I was reborn as the wicked stepmother in a novel, and my only goal was to meet the KPIs set by my "System." To do that, I ordered the son, Matt, to do the laundry and mop the floors, while the daughter, Monica, had to wipe the windows and weed the garden. A year later, the male lead—my husband—finally returned, bringing his one true love with him. I had my bags packed, ready to be kicked to the curb and jet off to the Maldives to find a hot young model. But his true love pointed a manicured finger at my suitcase, demanding I leave all my gold and jewels behind. That’s when my stepson, Matt, stepped forward. "Don't worry, Mom. You go on ahead. I'll be right behind you." My stepdaughter, Monica, nodded in agreement. "We don't need this junk anyway. Dad has a safe. As soon as I crack the lock, I'll wire all the money to you." The male lead: ... Me: ? 01. "Host, all you have to do is maintain your 'wicked stepmother' persona and torment them!" the System's voice echoed in my head. "Make them suffer! Make them despair! When the male lead returns with his beloved, the two little ones will be so moved by her maternal grace that they'll flock to her. Then, your mission will be complete!" "Your reward? Forty years of ageless youth!" I practically burst into tears of gratitude. This System got me. Because a woman’s heart stays young forever! That was a prize more tempting than any amount of money. And speaking of money, I wasn't worried. In this mansion, a single vase was worth a fortune. On the day I was thrown out, I’d just secretly pocket a few trinkets—enough to live lavishly for the rest of my life. Once this gig was over, I was going to chase after college boys! I immediately snapped to attention. "Yes, sir! Mission accepted!" The System, pleased, sweetened the deal by offering me three lifelines. If I ever ran into trouble, I could call on it for help three times. I glanced at the two pudgy little things standing before me, barely reaching my knees. I scoffed. Handling them? It would be as easy as playing with a pair of puppies. 02. "You," I pointed at the older one, Matt. "Go get the watermelon." In the future, he was destined to be a ruthless, decisive tycoon. Besides his own sister, the only person he would ever care for was his "true" mother, the woman my husband was about to bring home. But right now, he was just a freshly hatched chick, all fluff and indignation. He plopped down on the Persian rug, his expression one of pure humiliation, and watched as I lounged on the sofa with my legs crossed. "Feed me," I commanded. His eyes widened in disbelief, his little mouth trembling with indignation. But in the end, he resigned himself to his fate, stabbing a piece of watermelon with a fork and lifting it to my lips. "Matt, was it?" I said between bites. "From now on, all your snacks are mine." "Butler," I called out, "have all these chips, gelatin cups, and beef jerky sent to my room." Matt's chubby chin quivered. As the prized heirs of the Sterling family, these two had more money than they could ever spend. Everything in their lives was top-tier. I’d heard their drinking water was freshly melted snow from the Alps, rich in minerals, and their vegetables were grown by a specialist with a Master's in agriculture to ensure they were organic and pollution-free. In short, they were well-fed, with a high percentage of prime-grade chub. My plan was to start with all that baby fat. Mission #1: Get them in shape. "You're breaking your promise!" Matt cried, his eyes welling up with tears. He puffed out his chest, trying to be the protective older brother as he shielded Monica behind him. "You said if we gave you our allowance, you wouldn't torment us!" At his words, Monica burst into a full-blown wail. Hmm? There was an allowance, too? My eyes lit up. I suppressed my inner glee and added slowly, "The allowance is still due." I paused for effect. "And the snacks are mine, too." The color drained from their faces. I could practically see them clenching their tiny fists in helpless fury. I laughed, a triumphant sound filling the room. I knew it. Snacks were the key to every child's soul. Matt wasn't giving up. "This is abuse! I'm telling Dad!" (Oh, really?) I thought. You said it, kid. Don't back down now. Abuse was exactly what I was aiming for. Hahaha... Go on, tell him. The louder, the better! 03. Day three of being a wicked stepmother. The defiant Matt hadn't given up, calling his father eighteen times a day. His father, of course, never answered. If my calculations were correct, he was currently in France, having a fateful encounter with his one true love. He was far too busy with his whirlwind romance to bother with the son born from a loveless business marriage. Undeterred, Matt called his maternal grandfather. The old man had a softer heart. He sent someone to give me a gentle warning, along with a black card, asking me to go easy on his grandsons for the sake of the money. (Holding the unlimited black card): Well, that puts me in a tight spot, doesn't it? On one hand, eternal youth. On the other, an infinite line of credit. Oh, fuck it. For the money, I decided to be a little nicer to Matt. I personally prepared him a gourmet "light" meal. Tomatoes, lettuce, and crystalline ice plants. Drizzled with a magnificent salad dressing, it was a feast for the eyes. Matt stared at the plate of what looked like lawn clippings, his face a mask of silent rage. I glanced at the soft, plump little girl beside him and had a moment of magnanimous inspiration. "Starting today, we'll have a competitive eating contest. Whoever finishes their 'grass' first gets a reward: one piece of grilled chicken breast." At my words, the two of them bowed their heads and began shoveling the greens into their mouths. Heh, heh, heh... Being a stepmom was a blast. 04. But being a wicked stepmother had its own set of headaches. When one of the little tykes failed a class, I was the first person the teacher called. I was in the middle of a delightful manicure when my phone rang. "Hello, is this Monica Sterling's guardian?" "Your daughter came in last in her piano assessment. I need you to come in." Piano? Last place? My mind went blank. I ran through the plot of the novel again and realized something was off. In the future, Monica was set to become the nation's youngest and most celebrated cellist. If not for her delayed start, she could have been an international sensation. Even with a late start, she was a bona fide genius. So what did failing piano have to do with her destiny as a cellist? I rushed to the music academy. As I walked in, I could hear the teacher laying into Monica. "The piano keys, from left to right, the notes get higher. It's the most basic concept, and you can't even remember that?" "I don't know why your family wastes so much money on piano lessons for you. It's all going to that pig-headed brain of yours!" Monica was sobbing, her little shoulders shaking with misery. A fire ignited inside me. Taking my money and bullying my kid? Who gave her the nerve? The teacher caught sight of me and tilted her head arrogantly. "I can't teach your child. You should find someone else." The male lead’s true love was a piano virtuoso. Naturally, he believed all proper young ladies should learn the piano and had spared no expense enrolling Monica with a renowned instructor. The original "wicked stepmother" from the novel, trying to curry favor with him, had forced Monica to practice relentlessly. Any mistake was met with a brutal punishment, which had nearly given the poor girl a complex. I smirked. I knew this trick. It was all about manufacturing anxiety in parents to pressure them into paying more for extra lessons. But I was the wicked stepmother! More money? Not a chance. A refund? Now we’re talking. I sat down on the plush sofa and crossed my legs. "If you can't teach, then don't." I leaned forward. "My husband paid for a block of 300 lessons at $5,000 each. Including today, you've taught 53. That leaves 247 lessons." I pulled out my phone. "That comes to $1,235,000. I'll take a refund. Venmo or direct deposit?" 05. I helpfully pulled up my payment QR code. The teacher trembled with rage. She pointed a shaking finger at me. "You... you are utterly uncivilized!" I chuckled. So, asking for my money back made me "uncivilized." The teacher, full of pride, tried to manipulate me further. "I know it's not easy for you parents. How about this? I'll extend each lesson by an hour, and we'll just adjust the fee. Say, a modest $7,500 per session?" Oh, please. Just $7,500. Don't strain yourself on my account. I waved my hand dismissively, declaring that I was a simple person who hated to inconvenience others or take advantage of their generosity. A direct refund would be just fine. The teacher, grinding her teeth in frustration, finally scanned the code and processed the refund. She spat that with an unreasonable parent like me, no respectable instructor would ever agree to teach my child. "Hold on. Did I say you could leave?" I flicked my finger, and my bodyguard, who had been waiting outside, shut the door. The teacher was livid. "What do you think you're doing? This is a society of laws! You could go to jail for this!" Her voice was so shrill it could have shattered glass. I casually cleaned out my ear. "The only one going to jail here is you." I pulled up a video file on my phone—crystal-clear surveillance footage of her verbally abusing Monica. The teacher froze. "You were spying on me?" I rolled my eyes. "Please. This is the Sterling family's private music room. A single one of these pianos is worth more than your entire life. You think we wouldn't have cameras?" "I was motivating her," the teacher said, her tone sharp and defensive. I let out a cold laugh. As a professional wicked stepmother, dealing with societal scum was my specialty. If that’s how she wanted to play it, I wouldn’t hold back. I opened my mouth and let loose a torrent of insults, a verbal storm that started with her mother and worked its way through her entire family tree. She turned beet red, gasping for air. "That's character assassination! I'll sue you!" I tossed a flash drive onto the table. "Go ahead and sue," I said, my voice dripping with contempt. "But before you do, I'll make sure every parent in this school sees a highlight reel of you 'motivating' your students. Let's see how they feel about your methods then." The teacher's face went green. Monica attended an exclusive private academy. The teachers' base salaries were low; their real income came from private tutoring fees from the wealthy students. If I released those videos, her reputation would be destroyed. Under my unwavering glare, the teacher finally broke down, tearfully apologizing to Monica and telling her what a wonderful, talented child she was. 06. Monica’s eyes were shining like little stars. On the way home, she kept calling me "Good Mommy." God help me, I groaned internally. I shot her a glare. "Quiet. Call me 'Bad Mommy'." "No," she said, her voice filled with grievance. "Mommy fought the bad lady for me. You're the best mommy in the world." I made a fist and threatened her. "Say it again and I'll sew your little mouth shut." The little girl let out a squeak and quickly clamped her hands over her mouth. After a moment, she whispered, "Aren't you mad?" After all, I used to force her to practice piano relentlessly so I could film a perfect performance, send it to my husband overseas, and get a "red packet" of cash from him. Now that source of income was gone. It was definitely strange that I wasn't punishing her. "Of course I'm mad," I said fiercely. "As punishment, you'll eat a double portion of steak and eggs tonight." A look of pure agony crossed Monica's face. But just because one thing stopped didn't mean everything did. The piano lessons were over, but other lessons would take their place. Hmph. One a day. That was the new rule. I gave Monica’s chubby cheek a vicious pinch. "Starting tomorrow, you're learning the cello. One lesson every day." Monica's eyes were wide with confusion. She had no idea what a cello was. Heh, heh, heh... The cello is an incredibly heavy instrument. Just you wait, little girl. Your suffering has only just begun. Mwahahaha.
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