The system glitched at the worst possible moment—right as I was fleeing in disgrace, chased out by the return of the "rightful" Santiago heiress. In a jagged tear of space and time, I was spat out six years into the future. But there was a catch: my body had shrunk, reverted to the small, soft frame of a six-year-old child. When I finally looked up, blinking through the haze, I collided with a pair of eyes that held nothing but frozen steel. It was Benson Wilder. He looked down at me, his gaze calculating and sharp. "Where did you come from, kid?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. Out of sheer, terrified instinct, I stammered my old name. "I’m Cassidy Santiago..." The words hadn't even fully left my lips when neon-red lines of text began to scroll across my vision—the digital feedback of the system, a spectral commentary only I could see. [Oh my god! Is that the villainess? Why is she a toddler?] [She actually dared to show her face again? After what she did?] [Poor Benson. Back then, he treated her like she was his entire world. He worked himself to the bone for her while she treated him like a dog.] [And then she just vanished. He spent six years looking for her, probably wanting to grind her bones to dust.] [The name 'Cassidy Santiago' is a death sentence in this town now. Is she suicidal?!] A paralyzing chill crawled up my spine. Benson’s eyes had shifted. The cold indifference was gone, replaced by a sudden, murderous intensity. Survival instinct kicked in. Before he could react, I added a trembling postscript: "...I-I’m your daughter! Yours and Cassidy's!" 1. The cigarette dangling from Benson’s lips hit the pavement with a quiet thud. A full minute of suffocating silence followed. Time seemed to liquefy, then freeze. It took him a while to find his voice again. "What?" He looked at me as if I’d just told the most absurd, cosmic joke in history. His gaze dropped from its heights, no longer just cold, but tangled with a dark, complex confusion. "What did you just say?" It wasn't just Benson who was stunned. The digital comments were losing their minds. [Classic Cassidy. Even as a kid, she’s a manipulative masterpiece.] [You’ve gotta have a black belt in sociopathy to come up with that on the fly.] [I see. This must be the 'Detective Conan' defense strategy.] [Just accept it, Benson. Being her 'daddy' isn't much different from being her 'dog' like you used to be.] I looked up at him properly then. Six years had transformed the Benson Wilder I knew. Gone was the lean, hungry boy; in his place stood a man with a raw, predatory edge. He was six-foot-one of broad shoulders and lean muscle. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the shower—drips of water traveled from the tips of his hair, tracing the line of his jaw before disappearing into the collar of his black T-shirt. His tan skin had a damp, healthy sheen. He pushed his dark, messy fringe back with a careless hand, revealing brows as sharp as blades. Benson’s looks were never in question. If they had been, I probably wouldn’t have stayed with him as long as I did back in the day. Under different circumstances, this would have been a beautiful scene of a man in his prime. If only his eyes didn't look like they wanted to commit a felony. But what choice did I have? I’d begged the system to transport me away to escape Benson’s wrath, only to be dropped right on his doorstep six years later. Outside, a torrential downpour was turning the night into a blurred, black mess. I was a six-year-old girl. I had no money, no ID, and no coat. As the saying goes: the safest place is the most dangerous one. Welcome to the lion’s den. I tilted my head back and said with practiced earnestness, "I said... I’m Cassidy’s daughter. She told me my father’s name was Benson Wilder. That’s you, right?" During those years with Benson, I’d developed many skills. My greatest was the ability to lie with a straight face and an innocent heart. Benson fell silent again. His gaze swept over me, his eyes darkening. He opened his mouth, his voice sounding oddly hoarse. "You..." He probably wanted to ask my name. Or how I found him. But in the end, a thousand questions condensed into a single, low command. "Get inside. The rain’s picking up." He turned on his heel, his long strides taking him into the foyer. He glanced back at me once, then grabbed a thick wool throw from the sofa and tossed it over my head. His voice softened, though it still had that jagged edge. "You’re covered in goosebumps. Wrap yourself up." 2. Benson and I sat facing each other. Because I was so small, he had to lean forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, to meet my eyes. "So... you’re saying you’re my daughter. With Cassidy Santiago." He let my name linger on his tongue for a second, a bitter taste. Then he looked at me again. "What’s your name?" The suspicion hadn't left his eyes. I paused, my hand tightening around the glass of water he’d given me. Right. A name. I needed something that wouldn’t trigger his alarms. I remembered a rainy afternoon years ago. We were curled up on a lumpy sofa. He was massaging my legs, feeding me strawberries, his expression a mix of adoration and exasperation. “If you ever have a little monster exactly like you to torment me, I’ll be completely helpless,” he’d muttered. I had yawned, teasing him. “Oh? You already have names picked out?” Benson hadn't hesitated. It was as if he’d been reciting them in his head for months. “Sophie,” he’d said, his ears turning a bright, embarrassed red. “Sophie Santiago. Or Sophie Wilder. Either works.” I hadn't taken him seriously then. I thought it was just a daydream. But now? Now it was a lifeline. "Sophie," I whispered. "But people call me Soph." Benson’s entire demeanor fractured. It was as if he’d been struck by a physical blow. He went rigid, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp hiss. He leaned back into the sofa, looking like a man whose ghost had just left his body. He reached for a cigarette, then stopped, glancing at me before shoving the pack back into his pocket. When he looked at me again, his voice had changed. It was dry, raspy. "How old are you?" I bit my lip, looking down at my small, chubby fingers. "Six." I wasn't avoiding his gaze because I was shy. I was avoiding it because I was afraid he’d see the grown woman hiding behind my eyes. Benson didn't notice. He was lost in his own mental math. "Six years," he murmured to himself. "When did... I don't remember... Was I that drunk?" He ran a hand through his hair, staring at me as if trying to see through my skin. "Dammit. You have her eyes. Her nose. Even that mouth. Why don't you look a damn bit like me?" Realizing he shouldn't be swearing in front of a child, he went quiet for a moment. He stood up and headed for the kitchen, his tone awkward but intentionally gentle. "Do you want milk? Fruit? And... don't repeat that word I just said." Wait. Was he actually buying this? I was stunned. I gripped the edge of the sofa, looking toward the kitchen. "You... you aren't worried I’m lying?" Benson didn't look up as he warmed the milk, his movements practiced as he pulled cereal from the cupboard. "You look exactly like her. I’m not an idiot." I fell silent. The digital comments followed suit. [He sees the face of his ghost, and he's done for. He’s a goner.] [Benson, for the love of God, get a DNA test!] [She’s playing him like a violin, and he’s just leaning into the music.] [Poor guy. He went from being her dog to being her 'daughter’s' servant. Some things never change.] Benson brought over a mug of warm oatmeal milk. "I don't have juice. Drink this." There was a long pause before he asked the question I’d been dreading. He tried to sound casual, but his voice betrayed him. "Where is she? Where's your mother?" 3. Here it was. The moment of truth. The comments were more nervous than I was. [The million-dollar question. If she messes this up, it’s game over.] [Benson is holding his breath. Look at his knuckles.] [One wrong word and she’s out in the rain.] I felt my eyelid twitch. Benson stood there, waiting with surprising patience to take my empty mug. I handed the glass back and lowered my eyes. "She’s gone." It was the answer Benson expected. He let out a sharp, cynical bark of a laugh. "Of course. Typical Cassidy." He took the mug back to the kitchen. I could hear the rush of the faucet, a sound that masked the tremor in his voice. "Where to this time? Japan? London? I figured she’d fled the country the second she realized the walls were closing in. That’s why I couldn't find her for six years. But she didn't take you? Just dumped you on my doorstep because she knew her 'baby daddy' was rich now?" I looked down at the coffee table. It was covered in a delicate, hand-crocheted lace cloth—something Benson and I had found at a flea market years ago. I scanned the room. This was a two-bedroom apartment. Benson had kept it impeccably clean, and to my shock, it looked exactly the same as the day I left. Even my favorite ceramic vase was still on the windowsill. By now, Benson should have been back with the Wilder family, living as their crown prince. Why was he still keeping this little apartment? Why keep the ghost of a woman he supposedly hated? My nose began to sting. Maybe I was catching a cold from the rain. I rubbed my face with the back of my hand and spoke quietly. "She didn't go on a trip, Benson. She’s gone. To a place far away." I wasn't lying. I added in a whisper, "She might never come back." The sound of shattering glass echoed from the kitchen. Benson spun around, his face drained of color. "Never come back? What the hell does that mean?" He walked toward me, his steps slow and heavy. He knelt on the floor in front of me, his hand coming up to gently cup the back of my head, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were rimmed with red. "And then?" His voice was a series of broken notes. "Are you saying... she’s dead? She just left, and then she just died? Just like that? Leaving me with another one of her messes?" He searched my face, his expression agonizing. "Are you the only thing she left behind? The only thing I have left of her?" 4. Hey, stop wishing me dead! I’m right here! I wanted to scream. But I couldn't. If I told the truth, I’d be dead for real. I kept my head down and gave a tiny, miserable nod. The comments exploded. [Holy shit. One sentence and his hate-meter just dropped to zero.] [This is the ultimate 'villainess' move. Pure purification by death-hoax.] [Benson’s internal monologue: Great, she left me a kid but didn't leave herself.] I ignored them. I looked at Benson and asked softly, "I don't have anywhere else to go. I don't know anyone else. Can I stay with you?" Benson looked down, his thoughts unreadable. Finally, he stood up and headed for his office. His voice was thick. "Where else would you live if not with your father? Go watch cartoons for a bit while I get the room ready. I’ll sleep in the office. You take the bedroom." He paused at the door. "It’s late. Kids shouldn't stay up. We’ll talk tomorrow." An hour later, I was tucked under the covers, pulled tight against my chin. The rain outside had settled into a rhythmic patter. The sheets were fresh, smelling of sunlight and lavender detergent. He’d changed everything, leaving no trace of himself. I thought back to when I first met Benson. He was eighteen. It was raining then, too. He was hunched in an alleyway, clutching his stomach in pain, soaked to the bone. That was when the comments first appeared in my life. [Here we go! 18-year-old Benson! Six months until he hits the jackpot!] [Waiting for the heroine to show up!] [Wait, who is this rando? Cassidy Santiago? She’s hijacking the plot!] [This isn't the story I signed up for!] From those comments, I’d pieced together the "original" story. Benson was the protagonist, a "tragic-yet-beautiful" hero. The heroine was supposed to be a girl named Isabel. Benson had grown up in the shadow of his parents' screaming matches in a damp, moldy house. Isabel was a blurry shadow from his childhood—a girl who had lived next door to his grandfather one summer. She’d given him a bowl of noodles and some iodine when his father had beaten him nearly to death. The comments said Isabel was his "Saint"—the one who would later save him. In six months, the wealthy Wilder family would find him and realize he was their long-lost heir. I had stood there in the rain, holding my umbrella, my hand trembling. Money. So much money. This boy was a ticking time bomb of wealth. And right then, he didn't even know his "Saint’s" real name. I looked down at the shivering boy. Fate was a funny thing. I knew the "heroine" Isabel. She was my cousin, currently studying in London. She wasn't due back for a year. That was more than enough time for me. "Hey? Are you okay?" I’d asked, leaning over and shifting my umbrella to cover him. I made sure my smile was perfectly calibrated—kind, concerned, and just a little bit magical. "There’s a clinic nearby. Let me help you?" Benson had looked up at me, his eyes cold and defensive. "I’m fine." He looked like a stray cat—cornered, wet, and trying to hiss his way out of a trap. I’d feigned a moment of realization, frowning slightly. "Wait... I think I know you." I leaned in closer. "Did you live next door to my grandfather? Mr. Santiago?" The comments were right; Benson was a loyal dog at heart. His eyes had widened, his entire body going still. "Mr. Santiago was your grandfather? You... you were there?" I’d helped him up, leaning the umbrella further over him, letting myself get wet. "Yeah," I’d said casually. "I stayed there a few summers." I was a siren, singing a song he desperately wanted to hear. "We’ve met before. Don't you remember?" ... The rain had stopped, but sleep wouldn't come. I stared at the ceiling. Same bed. Same room. For me, it had been a blink of an eye. For Benson, it had been over two thousand days. I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow. In his eyes, I was just a woman who used him and then discarded him like trash. Whatever happens, happens tomorrow. From the office next door, I heard a strange sound. It was the sound of someone trying, and failing, to stifle their sobs. I closed my eyes, feeling a sudden heat behind my lids. Fine, Benson, I thought. You’re probably just so happy to hear I’m dead that you’re crying tears of joy.
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