I Let Him Crash Into Destiny

My brother came back from his heir-training course convinced he was destined to marry an ultra-wealthy heiress.

He took my car and tried to crash into the rear of Wendy Hewitt's vehicle. That girl was a top heiress in Greateast's elite circle, and my brother wanted to set up a chance encounter with her.

I slammed on the brakes and told him the Hewitts were no fools. If my brother were to crash into that car, it would ruin our whole family's finances and then some.

Wendy eventually held a grand wedding that shook the whole nation. My brother was consumed by jealousy. He insisted he would have been the groom if I had not stopped him that day.

That resentment festered into hatred. In the end, my brother drove his car straight into me.

I died.

…

When my eyes snapped open again, I found myself back in the passenger seat—back on the very day my brother tried to create that so-called chance encounter.

A smug smile tugged at his lips as his eyes stayed fixed on the car ahead. "The moment Wendy sees me, I'll have her heart. And then I'll ditch this scrap metal."

I didn't stop him this time. My brother stepped on the gas and crashed straight into the 50-million-dollar supercar.

A Crash

The crash sent that supercar skidding ahead before slowing into a halt. The deafening bang caught the attention of many pedestrians.

The supercar was a wreck. Its spoiler dropped with a sharp clang, and the rear chassis had caved in.

Yves Shaw, my brother, could not care less.

He quickly regained his bearing after that crash and looked into the rear-view mirror as he tidied himself up.

He ruffled his bangs, then blinked hard until tears gathered at the rims of his eyes. His gaze carried just the right amount of hurt—painful enough to look convincing, but not so painful that it ruined the effect.

If I had not known better, I might have thought he was the innocent victim, shaken by the accident.

Then, his eyes shifted to me.

My calm quiet surprised him, evidently.

He had a couple of thick pillows set in front of him to soften the blow, and he sped up before I could react. If I had not grabbed on to the armrest, I'd have had my face slammed into the dashboard and bruised it.

Typical. Ever since we were children, Yves had seized every chance to embarrass me, all so he could appear better, calmer, and more impressive by comparison.

Without asking, Yves dabbed a blob of foundation onto his finger and smeared it over my lips. "Wendy rarely shows her face in public. Do as I say and don't mess it up. When I marry her, I'll get you a job at the Hewitts. You'd make a good servant. Better pay than what you're making."

Yves pulled the collar of his knitted cardigan lower and got out of the car. In my previous life, he blamed the failure of his so-called life on me. He insisted I had ruined his chance to marry into high society.

Now, I was curious. I'd love to see him trying to change the course of fate.

The moment Yves appeared, a ripple went through the crowd. A few girls on the sidewalk were already taking photos of him.

Yves had always been proud of his body.

His cardigan clung tightly to his muscles, making him look like a carefully sculpted statue. Wherever he went, attention followed.

Wendy did not get out of the car.

Instead, a suited driver stepped out and circled the supercar once. After checking the damage, he stopped beside the window and bent down to say something to her.

When the driver tried to speak to Yves, Yves simply walked around him and knocked on Wendy's window instead.

As he spoke, he wiped the tears from his cheeks. His hair fluttered in the breeze, and he looked so fragile that even the wind seemed capable of breaking him.

Wendy opened the car door a moment later and looked in my direction, then she turned her gaze to Yves.

The legendary top heiress of Greateast's elite circle had always been shrouded in mystery. Countless celebrities had tried to get close to her, but none had ever been given the chance.

Yves hung his head low and clasped his perfectly-manicured hands together. Then, as if he had made a decision, he took his phone out.

Before he could call the traffic officers, Wendy waved her hand dismissively and asked Yves to put his phone down.

Then, she approached my car.

Yves had smeared that pale foundation over my lips. After a week of brutal overtime, I probably looked like a ghost that had just crawled out of its grave.

Through the window, I saw Wendy up close for the first time.

Although it was late summer, she had a scarf wrapped around her neck. A scar peeked out from beneath the fabric, winding all the way up to her left cheekbone.

Signs of high-quality restoration surgeries laid barely on her face, but her skin still had tiny craters dotted all over. The wound she had suffered must have been deep.

Yves came up to her.

With worry dripping in his voice, he said, "My brother's stomach acted up. He needed to get to the hospital, and I stepped on the gas, but it was supposed to be the brakes. I know it's my fault, and I'll cover all the damages."

Perhaps that explanation convinced Wendy. Something in her chilly expression melted. Calmly, she said, "Take your time. Take him to the hospital. My driver, Charlie, will handle the rest."

Before Wendy could leave, Yves quickly walked over and stood in front of her. Nervously, he handed her a card. "Here's my number. I won't run from this."

Wendy looked at his card.

Yves called himself a partner of a vet hospital and a visiting professor at Southcrest University of Tourism.

Wendy looked back at him and sized him up. Then, she took out her phone. "We'll talk on WhatsApp."