Chapter 1

I lay on the floor of the abandoned villa, my life slowly ebbing away.

Standing over me were Bryan, the husband I had loved for decades; Elliot, the adopted son I’d raised for ten years; and Chloe, his biological mother, hovering right behind him.

"Evelyn, face it—I never loved you," Bryan said, his voice as frigid as the snow outside.

Chloe lightly rested her hand on the shoulder of Elliot, who was now a glittering success. Her tone was airy, yet laced with pure venom.

"What a pity you’ve been a fool your entire life. You watched your own son live in terror until he finally killed himself."

"You destroyed your child with your own hands just to pave the way for mine."

Elliot lowered his eyes, his voice flat and indifferent. "Leo was too weak. The Carter estate behind you should have been mine all along."

Leo.

My poor, timid, sensitive baby, who bore every grievance in silence and never dared to cry.

Images of his short life flashed before my eyes—how he’d wake up terrified in the dead of night, weeping quietly; how he’d curl up in the corner; and how every scolding, every act of favoritism, and every turned eye of mine had driven him further away.

I was the fool. I was the blind one. I was the one who personally pushed my own child into the endless abyss.

A surge of overwhelming regret and searing hatred swallowed me whole, severing my final breath.

The next second, a blinding warm light hit my eyes.

Soft living room lighting. Clear, distinct voices.

I snapped my eyes open, my senses rushing back.

I was in the home I’d lived in for decades. Bryan was standing in front of the sofa, his brow furrowed, his tone brimming with impatience and rebuke.

"Leo, why are you being so petty? Your brother was just playing with you, and you’re already throwing a fit. Nobody likes a brat."

Those words—they were the exact ones spoken back then.

My body went stiff as I turned my head toward the corner of the sofa.

My Leo. He was only six years old, drowned in a loose light-gray hoodie, his tiny frame curled tightly against the edge of the couch.

His shoulders trembled. His eyes were rimmed red, and his teeth bit down hard on his lower lip, swallowing his sobs whole.

In front of him stood ten-year-old Elliot. Elliot kept his head down, his shoulders twitching softly, his eyes glistening with tears—a picture of aggrieved, sensible restraint.

His fingers clutched Leo’s favorite comfort bear—the plush toy I had bought just last week to soothe Leo’s anxiety, his only source of comfort.

In an instant, it hit me. I had been reborn.

I was back on the day Leo turned six—the day he was already showing signs of early childhood depression.

In my past life, it was through this constant, repeated favoritism that I chipped away at Leo’s sense of security, watching him grow silent, retreat into himself, and ultimately walk down the path of destruction.