I was reborn with my sister Elizabeth.
In my previous life, when our parents divorced, my sister chose mom and the wealthy stepdad.
I was forced to stay with my gambling father.
Finally, Dad quit gambling and I became a rich princess, while my sister died of depression.
So this time, she chose dad.
"Nattie, you go enjoy a good life over there. I'll leave the good days for you." She said.
I said nothing and picked up the train ticket to New York.
Elizabeth didn't know that in a previous life, Dad quit gambling only because I developed a brain tumor.
I worked myself until I coughed up blood to pay off his debts. That was the price of his redemption.
In this life, with no debt collectors pounding at the door, I wanted just one thing—to sleep peacefully.
***
I lifted my cheap duffel bag.
"Get lost," Dad said. "Go find your money-hungry mom."
He waved his hand like he was chasing away a fly.
Elizabeth hid behind him and pulled a face at me, exaggerating her lip movements.
"Nattie, don't come begging me for money later."
I smiled and said nothing.
I turned and walked into the rain.
I hunched my shoulders as the cold seeped into my bones.
Honestly, it didn't matter where I went.
I just wanted somewhere quiet to endure whatever time I had left.
No more debt collectors hammering on doors.
No more nauseating stench of cheap cigarettes.
Mom's black Mercedes waited at the end of the alley.
The window slid down, revealing her carefully maintained face.
She frowned when she saw me drenched, disgust flickering in her eyes.
"How did you end up like this? Get in. Don't dirty the car."
I opened the back door and was about to sit when she said, "Put that bag in the trunk."
She pointed at the duffel bag in my hand. "It's filthy. God knows what kind of bacteria are on it."
I paused. Then I closed the door, placed the bag in the trunk, and got back in.
I pressed myself into the corner of the seat, careful not to touch the leather.
The heater was strong, but I still felt cold.
"Nattie, you behave yourself when we get there," Mom said, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
"George doesn't like noise. If you have nothing to do, stay in your room.
"Don't chew so loud, and don't drag your feet when you walk.
"Also, don't mention your dad. It's unlucky."
I looked at the rain streaking past the window and nodded.
"Got it."
A sharp pain stabbed through my head again.
My vision went black for a moment, and I lifted a hand to steady myself.
"What's wrong?" she asked impatiently.
"Nothing. Just motion sickness."
She snorted. "So delicate. Just like your dad."
I closed my eyes and swallowed the metallic taste rising in my throat.
I wasn't coming back in the next life. Not ever.
The drive took five hours.
By the time we arrived, night had fully fallen over the hillside villa district.
The lights were bright, but the place felt lifeless.
"We're here."
She parked, touched up her lipstick, and took a slow breath—she was switching roles.
From the sharp-tongued woman she was with me to a gentle, considerate wife.
"Get out. Remember to call him 'Mr. Pearce'."
I picked up my duffel bag and followed her inside.
A man sat on the couch in the living room.
A blanket covered his legs, and a book rested in his hands.
He looked up when he heard us.
This was my stepfather, George Pearce.
Chapter 2
He was the one who drove Elizabeth to her death in my last life.
"You're back?"
His voice stayed flat, with no emotion in it.
"Georgie, this is Nattie," Mom said as she shoved me forward with a smile.
"Nattie, say hello to Mr. Pearce."
I stepped up and gave a small bow.
"Hello, Mr. Pearce."
George turned a page in his book, as if he didn't hear me.
A few seconds passed. Then he let out a sound through his nose.
"Mm."
His eyes flicked to my wet shoes, and his brow tightened just a little.
"The carpet's new."
He dropped his gaze back to the book.
"The first room on the left upstairs is the guest room. It's ready."
"Thank you, Mr. Pearce," I said.
Mom finally relaxed. She pulled me toward the stairs.
"See? George is a good man," she whispered.
"Don't make him angry, and you'll be able to stay here."
The room was big, but it felt empty.
"Mom."
I stopped her before she left.
"What now?"
"I want a different room."
Her facial expression changed at once.
"Natasha, you just got here, and you're already being picky?
"What's wrong with this room? It's a hundred times better than that pigsty your dad lives in.
"Don't push your luck."
I watched her rant without reacting.
When she finished, I spoke.
"No. This room faces north. It's too cold.
"I want a south-facing room. It can be smaller."
I really was cold.
The brain tumor messed with my body temperature. I always felt like I was trapped in ice.
Only sunlight made it better.
"You're cold? Turn on the heater, then," Mom snapped.
She thought I was being difficult.
"The only south-facing rooms are George's study and a storage room."
"I'll take the storage room," I said.
Her eyes flew wide.
"What's wrong with you?
"You won't stay in a proper guest room and want a storage room instead?
"Are you trying to make him think I abuse you?"
Her voice sharpened.
I covered my ears because it was too loud. The pressure in my head throbbed.
"I'm just afraid of the cold," I said again.
Just then, someone knocked twice at the door.
George stood there without warning. He held a glass of water, and his face looked dark.
"What's all the noise?"
Mom changed instantly. Her voice shook as she said, "It's nothing, Georgie. She's being childish and complaining about the room.
"I'll deal with her."
He looked at me, and I looked back.
His face looked pale, and his lips had no color. He looked like someone who might die at any moment.
"Where do you want to stay?" he asked.
"The south-facing room," I said and pointed down the hall.
"That room holds old furniture."
"It's fine. I just need sunlight."
He stayed quiet for a moment.
"Do what you want.
"And stop yelling in the hallway."
With that, he turned and walked away, showing no interest in the fight between Mom and me.
Mom jabbed a finger at my forehead, furious and fed up.
"Go ahead and keep acting up.
"If people hear you're living in a storage room, do you think that makes me look good?"
I ignored her.
I carried my duffel bag down the hall.
When I opened the door, dust rushed into my face.
But I saw the floor-to-ceiling window.
When the sun rose tomorrow, this place would be warm.
That was enough.
I made the bed and slid the photo album under the pillow.
The diagnosis report stayed inside the album.
As long as I wasn't dead, no one would bother digging through my things.
That night, I slept deeply.
In my dreams, there were no debt collectors, only endless darkness.
Chapter 3
I settled into that house and lived like a ghost.
George liked silence, so even the maids walked on their toes.
Mom tried every trick to please him.
She cooked soups, gave massages, and sat with him through dull business news.
She lived there like a polished housekeeper.
As for me, I barely left my room. I only came out to eat.
I cleaned the storage room until it looked decent.
It was full of old furniture, but the sunlight was real.
I dragged a chair to the window and sat there for hours.
I looked like someone waiting to die.
Sometimes George passed my door.
When he saw me sitting in the sun, he paused for a moment, but he never said anything.
His gaze felt strange. It was like he was looking at someone like himself.
At lunch that day, the table was unnervingly quiet, broken only by the faint clink of fork against porcelain.
Just then, my phone buzzed.
In the silent living room, it rang out like a sudden alarm.
George frowned.
Mom dropped her fork and shot me a glare.
"Who eats with a phone out?" she snapped. "No manners.
"Hang it up."
I checked the screen.
It was Elizabeth.
I declined the call.
Two seconds later, it buzzed again.
I declined again.
The third time, George set his fork down.
"Answer it," he said in a flat tone.
"It's giving me a headache."
I stepped onto the balcony to take the call.
The second I answered, Elizabeth exploded.
"Nattie, did you do this on purpose?
"You took the bank book, didn't you?"
I held the phone farther away.
"What savings book?"
"Dad said the bank book from the house was missing, and he was sure you took it.
"There's 800 dollars in it!"
I laughed. That money came from my summer job washing dishes.
"I earned that money," I said.
"Your money is still family money," she shot back.
"Dad can't even buy cigarettes now. He's losing it.
"Transfer the money back now. If you don't, I'll tell Mom you stole it."
I heard things smashing on her end and Dad cursing.
"Useless trash! Ungrateful brat!
"I should've strangled you back then."
Even from kilometers away, the words crushed my chest.
"I didn't steal it," I said calmly.
"I saved that for my medical bills."
"Medical bills? What illness do you even have?"
She scoffed. "Stop acting fragile."
"Transfer the money. Or I'll go to your school and say you abandoned your biological father."
I looked out at the garden beyond the balcony. The flowers were in full bloom, a vivid red that felt almost like blood.
"Elizabeth," I said.
"You made your choice. Now you live with it, no matter how hard it gets.
"Don't bother me again."
With that, I hung up and blocked the number.
As I turned around, I felt a sudden warmth at my nose.
I touched it, and my hand came away slick with blood.
I panicked and pressed tissues to my face.
I tilted my head back.
The blood flowed fast. It slid down my throat and made me nauseous.
I rushed into the downstairs bathroom.
I stared into the mirror and watched bright red blood streak across half my face.
I turned on the sink and scrubbed at myself.
"What are you doing?"
A voice came from behind me.
I froze. In the mirror, I saw George standing at the door.
He looked at the water and blood on my face. His eyes ran deep and dark.
I wiped my face in a rush.
"It's just a nosebleed."
I kept my head down and said, "Probably just not feeling great."
He didn't reply. Instead, he stepped closer and handed me a clean towel.
"Use this."
I took the towel and pressed it to my nose.
"Thanks, Mr. Pearce."
He looked at the pale red water still circling the sink.
"Does this happen often?"
"Sometimes."
I lied. It had been happening more and more frequently.
He studied me for a long moment.
"Go see a doctor," he said.
"I'm fine. It's an old issue."
I lowered my head and tried to slip past him.
"Natasha."
He stopped me.
"In this house, you don't have to live so carefully.
"You and your mom are separate entities."
I paused and looked up.
His face stayed cold, but something flickered in his eyes.
"If you feel sick, say it.
"No one gives awards for suffering in silence."
Then, he turned and walked away.
I stood there alone.
The towel in my hands carried a faint pine scent.
It was his scent, mixed with something faint and wrong, like the quiet smell of death.
Chapter 4
I knew George had a secret.
I had seen the same kind of pill bottle as mine in the trash can in his study.
It was strong pain medication, the kind meant for people with late-stage cancer.
That day, Mom asked me to bring fruit to the study.
George wasn't home. He had gone to the hospital for dialysis.
I set the fruit tray down and was about to leave when I noticed a familiar white bottle in the trash.
I picked it up and looked at it.
The label said extended-release ibuprofen, but inside were morphine tablets.
I knew that trick because I used it before.
He hid life-saving drugs in a plain vitamin bottle, lying to himself and to everyone else.
So that was the truth. That untouchable stepfather of mine, the man Elizabeth called a cold-blooded monster, was suffering through hell, all by himself.
I put the bottle back where I found it and pretended nothing had happened.
That night, George came home.
He looked worse than usual, and his steps were unsteady.
Mom rushed over and tried to help him.
"Don't touch me."
He stepped away, his voice tight with pain.
Mom's hand froze in midair, her eyes instantly reddening.
"Georgie, did I do something wrong?"
"I'm just tired."
George didn't look at her. He went straight upstairs.
When he passed me, he paused.
In that instant, the sharp smell of disinfectant hit me.
Beneath it lingered a faint metallic tang—the kind of scent dialysis left behind.
That night, the pain woke me.
The tumor in my head was crushing my nerves, relentlessly.
Cold sweat soaked through me as I curled up under the covers, shaking.
I wanted water. I forced myself up and staggered downstairs.
The living room lights were off, but I saw a dark figure on the couch.
It was George, sitting there without moving.
A cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers, flaring and dimming.
I didn't dare make a sound and tried to retreat quietly.
"Since you're awake, come over here."
His voice came from the darkness, rough and exhausted.
I had no choice but to walk over.
"Mr. Pearce."
"Do you play chess?" he asked.
"A little."
"Sit. Play one game with me."
I sat across from him.
By the pale moonlight, I saw how deathly white his face was, sweat beading across his forehead.
He was enduring pain, just like I was.
We played three games.
No one spoke. Only the crisp click of pieces hitting the board broke the silence.
His moves were aggressive, almost violent, like he was venting something.
Mine were careful and steady, each step deliberate.
"You're afraid of losing," George said suddenly.
"I can't afford to lose," I replied, placing a piece.
He let out a soft laugh.
"Life is a losing game from the start.
"No matter how hard you struggle, you lose in the end."
I didn't argue.
By the time dawn approached, the final game ended.
I reached for the pieces, about to put them away and return to my room, when George suddenly pressed down on the board.
He looked up, and his deep eyes locked onto mine.
"Natasha, how long were you planning to keep the diagnosis report you hid under your pillow a secret?"
