond ring.

She basked in her family's adoration without an ounce of guilt.

The only "hardship" in her life was being childless after years of marriage.

She chalked it up to a curse from the girl who had died.

Even in death, the girl wouldn't grant her peace, still finding ways to haunt her.

To purge that last bit of guilt from her heart and finally conceive a child with the man she loved, she saw a therapist and then posted this confession online.

Hoping strangers online would offer the same comfort as her family.

That they would tell her: "None of this was your fault."

"She was just too weak. An heiress who couldn't even handle a minor setback like that? She had it coming."

Unfortunately for her, the commenters saw right through the act.

The comments section was a raging flood of furious messages.

She couldn't possibly reply to them all.

I watched, a grim smile touching my lips.

Putting down my phone, I spoke to my colleague.

"Do you know the thing I feel most guilty about in my entire life?"

My colleague, Chloe, gave me a strange look and laughed.

"What could you have possibly done?"

"Everyone knows you're the kindest person in the company. You wouldn't hurt a fly."

"The... the worst thing you've ever done is probably steal a couple sheets of printer paper from the office."

I shook my head.

I leaned in, my voice low enough for only her to hear.

"I've killed someone, too."

I snorted at Chloe's stunned expression.

"Just kidding. Hurry up and eat."

"Lunch break's almost over, and I want to catch a quick nap."

Chloe shot me a playful glare and swatted at me.

I laughed and dodged away, casually dumping my unfinished salad into the trash can on my way out.

When I returned to the office, most of my colleagues were resting quietly at their desks.

I glanced at the nameplate on my workstation—"Skyler Reed"—and a wave of dissociation washed over me.

It had been three years, and I still hadn't completely gotten used to this name.

Skyler Reed... if you were still alive, would you be happy with this life?

Only silence answered.

No one could give me an answer.

The question followed me into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Perhaps it was the day's trigger, or maybe some dark premonition, but the distant memories I had fought so hard to bury came flooding back.

...

My name is not Skyler Reed. I am Ava Whitmore—the same girl from Blair's post, the one who supposedly jumped off a cliff to her death.

I was different from her.

I grew up with my adoptive parents in a small Montana town.

We weren't wealthy, but life was stable and happy.

Until I turned twenty-one, when a luxury car whisked me away to a lavish estate in the Hamptons.

Only then did I learn how prominent my real family was.

My father was a business tycoon; my mother, an Oscar-winning actress.

My brother was a Hollywood A-lister.

Even my fiancé, betrothed to me since childhood, was the heir to New York's renowned Ashford Group.

I was supposed to have a perfect life.

But a cruel twist of fate had swapped my life with Blair's.

I hadn't even had time to process it all before Blair threw her first tantrum.

She cried and begged our family to send me away, threatening a hunger strike if they didn't.

Then she forged a medical report claiming she had depression.

To drive me out, she faked a depressive episode and jumped from the ground-floor terrace.

Though she only sprained her ankle, the entire family was frantic with worry.

They scrambled to get her to the hospital.

No one noticed me, the one Blair had actually pushed down the stairs.

In the end, it was the family's housekeeper, Maria, who helped me up.

She tended to my wounds and brought me food.

She comforted me gently, "Miss Ava, don't be sad."

"Miss Blair is just like that. She'll get used to you in a few days."

"The master and madam care for you in their hearts, it's just..."

It's just that people always have favorites.

Even though I was their biological daughter, all I could do was watch their perfect family from the outside.

Of course, they'd love the brilliant child they had raised.

So, when the kidnappers demanded they choose one of us, everyone chose Blair.

I should have seen it coming.

After all, in that house, the best room was Blair's, and the prettiest dresses were Blair's.

So of course, the one chance at life had to be Blair's, too.

What truly shattered my heart wasn't their predictable abandonment. It was that the housekeeper, Maria—the only person in that mansion who had shown me any kindness—was in on the kidnapping plot.

That night, with tears in her eyes, she cinched the ropes binding me.

"I'm sorry, Miss Ava, I didn't want to do this."

"They forced me. I have a child of my own to support."

"I can't lose this job over you. Just bear with it. Your family will definitely come save you."

That's what my father and brother said, too, when they came to pay the ransom.

They swept Blair into their arms and left without a single backward glance.

They only left me with one sentence.

"Ava, just hold on. The police will come for you."

But in reality, no one was coming for me.

Worried the kidnappers might hurt Blair, they had never called the police at all.

In this city, in that mansion, I was utterly alone.

All that awaited me was a dead end.

At first, the kidnappers were even more naive than I was.

They assumed that since I was the Whitmore family's biological daughter, my family would surely come back for me.

How could anyone not love their own child? How could they abandon their own flesh and blood?

"They paid three million to ransom that Blair girl. As the real daughter, you've got to be worth more than her, right?"

"I'm not asking for much, just five million. The second the money's here, I'll let you go."

I laughed at their naivety, at their foolishness.

If my family had shown the slightest concern for me, this sloppy, amateurish kidnapping never would have happened in the first place.

Things unfolded just as I'd predicted.

The first day after Blair was rescued, my parents canceled all their engagements to be by her side around the clock.

My brother brought in the best medical team to give her a full workup.

It was just a small scrape on her ankle, but the entire family was beside themselves with worry.

Julian Ashford even chartered a yacht in Saint-Tropez and threw a party to celebrate her safe return.

When the kidnappers saw the photos Blair posted on Instagram, they were furious. They cut off one of my fingers and sent it with a new threat.

But their threat was met with silence.

The second day after Blair was rescued, the whole family accompanied her on a luxury European tour to help her de-stress.

Blair posted her travel itinerary: Rome, Paris, Milan.

She stayed in five-star hotels and flew on a private jet.

My parents and brother vied to carry her luggage.

And she, arm linked through Julian's, was beaming.

No one cared about the severed finger.

By the third day after Blair was rescued, she had arrived in Rome, admiring the view from the Colosseum.

And the kidnappers' patience had worn thin.

They finally realized that I, the so-called biological daughter, was just an abandoned child no one remembered.

All their scheming had come to nothing.

The leader of the kidnappers kicked me again and again.

He gritted his teeth, hissing, "Damn it, I don't take losses."

"The Whitmores and the Ashfords won't pay. I'm going to get my money's worth out of this bitch one way or another!"