I was the product of a one-night stand, carrying my mother’s dream of marrying into High Society.

When she first found out I was in her womb, she took the pregnancy test to Richard Coleman.

She didn’t get a title, but she got five million dollars as a “settlement fee.”

But my mother didn’t abort me. She secretly gave birth to me and took me again to Richard.

He didn’t even remember who she was.

Not long after, the media went wild covering Richard’s wedding.

Seeing the baby in the bride’s arms, my mother was consumed with bitterness.

“All your fault! If you were a boy, I would be Mrs. Coleman!”

To earn her love, I behaved perfectly.

I did everything she asked, cooperating with her to film all kinds of videos.

I became a popular influencer child star, making her a fortune.

But behind the camera, she shoved me into many men’s rooms.

At eighteen, I died of a body covered in festering sores.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back at eight years old.

She was smiling at me, saying, “That face of yours looks so much like his. You’ll fetch a high price.”

…

The familiar stench hit me.

First, the burning bite of whiskey, then the perfume on my mother’s skin.

Next came the searing pain, spreading from my arm to my back.

“Useless brat! Cursed child! It’s all your fault!”

Her slurred curses fell with each blow on my body.

I snapped my eyes open. My vision took a moment to focus.

Her hair was messy, her makeup smeared, and she was digging her nails into the inside of my arm.

“Why the hell did I ever give birth to a worthless thing like you!”

She yanked my ear, her breath reeking of alcohol blowing across my face.

“If you were a boy, he’d have recognized you! All your fault, you worthless girl!”

Then she suddenly laughed hysterically.

“But this face of yours—it’s looking more and more like that bastard.”

“I hear there are plenty of men who like this type—young and fresh.”

“Looking so much like him, someone will definitely pay a high price.”

The alcohol made her words slur, her logic collapse, yet everything she said overlapped with countless nights from my past life.

The stench of decay before death seemed to envelope me.

Her vengeful laugh still echoed in my ears.

“Richard Coleman! You dare marry someone else? Then I’ll have your daughter slept with by thousands!”

“You have no idea how excited they get, knowing they’re sleeping with your flesh and blood!”

“So what if I can’t be Mrs. Coleman? As long as they pay high prices for this face, I’ll never lack money!”

“Useless brat! Blame your father! Other women can become rich by having a child—why not me?”

“I bore him a child too! Why wasn’t I the one who became Mrs. Coleman?”

My whole life was her bargaining chip for a dream of High Society.

Ridiculous, since Richard had countless lovers and too many children to even remember her.

She blamed me for not tying down my philandering father.

Blamed me for being the wrong gender, for having a cursed horoscope.

She tried every trick but never married into the elite, and I was unforgivable.

The loneliness and pain before death had filled me with boundless hatred, yet looking at my small body, I had to swallow it down.

Pretending to be the eight-year-old still desperate for her mother’s love, I cried, “Mom, it hurts. I’m sorry, I’ll be good. Please stop hitting me.”

Her snores soon filled the bedroom.

Only then did I lift my face, the fear already gone.

I picked up a knife and walked to her bed.

Just as the blade was about to touch her neck, her phone lit up.

A message flashed across the screen, mentioning a Private Club I remembered from my previous life.

I changed my plan and set the knife down.

Then I turned away, grabbed a garbage bag, and tidied up the wreckage around the house.

When my mother woke, I was already sitting on a small stool in the living room.

Rubbing her temples, she frowned. “What are you staring at? Today we film you frying eggs and cooking porridge. Wear the blue dress.”

I smiled obediently. “Okay, Mom.”

She set up her phone, adjusted the angle, and began recording.

On camera, I stood on tiptoe, carefully adding water to the pot and turning on the gas stove.

Repeating the lines she taught me: “Mom works so hard, Sophia has to make breakfast for her. Don’t add too much water, or the porridge will spill over…”

She directed from the side: “Sweeter expression! Yes! Act clumsy, don’t look too practiced. Okay, that’s enough.”

She added filters, warm background music, and hashtags like #MySweetLittleHelper #MiniChef #BestDaughterInTheWorld before posting it to the influencer account “Sophia’s World.”

The moment it went online, likes and comments poured in:

“The joy of raising kids online—who else gets it? Sophia is so sweet!”

“Another day wanting to steal this child! How can she be this smart and capable!”

“Daddy fan here! My daughter is amazing! (don’t kill me)”

“This is literally my dream daughter—pretty, obedient, smart, capable!”

…

My mother ate the breakfast I’d made while scrolling through the comments, a smile spreading across her face.

The account’s traffic brought in good money, but that wasn’t her only goal.

“A bunch of broke nobodies—how many will actually pay up?” she muttered. Then her eyes grew obsessed again.

“He’ll see this. He has to. He’ll see the child I gave him is a thousand times better than that woman’s son. He’ll regret it!”

After breakfast, she gave me a new task.

“Watch the dance video I gave you. We’ll film this afternoon. It has to be even more dazzling than last time.”

While I studied the video, she stepped aside to make a call.

I watched her expression grow more and more excited, and my hatred deepened.

She always said that the night she met Richard was romantic, that he was tender, that he promised her forever.

But it had been just a common one-night exchange, which she deluded herself into believing was a legendary love story.

When she found herself pregnant, she showed Richard the test result.

She thought she could leverage it, but Richard brushed her off with five million dollars as a settlement.

The money was delivered by his assistant, who handled these things routinely—Richard never even showed his face.

Still, she believed she was different from other women. She said she wouldn’t bother him again, but she secretly gave birth to me.

When I was two, she dressed us both up, thinking she held a trump card, and went excitedly to see Richard.

She didn’t even get through the front gate.

I saw clearly—Richard just said one sentence:

“Who’s this crazy woman? Get rid of her.”

He had long forgotten her.

Soon after, Richard married Grace Coleman, an heiress from a wealthy family.

At the wedding, Grace held a baby boy in her arms.

The media plastered photos of the happy high-society family across every news outlet.

When my mother saw it, she lost her mind.

She smashed everything she could, screaming over and over:

“I bore his child! Why did he marry her? Why her?!”

She forgot—she was just a car model, while Grace was born an heiress.

Not the same.

Unwilling to accept it, she started fabricating stories online.

She painted herself as a single mother abandoned by the elite, fishing for sympathy, hoping to use public opinion to force Richard.

But netizens were used to digging up Richard’s endless scandals. They were immune.

“Here we go again—another secret child of Richard Coleman. How many this year already?”

“Money-hungry much? Where’s the proof?”

“Disperse, disperse, just another get-rich-quick scam.”

Her smear campaign didn’t stir any waves—it only made her a joke.

The five million dollars was long gone, squandered away in her extravagant lifestyle.

Easy to go from frugal to lavish, impossible to go back.

Her temper grew worse, and all her rage poured down on me.

“Why weren’t you a boy!”

“You must have a cursed horoscope, blocking my way to success!”

“That night he clearly loved me! It was only after I got pregnant with you that he turned cold. You’re a jinx!”

Drunkenness and beatings became routine.

Sometimes she would hold me and cry, saying, “I only have you.”

That tiny bit of stingy affection made me believe she loved me, just… she was unhappy.

With my bruised face, I would nuzzle her hand.

“Don’t be sad, Mom. I’ll be good.”

I thought if I behaved better, she would turn back into a good mother.

So I tried harder.

Whatever she wanted, I did.

She began obsessively filming me, building a “child prodigy” persona.

She fantasized that one day Richard would see his brilliant daughter online, regret everything, and take us back.

The account “Sophia’s World” went viral.

But off-camera, what I got wasn’t candy and hugs—it was harsher demands and more frequent beatings.

And her ever-inflating, unrealistic dream of High Society.

The money went into designer bags, fancy restaurants, and her bottomless vanity.

Then, she put me up for sale.

“Can’t beat Richard? Then take his daughter.”

That’s how she advertised me, drawing in men with twisted tastes.

Most were Richard’s business rivals.

From age eight to eighteen, I lived like a dog.

If she told me to open my mouth, I opened it.

If she told me to spread my legs, I did.

All it took was her patting my head and saying, “Good girl, be obedient, I only have you.”

One day, after a phone call, her mood was the best I’d ever seen, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Sophia, stop watching the video. Today Mom’s taking you to a nice place for a feast!”

She rarely did my hair and dressed me up so carefully, making me look like a real princess.

The car stopped in front of a very secluded Private Club.

She gave a name, was verified, and we were respectfully escorted inside.

She sat me at a table in the corner, ordered quickly, then leaned close and whispered:

“Sophia, be good and eat here. Later I’ll take you to room 8808 to meet a very important man.”

“Stay here after you finish. Don’t run around. Got it?”

I nodded sweetly.

I had just taken a bite when she suddenly shot to her feet, her gaze locked on the restaurant entrance, her face erupting with manic urgency.

“He… he really came…”

Muttering to herself, she grabbed her purse and stumbled off, chasing a certain figure.