Chapter 2 · The Scent Of Revenge

Not long after, a nurse carried Charlotte over to Vivian. "Mrs. Sinclair, here's your daughter."

Meanwhile, another nurse lifted me into her arms and walked toward bed eight, where a tired-looking woman lay.

The nurse smiled gently, "Mrs. Sutton, congratulations! You have a healthy baby girl."

The delivery room door closed before my eyes, and the last thing I saw was the look of contentment on Vivian's face as she cradled Charlotte.

My birth mother had abandoned me again.

*****

I grew up in that same poverty-stricken, joyless home as before.

At ten, I often curled up inside a cramped wardrobe, reading old magazines I'd scavenged from a trash pile by the dim light slipping through the cracks.

My adoptive father, Frank Sutton, was drunk again.

Linda's shrieks tangled with the crash of glass bottles he'd hurled at the wall—the only soundtrack I ever knew growing up.

"You're nothing but a burden! You can't even give me a son!" Frank's roar made the wardrobe door tremble.

I instinctively hugged my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible.

The pain from falling off that building in my last life still haunted my dreams, but compared to my current life, that final moment almost felt like mercy.

Outside the wardrobe, the sounds of fighting turned into Linda's sobs. She started cursing me for being a worthless daughter who made her life harder.

I clenched the torn edge of the magazine unconsciously.

They had no idea I'd been swapped on purpose, and even less that my birth mother, Vivian, just watched in silence as it happened.

After a while, the shouting faded—Frank must have passed out on the floor.

I quietly crawled out, tiptoeing across the messy living room to the tiny balcony.

Under the moonlight, I turned to the magazine article about Sinclair Corporation.

In the photo, Vivian was dressed in a crisp white suit, elegantly linked arms with her husband, Edward Sinclair, while Charlotte stood beside them, looking every bit a princess.

The headline screamed: [Charlotte Sinclair stuns the audience with her piano solo at the Sinclair Corporation Charity Gala.]

My fingers gently traced over Vivian's printed face.

In my last life, I had naively believed that finding my birth mother would finally bring me the love I'd always dreamed of.

But as I fell from the top of Sinclair Tower, I realized that blood ties could never buy affection.

"You looking at that stupid magazine again?"

Linda's voice came from behind me. I quickly shoved the page under my shirt, but she'd already seen it.

She grabbed my hair, her breath thick with alcohol. "You little brat, daydreaming again?"

With her free hand, she snatched the magazine. "What's this? Huh? You steal money to buy this junk?"

"I didn't steal! I found it in the trash!" I struggled to explain, my scalp burning with pain.

"Still talking back?" Linda snapped, raising her hand. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the slap.

But it never came.

I blinked and saw Frank swaying in the doorway. "Enough. She's cooking tomorrow. If you break her, who's gonna feed me?"

Linda let go but kicked me hard in the stomach. "No breakfast for you tomorrow!"

I curled up on the balcony, waiting for their snores to fill the silence before daring to rub my aching belly.

Under the moonlight, I pieced together the torn magazine page, smoothing out Vivian's face.

"Why?" I whispered to the elegant woman in the photo. "You were given another chance to live—so why did you do this to me again?"

No answer came. Only the glittering lights from the wealthy district in the distance, mocking my foolish hope like a cruel joke from another world.

*****

The next morning, I got up early, fought off my hunger, and quietly made breakfast before slipping out with my tattered backpack.

School was my only refuge, though even there, my classmates often picked on me for being the charity case.

"Look, it's Trash Girl!" A few boys blocked my way as soon as I stepped through the school gate. "What treasure did you dig up today?"

I lowered my head and quickened my pace, but the boy in front grabbed my bag. "Hey, everyone! Trash Girl's backpack is made out of a rag!"

Laughter erupted as the strap snapped, sending my books spilling all over the ground.

As I knelt down to gather them, a sharp slap cut through the noise.

"You've gone too far!" a girl barked.

I looked up and saw a girl standing in front of me, shielding me from the bullies. She wore a neat uniform, her high ponytail swinging, looking like a feisty little peacock.

"Sophie, what's it to you?" The boy covered his cheek, his tone shrinking.

"Try bullying her again and I'll go straight to the principal!" Sophie crouched down, helped pick up my books, then took my hand. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Her hand was warm and dry—the first kindness I'd felt in a decade.

"Thank you," I whispered once we reached the corner of the building, reaching to take my books back.

But Sophie didn't let go. "You're bleeding." She pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with tiny flowers and gently wrapped it around my scraped palm. "I'm Sophie Shaw, fifth grade, class three. What about you?"

"Emily Sinclair. Fifth grade, class one," I answered automatically, using the polite tone I'd learned from magazines.

Sophie's eyes lit up. "You have such a pretty voice—like someone on TV." She hesitated, then asked softly, "Would you like to be my friend?"

The word friend felt too precious for someone like me.

In my last life, I'd died without ever having a real one.

"I... I'm poor," I admitted. "Maybe I'm not good enough to be your friend."

But Sophie just smiled. "My dad says real friends don't care about that."

Then she leaned closer and whispered, "Actually, my family used to be poor too. My dad's business only took off last year, and that's when I transferred. Nobody else knows."

And just like that, I had my first friend in this new life.

Chapter 2

Not long after, a nurse carried Charlotte over to Vivian. "Mrs. Sinclair, here's your daughter."

Meanwhile, another nurse lifted me into her arms and walked toward bed eight, where a tired-looking woman lay.

The nurse smiled gently, "Mrs. Sutton, congratulations! You have a healthy baby girl."

The delivery room door closed before my eyes, and the last thing I saw was the look of contentment on Vivian's face as she cradled Charlotte.

My birth mother had abandoned me again.

*****

I grew up in that same poverty-stricken, joyless home as before.

At ten, I often curled up inside a cramped wardrobe, reading old magazines I'd scavenged from a trash pile by the dim light slipping through the cracks.

My adoptive father, Frank Sutton, was drunk again.

Linda's shrieks tangled with the crash of glass bottles he'd hurled at the wall—the only soundtrack I ever knew growing up.

"You're nothing but a burden! You can't even give me a son!" Frank's roar made the wardrobe door tremble.

I instinctively hugged my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible.

The pain from falling off that building in my last life still haunted my dreams, but compared to my current life, that final moment almost felt like mercy.

Outside the wardrobe, the sounds of fighting turned into Linda's sobs. She started cursing me for being a worthless daughter who made her life harder.

I clenched the torn edge of the magazine unconsciously.

They had no idea I'd been swapped on purpose, and even less that my birth mother, Vivian, just watched in silence as it happened.

After a while, the shouting faded—Frank must have passed out on the floor.

I quietly crawled out, tiptoeing across the messy living room to the tiny balcony.

Under the moonlight, I turned to the magazine article about Sinclair Corporation.

In the photo, Vivian was dressed in a crisp white suit, elegantly linked arms with her husband, Edward Sinclair, while Charlotte stood beside them, looking every bit a princess.

The headline screamed: [Charlotte Sinclair stuns the audience with her piano solo at the Sinclair Corporation Charity Gala.]

My fingers gently traced over Vivian's printed face.

In my last life, I had naively believed that finding my birth mother would finally bring me the love I'd always dreamed of.

But as I fell from the top of Sinclair Tower, I realized that blood ties could never buy affection.

"You looking at that stupid magazine again?"

Linda's voice came from behind me. I quickly shoved the page under my shirt, but she'd already seen it.

She grabbed my hair, her breath thick with alcohol. "You little brat, daydreaming again?"

With her free hand, she snatched the magazine. "What's this? Huh? You steal money to buy this junk?"

"I didn't steal! I found it in the trash!" I struggled to explain, my scalp burning with pain.

"Still talking back?" Linda snapped, raising her hand. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the slap.

But it never came.

I blinked and saw Frank swaying in the doorway. "Enough. She's cooking tomorrow. If you break her, who's gonna feed me?"

Linda let go but kicked me hard in the stomach. "No breakfast for you tomorrow!"

I curled up on the balcony, waiting for their snores to fill the silence before daring to rub my aching belly.

Under the moonlight, I pieced together the torn magazine page, smoothing out Vivian's face.

"Why?" I whispered to the elegant woman in the photo. "You were given another chance to live—so why did you do this to me again?"

No answer came. Only the glittering lights from the wealthy district in the distance, mocking my foolish hope like a cruel joke from another world.

*****

The next morning, I got up early, fought off my hunger, and quietly made breakfast before slipping out with my tattered backpack.

School was my only refuge, though even there, my classmates often picked on me for being the charity case.

"Look, it's Trash Girl!" A few boys blocked my way as soon as I stepped through the school gate. "What treasure did you dig up today?"

I lowered my head and quickened my pace, but the boy in front grabbed my bag. "Hey, everyone! Trash Girl's backpack is made out of a rag!"

Laughter erupted as the strap snapped, sending my books spilling all over the ground.

As I knelt down to gather them, a sharp slap cut through the noise.

"You've gone too far!" a girl barked.

I looked up and saw a girl standing in front of me, shielding me from the bullies. She wore a neat uniform, her high ponytail swinging, looking like a feisty little peacock.

"Sophie, what's it to you?" The boy covered his cheek, his tone shrinking.

"Try bullying her again and I'll go straight to the principal!" Sophie crouched down, helped pick up my books, then took my hand. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Her hand was warm and dry—the first kindness I'd felt in a decade.

"Thank you," I whispered once we reached the corner of the building, reaching to take my books back.

"Emily Sinclair. Fifth grade, class one," I answered automatically, using the polite tone I'd learned from magazines.

Sophie's eyes lit up. "You have such a pretty voice—like someone on TV." She hesitated, then asked softly, "Would you like to be my friend?"

The word friend felt too precious for someone like me.

In my last life, I'd died without ever having a real one.

"I... I'm poor," I admitted. "Maybe I'm not good enough to be your friend."

But Sophie just smiled. "My dad says real friends don't care about that."

Then she leaned closer and whispered, "Actually, my family used to be poor too. My dad's business only took off last year, and that's when I transferred. Nobody else knows."

And just like that, I had my first friend in this new life.