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."

Snap

Wendy got into the Maybach that had come to pick her up, while a tow truck hauled the supercar away.

My car's hood was twisted out of shape, and one of the headlights had been smashed. "I just got my car yesterday, and you totaled it! What will you do about it?"

Yves ignored my question all the way.

…

The moment we hit home, he grabbed our mother's arm and complained that I was being pushy.

My mother, Fiona Lawson, patted Yves lovingly and told me to handle the mess myself. "I can't believe you'd make Yves handle it. It's such a trivial matter. You're his brother, for God's sake."

It was a few hours ago that Yves insisted on driving my car. He had no license and had failed his driving test five times.

Worried about his safety, Fiona insisted that I followed Yves.

Johnny West, my stepfather, came out of the kitchen with a fruit platter, but it only had three forks. The three of them happily ate the fruit, pretending I did not exist.

"Wendy kept staring at me the whole time. I thought she'd be hard to win over, but she's just like every other woman," Yves bragged. He smugly took his phone out and showed everyone that he had her number.

Johnny clapped his hands. "And when you marry her, we'll be the Hewitts' in-laws!"

Even Fiona was starting to come up with fantasies about her life of luxury.

Yves stabbed a piece of fruit and fed it to Fiona. He said, "Mom, I'm still three hundred grand short for the heirmaking course."

Fiona frowned, but she did not give him the money right away.

Our entire family was supported by the income from a shop in the old city district. Unfortunately, the latest urban development plans had completely bypassed that area, and business had taken a sharp downturn.

The heirmaking course charged five hundred grand per person. Its bold promise was that its students would learn how to marry into high society.

In the three years after college, Yves spent his days going through cosmetic surgeries and taking photos wherever he went. His full-time job was crafting his rich heir persona.

The 200-grand deposit had cleared out Fiona's savings.

Johnny adjusted his golden bracelet and shot back, "Fiona, he signed up for that course so you can live large. If you can't even cover the bill, you're getting nothing when he makes it big."

Then, he added pointedly, "Besides, someone in this family has a job. Family should help family."

In my previous life, my family took on a mountain of debts just to help Yves marry up. The debt collectors rioted outside my company just to collect their payment. Because of them, I lost my job.

These people had no idea that Wendy's supercar had been wrecked, and they were convinced she would never make Yves pay for the repairs. Unlike them, I was not about to gamble everything on a fantasy where Yves married into wealth.

Before they could say anything, I told them I was moving out. "I've found the place, and I'll change my address."

Johnny clicked his tongue. "You're just jealous that Yves can marry into money. Looks are everything for a man. A man's job is to marry a rich woman. Jealousy won't get you anywhere, Felix. You? Moving out on your salary? Don't make me laugh."

My phone buzzed.

An urgent meeting had been called. I went into my room, gathered the files I needed, and got ready to head to work.

Yves did not even bother hiding his contempt. "You're working for nothing. How much do you make every month? Three thousand. I'll have more money in my pinky than you'll ever have in your life."

Haughtily, Fiona sneered. "Now's your chance to butter up to Yves. If you please him enough, he might give you a house for free, and you won't have to move."

A wide, foolish grin spread across Yves' face.

He was waiting for me to bend my back. I tightened my grip on the files and looked over the family of three.

"The Hewitts' money isn't Yves', but my money is always mine. But my money will always be mine. Pretty privilege is real, but if being pretty is all you have, you're finished…" I paused before adding, "If I were you, I'd first find out what kind of car Wendy drives."

The Text

The meeting was about Clearwater Resort Town, a project held with the Hewitts. The Hewitts were in charge of development, while Aphrodite was in charge of marketing.

I got a job in Aphrodite five years ago, when they were recruiting at my campus. As one of the world's top marketing companies, Aphrodite was a demanding place to work, but the pay was excellent.

I told the Shaws that I was a janitor at Aphrodite and got paid three thousand every month. Blinded by their prejudice, Johnny and Yves gobbled up the story right away.

After the director was done with the progress report, they said solemnly, "The Hewitts' PIC is Wendy now, and it's her first project as their heiress."

Then, the director added that Wendy was not satisfied with our current proposal. We had to prepare two more versions and hold another meeting in two weeks.

Wendy would be joining the review in person.

"She's extremely particular about details, and our budget has been cut. By a lot. I need everyone to stay sharp."

After the meeting ended, my colleagues started gossiping in the pantry.

"I heard Wendy was disfigured when she was a child. That's why she almost never shows her face in public."

"Who'd have the guts to do that?"

"No idea. My mom was the reporter on that case back then. She managed to take photos of Wendy being sent to the hospital, but her boss ordered her to delete them."

"Aristocrats fighting among themselves. They'll go to any lengths. And I bet something's fishy about Wendy's sister's death. A little girl going to a beach late at night isn't normal."

"Philip Hewitt has three wives and four daughters. Wendy's the youngest, but if she could become the heiress, she's more cunning than we thought."

"We should just do our jobs. The director did say she's very particular."

I was reminded of the face I saw.

Although a scar marred her features, it did not take much away from her beauty. Still, there was something dark and heavy surrounding her, like a thick mist that made her seem even more mysterious.

She was not the sort of woman who would be easily swayed by lust, no matter what Yves claimed.

I took a sip of coffee and opened Instagram. Yves had posted some photos. He was in expensive attire and sipping red wine on a hotel balcony, while bouquets of flowers surrounded him.

Within the photos were two foreigners who radiated the presence of nobility. The caption read, 'Another fine wine from 1982, courtesy of Romagnan Winery. The aroma fills the mouth. Every sip tastes like romance. Gentlemen, I highly recommend stocking up on premium red wine.'

Beyond the photos, about a dozen men with immaculate makeup were waiting for Yves. The heirmaking course had its designated photography set. Supercars, designer goods, expensive jewelry, and beachfront properties were just part of the list.

Their goal was to mold every student into the image of elegance, wealth, and good breeding. Anyone who did not know the truth would easily be fooled.

To prevent others from looking down on them, every student also had to pretend to be successful in their own career.

Yves was neither a business partner nor a visiting professor. The heirmaking course made it all up.

My property agent sent me two more options for my new place to choose from. I had enough savings to get a two-bedroom near the company.

Cutting ties with the Shaws needed to be done as soon as possible. A problem was the last thing I needed.

…

Three days later, the video of Yves crashing into that supercar went viral. The comments praised his looks as something that only appeared once in a thousand years, and that was supposedly without makeup.

People even dragged the biggest online celebrities into it, claiming they would lose their jobs if Yves ever entered the entertainment industry.

Then someone showed Yves' social media posts, praising him for his great pedigree and elegance, as if he were the best thing ever to happen. It would be hard for Wendy not to notice Yves at this point.

After all, fame was the best stepping stone into aristocracy.

The course's organizers really did their work.

After signing the sale and purchase agreement, I went back to the Shaws' place to pack up.

Johnny opened the door and gave me a disdainful once-over. "Which slum are you moving into?"

Fiona did not even look at me. She was huddled beside Yves, trembling with excitement as if she had just won the lottery.

"It's Wendy. She texted me. Garfield always said that if I could get a woman to text me first, then I've won most of the battle!"

Yves closed his eyes, held his phone to his chest, and only opened up WhatsApp a few moments later.

The three stared at the message, but what they saw clamped their mouth shut for a very long time. I put my suitcase down and approached them, wondering what the message was.

The message read, 'The car will be sent back to headquarters in Soland. Repair costs amount to 8.57 million.'

Below it was a full repair report, written entirely in Brundelan.