As if already living the dream of being the wife of the richest man, the corners of my sister’s mouth curled upward in triumph. I didn’t hesitate any longer—I sedated her quickly and began the operation.

My dear sister. Since you’re so eager to die, I’ll grant your wish.

She bore an uncanny resemblance to Mrs. Jacobson—same build, same facial features. The surgery was straightforward. Just a few delicate tweaks, and she looked exactly like her.

After the procedure, we returned home together. The moment we stepped through the door, my mother gasped in delight and rushed to my sister’s side.

“So alike... so alike! I always knew my Mary was born to be a rich man’s wife!”

She shoved me aside like I was nothing, her eyes glued to my sister’s face, as if she were admiring a priceless artifact.

My father shot me a look of disgust, then turned to Mary, grinning from ear to ear. “Mary, you’re identical to Mrs. Jacobson now. Later, we’ll call Wallace and tell him we’ve found you. Once you take her place, we’ll receive tens of millions in reward!”

His eyes gleamed with excitement, lips trembling with joy. My parents had always believed Mary was destined for wealth and privilege. Since childhood, she was treated like a precious jewel—fed the finest food, dressed in luxury, showered with everything she desired.

And me? I lived on her leftovers.

In my past life, after my sister murdered me, my parents didn’t even flinch. They cremated me without a second thought and covered up the truth by claiming I committed suicide.

I thought they were merely biased. I never expected them to be this monstrous—helping her do something so despicable.

I looked at their greedy, deluded faces and couldn’t help but speak. “Do you really think it’s that easy to deceive the richest man? That a pretty face alone can fool him? Chase money blindly, and you’ll end up losing more than you bargained for—maybe even your lives.”

My mother slapped me hard across the face.

“Who are you trying to scare, you useless coward? You’re just jealous we’ll be living the high life while you rot in that pathetic little hospital of yours!”

She sneered. “What have you even accomplished in your miserable life? The only good thing you’ve done is give your sister a new face. Honestly, raising a dog would’ve been more worthwhile than raising you!”

My father scoffed and added with contempt, “You’re destined to be poor forever. Worthless. When Mary becomes Mrs. Jacobson, the entire Jacobson Group will be ours!”

Mary gave me a cold glance and said mockingly, “Some people are just bitter nobodies who know nothing but how to envy others.”

Then she smirked. “Did you really think I wouldn’t be ready for this?”

She strode into her room and came out wearing a limited-edition Hermès dress, its scent rich with high-end perfume. It didn’t take a genius to realize it had once belonged to Mrs. Jacobson.

My mother practically circled her, eyes glowing. “Now that she’s dressed up, she looks even more refined. That aura—it’s like she is Mrs. Jacobson!”

My father nodded with pride. “That woman just got lucky. Our Mary is smarter, more deserving. Once she replaces her, the richest man will fall even harder in love.”

To them, it was as if Mary had already stepped into the shoes of Mrs. Jacobson. They laughed wildly, drunk on delusion.

I could only shake my head.

Mary turned to me, lips curling into a smug smirk. Then, in a voice chillingly identical to Mrs. Jacobson’s, she spoke:

"I've been studying her every day—her posts, her photos, her routines. I know what she eats, how she smiles, even the way she breathes."

"From this moment on, I am the only Mrs. Jacobson in this world."

"You’ll always be beneath me—out of reach."

Her performance was eerie—flawless, even. And that only made the scene more grotesque.

My mother clapped her hands with delight, eyes shining with pride.

"Our Mary is amazing! She can mimic anyone! Even the voice—it's exactly like hers!"

My father nodded in agreement.

"That tone, that attitude—it’s spot on! Like Mrs. Jacobson herself is standing here!"

They were bursting with pride and ambition, completely intoxicated by their twisted fantasy.

But to me, they looked utterly insane.

Did they really believe this would work? That Wallace—a man known for his obsession with his wife—wouldn’t notice something was off? He knew her every expression, every inflection, every breath. My sister's cheap imitation wouldn't fool him for a second.

And yet, they continued rehearsing their grand deception.

Mary turned to them and instructed calmly, like a director briefing her actors:

"Later, call the bounty hotline. Say you found me unconscious on the roadside and brought me home out of kindness. When the time comes, I’ll thank you personally, and Wallace’s ten million will be in your hands."

My mother’s grin stretched ear to ear.

"Don’t worry, we’ll act our hearts out."

She turned to Mary with pride swelling in her voice.

"My brilliant daughter, one move and you’ve made us millionaires!"

Mary arrogantly lifted her chin.

"From now on, call me Mrs. Jacobson."

Without hesitation, my mother bowed slightly, as if greeting royalty.

"Yes, Mrs. Jacobson. Our future depends on you."

Even my father, usually reserved, was practically trembling with excitement. He wiped his hands on his pants before dialing the number on the reward poster. With a composed voice, he gave them our address, just as rehearsed.

When he hung up, the house burst into excitement. My parents began fantasizing about mansions, cars, and lavish dinners.

I watched them, my face cold.

They had no idea the hell they were summoning.

In the eyes of someone like Wallace, they were nothing but ants trying to impersonate a god. Once he uncovered the truth—and he would—their fates would be far worse than they imagined.

I had already died once because of them. I would not let them drag me down again.

While their backs were turned, I quietly packed my things. My only goal: get out before the storm broke.

Just as I reached for the door handle, my father stepped in front of me.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

I forced a steady voice.

"The hospital sent me on a business trip. I have a flight to catch."

Mary’s gaze locked onto me, cold and sharp. She sneered.

"Sister, you’re not thinking of betraying me, are you?"

Before I could answer, my mother lunged forward and gripped my arm, her nails digging into my skin.

"You ungrateful wretch!" she hissed. "If you dare say a word, I’ll kill you myself!"

She raised her hand to strike me.

But before it fell—a knock at the door.

Everything stopped.

The room fell into dead silence, the air thick with fear.

Mary instantly dropped her mask of arrogance and assumed a weak, innocent expression.

My mother forced a gentle, welcoming smile, while my father straightened up and tried to look harmless.

He opened the door slowly.

There, standing tall and imposing in the doorway, was Wallace.

He was dressed in a tailored black suit, his face expressionless. Behind him stood a row of bodyguards like shadows, ready to strike.

His eyes scanned the room, cold and razor-sharp.

Then his gaze landed on Mary.

And it didn’t move.

Mary’s eyes reddened instantly, and she called out in a trembling voice,

“Wallace…”

But Wallace didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His eyes, cold and unreadable, remained fixed on her.

Sensing the silence, my father quickly stepped forward, hands rubbing together nervously as he forced a smile.

“Mr. Jacobson, when we found your wife, she was unconscious by the roadside. We were worried something might happen to her, so we brought her home.”

He chuckled awkwardly.

“Luckily, we saw the news—or we wouldn’t have realized she was Mrs. Jacobson.”

My mother chimed in eagerly, her smile stiff.

“Yes, it was pure luck we crossed paths. If not, who knows what terrible things might’ve happened to her out there alone.”

Wallace’s gaze didn’t waver from Mary. His eyes narrowed, scanning every inch of her face like a hawk dissecting prey.

Then, slowly, he turned to my parents and asked in a low, cold voice,

“You’re sure… this is my wife?”

His expression was unreadable. But the chill in his tone sent a tremor down my spine.

Still blind to the danger, my parents laughed nervously, mistaking his quietness for confusion.

“Of course!” my father said quickly.

“Yes, just look at her temperament and features,” my mother added. “Even when she was unconscious, she kept murmuring your name. Isn’t that right?”

There was a long pause.

Then Wallace raised his hand.

Without a word, a pair of bodyguards stepped forward, wheeling in a stretcher covered with a white sheet.

The room fell into dead silence.

With a flick of his wrist, Wallace pulled back the cloth.

Gasps filled the air.

Lying on the stretcher was a woman’s lifeless body—bloodied, bruised, and clearly tortured beyond recognition. But despite the horror of it, I recognized her instantly.

Veronica. Mrs. Jacobson.

Even in death, her features held a tragic elegance.

Mary staggered back, her face drained of all color.

Then Wallace finally spoke, his voice low but deafening.

“If she is my wife…” he said, his eyes locked on Mary, “…then who is this?”