Chapter 1

I had carried my daughter for ten long months and almost died bringing her into this world.

But my best friend switched our babies.

For the next eighteen years, her son grew up under my roof. He was loved, spoiled, and given everything he ever wanted.

Meanwhile, my own daughter was at my best friend's house, where she was screamed at, beaten, and treated like dirt.

In the end, my little girl broke down. She sank into severe depression. The night before her big SAT exam, she jumped off a building and ended her life.

I didn't learn the truth until the day I died.

I saw the twisted looks on their faces—the mother and son who had stolen my daughter's life—standing by my hospital bed.

I tried to fight back, to get revenge, but he smashed a vase over my head and killed me.

I thought it was all over.

But then I opened my eyes. I was back in time—back on the night before I gave birth.

*****

"Alanna, are you okay?"

I recognized that voice. I slowly lifted my head and saw a face I could never forget—Vivian Riley.

My eyes turned cold the moment our eyes met.

I tried to get up, to lunge at her and claw that face I hated so much, but a sharp pain tore through my stomach.

I doubled over on the bed, my face drained of color.

For a second, I was too stunned to understand what was happening.

Then someone shoved Vivian aside.

A gentle but urgent voice rang in my ear. "Doctor! Hurry! The patient in Room 301 just broke her water!"

The moment I heard Room 301, my mind, clouded by pain, snapped into focus.

That was the same room number I'd stayed in during my last life—when I'd been waiting to give birth.

The memories from before I came back were burned into me, clear as day.

Back then, I was the daughter of the richest man in Angouppes City.

My family was powerful, my life peaceful and happy.

When I turned twenty, I met the man I loved and soon married him.

He treated me like a treasure and gave me everything I ever wanted.

But when I was three months pregnant, my husband was stabbed to death while trying to protect me and our unborn child from a group of robbers.

My world fell apart. I spent months lost in grief and pain.

After he died, everyone—family, friends—told me to abort the baby and move on, maybe remarry.

But I couldn't. For my husband's sake, I decided to give birth.

Those ten months were hell.

I was constantly sick, taking medication, and almost fainted more than once. But I endured. And finally, I brought that baby into the world.

To me, that child was the last piece of my husband—the proof of our love.

So when my "son" was born, I gave him everything I had.

But as he grew, he became someone I could barely recognize.

He had none of my virtues, none of his father's strength. Instead, he picked up every bad habit imaginable—drinking, gambling, fighting.

He even bullied a girl at school so viciously that she fell into depression and jumped off a building.

I loved him, but I never spoiled him.

After that tragedy, I beat him, screamed at him, and begged him to change.

But instead of changing, he shoved me off a building.

Only when I was lying there, broken and dying, did I find out that he wasn't my son after all.

He was Vivian's.

Vivian was my best friend—my childhood friend.

We'd grown up together, inseparable.

But she'd always been rebellious. After high school, she dropped out for some street punk. She started smoking, drinking, fighting, and even living with him without being married.

I tried to talk her out of it. I told her not to ruin herself.

But she blocked me and ran off with that guy.

Five years later, she came back to Angouppes City with nothing.

She showed up at my door in tears, saying the man had dumped her for someone else.

She was pregnant, homeless, and desperate.

And I—just widowed and pregnant myself—couldn't turn her away.

I let her stay with me. I told my maids to take care of her the same way they cared for me—same food, same comfort, everything.

But my kindness only brought me disaster.

I was a month further along in my pregnancy than Vivian, so I should've given birth first.

Yet somehow, she went into labor early—on the exact same day I did.

That day, I gave birth to a son, and Vivian gave birth to a daughter.

Afterward, she went back to her old ways—running off with that punk again, tangled up in another toxic mess.

I tried to talk sense into her, but she wouldn't listen. In the end, I'd had enough and threw her out of my house.

For the next eighteen years, I raised my son, Leland, with everything I had.

All the love I once had for my late husband, I poured into him. I gave him everything—my time, my care, my heart.

But the older he got, the worse he became.

He drank, gambled, and mixed with all the wrong people.

He was nothing like the kind of child my husband and I would have raised.

Meanwhile, Vivian's daughter, Sheila—the one she'd had with that punk—grew up to be a wonderful girl.

She studied hard, helped others, and was kind to everyone.

But for some reason, Vivian hated the daughter she carried for ten months.

She would often scream at Sheila and even hit her, saying the cruelest things.

Sometimes, when I went to pick Leland up from school, I'd see bruises on Sheila's arms—blue and purple marks that could only come from being beaten.

Even though Vivian and I weren't close anymore, I couldn't just watch a sweet girl like that suffer.

I talked to Vivian over and over, begging her to be kinder to her daughter.

I even told her that if she didn't want Sheila, I'd take her in myself.

But Vivian refused. She said Sheila was her child, her property—that she could do whatever she wanted.

After that, she treated Sheila even worse.

I couldn't take it anymore and called the police.

But it was considered a family matter, and they couldn't do much.

After a few failed attempts, I gave up, angry and helpless.

I never imagined that a month later, I'd hear Sheila's name again—this time, as the victim of a tragedy.

She was that sweet, polite girl who always greeted me with a smile.

After enduring endless bullying and humiliation, she jumped from the eighteenth floor. There was nothing left of her.

And the one who had driven her to it was my son, Leland.