I always smiled and tolerated her, never arguing back.

Even the housekeeper couldn’t understand.

“Miss, why let the second young lady bully you? You should teach her a lesson.”

They didn’t realize—

the more I indulged my fake sister, the more spoiled and reckless she would become.

Only then, when she eventually discovered she wasn’t the real daughter, would she desperately cling to the life she’d stolen, willing to do anything to keep it.

Meanwhile, I never let myself slack off. From preschool onward, I studied multiple foreign languages, practiced piano and calligraphy, and trained in Taekwondo to stay fit.

My parents thought I was too hardworking.

But to me, this was a dream reborn—

in my past life, trapped in a body crippled by cerebral palsy, I could only envy other children’s freedom.

Now that I had been given another chance, how could I not give everything?

Life flowed peacefully for a while. Allison’s features, however, began to resemble Martha’s more and more with each passing year.

Then came her sixth birthday.

The celebration was grand, filled with relatives and friends. But one blunt relative asked the question that silenced the entire room:

“Why doesn’t Allison look like her parents at all?”

Allison froze, her face twisting. Then she screamed, grabbed the cake, and hurled it at the relative.

“Country bumpkin! You’re lying!” she shouted.

The scene turned painfully awkward.

She threw herself onto the floor, kicking and wailing.

“I look the most like my parents! Even more than my sister!”

I watched her coldly, fighting the urge to laugh.

It wasn’t just the guests who noticed—my parents, too, had begun to wonder privately.

I hesitated. Should I take this chance to expose the truth?

But before I could act, my grandfather stepped forward, his expression stern.

“I was there when Allison was born,” he said firmly. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

His words restored order, and my parents rushed to comfort Allison, clearly shaken.

At that moment, I changed my mind.

I approached and gently hugged her.

“Don’t listen to them,” I whispered. “You’ll always be the Evans family’s second daughter. No one can take that from you. Even if someone tries, you must protect it with everything you have. Understand?”

She blinked through her tears, half-confused, then nodded seriously.

I smiled inwardly.

The seed of greed had been planted.

After being scolded, Allison seemed to have learned her lesson. She no longer threw tantrums in public. Instead, she began to imitate me—studying hard, trying to behave like a proper young lady.

But blood never lies.

No matter how hard she tried, she struggled with everything. She couldn’t keep up in her studies, cried whenever she was frustrated, and constantly tested her teachers’ patience.

I didn’t have to say or do anything—my parents could already see the difference.

Still, I continued to play the role of the gentle, understanding older sister.

By ten, I had passed my eighth-grade piano exam and won first place in the National Children’s Brush Calligraphy Competition.

My grandparents were so proud that they gifted me two villas.

My parents, overjoyed, began to focus all their attention and resources on me.

Meanwhile, whispers about Allison grew louder:

“How could the Evans family, with such good genes, have such a slow, awkward daughter?”

“Allison and Lydia look nothing alike. Shouldn’t they do a paternity test?”

Every time she overheard these remarks, Allison would cry hysterically, taking her frustration out on me.

But when she saw my parents’ cold, disappointed eyes, she would stop and swallow her anger.

Eventually, realizing I was the only one who still treated her kindly, she tried to win my affection.

“Sister,” she said one night, clinging to me, “I’ll always be your sister, right?”

I smiled softly and nodded, repeating the words that would shape her fate.

“You’re my favorite sister,” I told her softly. “You must never let anyone take that place from you. Remember?”

Allison hesitated, then nodded seriously.

From that day on, she began to restrain her temper. She even told our parents on her own, “I’m not as good as Sister in anything. From now on, please let her be the boss. I’ll just follow her and help out.”

Watching her so obedient and sensible, I almost felt a flicker of affection.

If only this girl could behave forever, I thought, the real sister would never return—and I could guarantee her a life of comfort.

But the things you fear most always find their way back.

The summer before I entered high school, my family accompanied me to the hospital for a checkup. On the way, our luxury car nearly hit a young girl.

She stumbled, scraped her knee, then immediately tried to run away.

Concerned, I rolled down the window to check on her. But the instant I saw her face, my breath caught—

That face was nearly identical to mine.

My real sister.

Panic seized me. How could she appear here in all places?

Fortunately, she didn’t notice anything unusual. She dusted off her knees and ran away in a hurry.

But my mother had also seen her. Gazing in the girl’s direction, she murmured, “Honey, doesn’t that child look exactly like Lydia when she was little?”

My real sister, perhaps sensing the attention, turned her back and locked eyes with my mother.

Alarm shot through me. I clutched my stomach and cried out, “Mom! My stomach hurts! I can’t stand it—I need to see a doctor!”

My parents immediately panicked, forgetting all about the mysterious girl. They sped to the hospital, hovering anxiously as doctors examined me.

Out of the corner of my eye, through the car window, I caught one last glimpse of her—standing at the corner of the street, staring after us.

My pulse pounded.

If she came back now, everything I’d built could collapse. She could play the victim, tell her sob story, and steal back the life that should have been mine.

Luckily, my little act worked. My parents insisted I stay in the hospital for observation, and I remained there for an entire day, hooked up to an IV.

When we finally returned home, she was gone.

That night, close to midnight, Allison quietly entered my room.

“I heard Mom say she saw a girl who looks a lot like you today,” she whispered, her eyes red. “That girl… she looked more like your sister than I do, right?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Sister, do you think our parents… took me by mistake? What if I’m not really their daughter, and they send me away?”

Her voice trembled with fear.

All those years of whispers—servants gossiping, outsiders comparing us—had already sown seeds of doubt in her heart. She’d never dared ask our parents directly, terrified of confirming her worst fear. And now, she came to me, her only refuge.

I looked at her straight in the eyes. “Do you remember what I once told you?”

She sniffled and nodded. “I remember. My identity as the second daughter of the Evans family is something no one can take away.”

I reached out, gently wiping her tears. “Your parents have raised you for so many years. Even a dog would inspire affection—how much more you, their daughter. As long as you work hard and refuse to back down, you’ll always be my dearest sister.”

Since the real one had reappeared, I knew I had to prepare.

And Allison—blinded by fear and love—would play her part perfectly.

Her expression hardened, and she said firmly, “I’ll listen to you, Sister. I won’t let anyone take my place.”

The next morning, determined to regain control, I accessed my private vault and called a private investigator.

“I want every detail on Martha and her daughter,” I ordered. “Leave nothing unchecked.”

I also had the parking lot surveillance footage retrieved that day to find out why the real sister had appeared. The investigation unfolded in full force, and at fifteen, I already carried the air of someone in control.

But before I could receive the results, it happened.

That morning, just as my parents were about to drive us to school, a familiar figure suddenly rushed in front of the car, shouting with heart-wrenching determination:

“The current Allison is a fake! I am your real daughter!”