The trap was set.

If she refused to teach me, she was the ungrateful one.

If she taught me and I still bombed, that only proved she was brilliant and I was stupid. And if I was that stupid yet still adored her, how could she have the nerve to say I was in her way?

In my last life, I'd slammed my chopsticks on the table：“So what if you're top ten? Big deal.”

I got an hour standing in the corner for that.

This time, I ladled her a bowl of soup：“Have some more, sis. All that studying burns a lot of energy.”

Even my father's expression softened when he looked at me.

Mom pulled me aside later：“What exactly are you up to?”

I said：“Mom, remember how I hated celery as a kid? Then I figured out that if you chop it fine and mix it into dumpling filling, you can't even taste it. You don't fight celery by chewing it raw. You wrap it in a dumpling and swallow it whole.”

She looked like she understood. Or maybe she didn't, quite.

School started. Same class.

Dad had pulled strings to arrange it, so I could “look after” her.

In my last life, nothing had infuriated me more.

The whole class knew I had a brilliant older sister. I was measured against her constantly, and the harder I pushed back, the worse I looked.

This time was different.

First day of school, I grabbed her hand and announced to the entire class：“This is my sister! My real sister! Three months older than me, and her grades are amazing!”

Every face in the room went blank.

Most families, an older sister suddenly appears out of nowhere—there's going to be some awkwardness.

Someone who grabs a megaphone and broadcasts it everywhere? Unheard of.

I became the class's resident “sister fanatic.”

Her turn to clean the classroom? I grabbed the broom first.

She went to get lunch? I held her place in line.

She ran the eight-hundred-meter? I screamed “Go, sis!” until my voice gave out.

Classmates would say：“You're way too good to your sister.”

I'd scratch my head and grin：“She's the only one I've got.”

The one time the act almost cracked: midterm results.

She placed third in the grade. I placed forty-seventh.

That wasn't performance. My foundation really was weaker than hers.

In my last life, she'd taken my spot in the elite honors class. Better teachers, stronger base, and she'd kept that lead ever since.

But I didn't panic.

When the teacher read out my ranking, I burst into tears—not an act, real tears, pure grievance. She'd stepped on me to climb in my last life, and in this one she was still above me. The feeling hit and I didn't even try to hold it back.

The classroom went dead silent.

I wiped my eyes as I cried：“You're so amazing, sis……how am I this stupid……I know we don't have the same mom, but how can the gap be this big……if I'd grown up tough on the outside like you did, I'd probably know how to try harder……”

Every face in the room shifted.

“Grown up tough on the outside.”

Five words, and the bomb went off.

All eyes turned to Bridget.

That delicate, pitiable expression of hers froze solid.

The whispers started spreading fast：Athena Swanson had a half-sister, born from her dad's affair. She didn't resent her at all, went out of her way to protect her. And this sister apparently didn't know how good she had it.

Who started the rumor? I had no idea.

Just gossip doing what gossip does.

Everything people passed around was true at the core. A little embellishment here, a little spin there, and it landed completely different.

I glanced at Bridget. Head down, doing her homework, her fingers white around the pen.

Sophomore year. Academic track selection.

She picked humanities. I picked sciences.

In my last life she'd picked humanities, and Dad made me pick humanities too, so she could tutor me.

I threw a fit. He slapped me back into line.

This time I brought it up first：“Dad, sis is great at humanities, so she should go that route. I'm better at sciences, so I'll take that. One of each in the family. When it's time to pick colleges, we can even compare notes.”

It sounded reasonable enough that he didn't object.

Later, Mom told me Bridget had murmured to Dad that she wasn't used to being in a different class from her little sister.

Dad turned right around and told Mom to switch me to humanities.

Mom's exact words：“Is your daughter choosing an academic track or choosing to be a nanny? If Bridget can't adjust, she can learn to. Athena's supposed to revolve around her? Is Bridget paying her a salary?”

Dad couldn't argue with that.

By the second half of junior year, we were finally placed in separate classes.

But I had no intention of letting her go.

In the spring semester of junior year, Bridget was elected vice chair of the Student Council Arts Committee.

In my previous life, she'd climbed one careful rung at a time—student elections, the city's Outstanding Student award, scholarships, a top university. Every move landed exactly where it needed to.

Each time Dad praised her, he'd tack on a casual“Thea, you should really learn from your sister.”

I couldn't block her path. The more accomplished she became, the pettier and more jealous I'd look if I tried.

Kill with kindness. That was the sharpest blade.

The day of the election, I arrived at the auditorium a full hour early and claimed the center seat in the front row.

When she took the stage to give her speech, I started clapping first, louder than anyone.

The moment she finished, I was on my feet：“Bridget! Bridget James! That's my sister right there!”

The whole auditorium laughed.

A faint blush crept across her face：“Thank you, sis. And thank you, everyone.”

Unanimous vote.

I was the first one to rush up and throw my arms around her：“I knew you could do it!”

A classmate nearby laughed：“Athena, anyone who didn't know better would think you were the one who won.”

I grinned：“My sister winning makes me happier than if I'd won myself!”

That night, walking home, she said it out of nowhere：“Athena, you don't have to do that every single time.”

“Do what?”

“Every time something happens to me, you make this big show of it.” Her head was down, her voice thin and drifting. “I know you don't mean it.”

I stopped walking and looked at her.

Her face was half lit, half in shadow under the streetlamp, wearing that fragile, pitiable look of hers. Even while saying something like that, she managed to seem completely sincere.

I laughed：“What are you talking about? I'm your sister. If I'm not good to you, who else would I be good to?”

She held my gaze for two full seconds, then turned her head away and said nothing more.

After that, she started avoiding me.

I brought snacks to her classroom door; she had a classmate relay the message that she was “doing homework, bad timing.” I asked her to go shopping on weekends; she said she had tutoring. I left a note on her desk that said “You've got this”; when I got home, the note had been taken away.

She was afraid of me.

That was so much more interesting than being hated.

The thing a person who plays the victim fears most isn't someone meaner than her. It's someone who plays the game better. She could never expose me, because the moment she tried, she'd be admitting she'd been performing all along too.

Senior year, everything blew up.

An ordinary Tuesday. Nothing about it stood out.

During evening study hall, my homeroom teacher pulled me out of class：“Thea, something's happened at home.”

By the time I got to the hospital, Dad was in the emergency room.

Mom sat in a hallway chair, her face blank.

Bridget stood in the corner, clutching her phone.

“Heart attack. He collapsed at home out of nowhere. Your sister called the ambulance.” That was all Mom said.

Tears streaked down Bridget's face：“It's my fault. I kept him up talking too late. He's been so swamped with work lately……”

I watched those tears, and something wrong shot through me like a jolt.

Dad's health had always been decent. High blood pressure, sure, but he took his medication on schedule and never missed a checkup.

In my previous life he'd lived past seventy, traveled to Sanya with Bridget, and came back raving about what a filial daughter she was.

So why, in this life, a sudden heart attack?

I didn't ask.

In front of the doctors and nurses, I gave them exactly the worried, anxious daughter they expected.

I held Bridget's hand and told her, “It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself.” Under my comfort, she only cried harder.

At four in the morning, Dad was out of danger.

The doctor said another half hour and the outcome might have been very different.

Mom let out a long, shaking breath. Her hands were trembling, and there was no color left in her lips.

I told her to go home and rest. She shook her head and said she wasn't tired.

But I noticed her sitting by the bed, the back of her head resting against the chair, eyes closed for a very long time.

I thought she was just tired.

Later I learned what it actually was—the early signs of a subarachnoid hemorrhage.

When I got home, the ashtray on the living room coffee table was full of cigarette butts.

My father had quit smoking five years ago.