In my previous life, I took a blade for my stepsister, Cassie, three times. The first time, she was kidnapped by one of her father's ruthless business rivals. I traded my own safety to give her a window to escape, earning a jagged, permanent scar that stretched across my shoulder blades. She didn't even look at the bandages when I got home. She just shrugged and said, "You got lucky." The second time, her hot-tempered fiancé threw a heavy crystal decanter at her during a public argument. I lunged in front of her, my cheek and neck shredded by flying shards. She looked at the blood on my shirt, frowned, and muttered, "Stop interfering in my life." The third time, when her startup faced a sudden liquidity crisis, I secretly sold the plot of land my late biological mother had left me, scraping together ten million dollars to deposit anonymously into her corporate account. When she finally tracked down the source of the funds, she slapped me hard in front of her entire board of directors. "Are you pathetic, Dylan? Do you think I need your charity?" That night, I drank myself into a stupor in my car in the basement garage. I never saw the out-of-control SUV that crashed through the concrete barrier, crushing my car and killing me instantly. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the year Cassie was first brought into the Wilder estate. This time, when I saw her cornered by street thugs in an alley, I simply put my headphones on and took the long way home. When she collapsed from a high fever at her desk in the study, I walked right past the door, acting like I saw nothing. Now, her eyes are rimmed with red as she corners me in the hallway, asking, "Dylan, why did you stop caring about me?" I tilt my head, my smile polite, distant, and utterly hollow. "Well, Cassie... didn't you tell me to stay away from you?" 1 The moment the words leave my mouth, Cassie freezes. She struggles to maintain her composure, leaning back against the leather sofa in the hall. Those cold, domineering eyes of hers stare at me, and then a tight, humorless laugh escapes her lips. "What are you even throwing a tantrum about?" she asks, her voice tight. "Is this because I invited Jared to my birthday party? I know you two don't get along, but is it really worth making a scene like this?" Jared Westbrook. Just hearing his name makes a wave of physical revulsion crash over me. He was the golden boy of our social circle—charming, polite, and completely harmless in the eyes of our parents. But behind closed doors, he was a sociopath who spent years systematically isolating and tormenting me. I will never forget that rainy autumn afternoon during our sophomore year of high school. He pretended to walk with me under his umbrella, only to steer me toward an unbolted storm drain cover hidden under a pile of wet leaves. I plunged straight into the freezing, flooded concrete shaft. I fell feet-first into the dark, my knees scraping against the jagged iron edges until they bled. The foul, stagnant water rose to my chin, filling my throat every time I gasped for air, leaving me with a visceral terror of drowning that still makes my chest tighten on rainy days. Jared stood above the grate, looking down at me with a lazy smile. "Your mind is filthy, Dylan. Let the rainwater wash it clean." He only hauled me out when he got scared I'd actually drown and get him caught. Then, sobbing hysterically to my parents, he said, "It's all my fault. I should have held his hand tighter... I didn't see him slip." Everyone believed his tears. They thought I was just clumsy and dramatic. The more I tried to explain what happened, the more they accused me of being ungrateful to the boy who "saved" me. Even Cassie chimed in back then, looking at me with deep disappointment. "Jared scraped his arm trying to pull you out of that sewer, and you're pointing fingers? Show some respect." The suffocating chill of those old memories creeps back into my chest, but I swallow the rising tide of bitterness. I keep my face perfectly smooth, devoid of anger or defensiveness. "I'm not angry," I say quietly. "Mr. Westbrook is your fiancé. Going to his party is your business. It has nothing to do with me." The boundary is drawn, sharp and clean. Cassie's face darkens, the confusion in her eyes hardening into a sullen glare. She cannot accept this absolute detachment. But I don't care to watch her play-act her emotions anymore. I remember tonight's party all too well. In my last life, this was the night I ruined myself. Desperate, young, and foolishly in love, I gathered all my courage to confess my feelings to Cassie in front of all our guests. The result was a public scandal. My parents were furious, calling me shameless and a disgrace to the family name. That was the day my living nightmare truly began. Cassie grew to despise me, and the mockery from our peers, combined with my family's relentless scorn, crushed my pride into dust. But this time? My only goal is to protect my parents, protect myself, and live a quiet, decent life. As for the past, my only lingering obsession is finding out who caused that fatal "accident" in the garage and making them pay. I turn and walk away without looking back. That night, the Wilder mansion is ablaze with light, filled with the city's elite celebrating Cassie's birthday in grand, ostentatious style. Jared, her classmate and golden-boy suitor, arrived early. He glides through the crowd, charming the elders, a picture of effortless grace. I watch him from a quiet corner, my blood running cold. Last time, I was the clown of the evening. I had spent a month folding nine hundred and ninety-nine paper cranes, writing Cassie's name on every single wing, pouring my silent, agonizing crush into a massive glass jar. I wanted to give it to her tonight. Instead, Jared intercepted me, smiling warmly as he took the jar from my hands. "Dylan, this is so sweet. Such a beautiful gift for your sister." Then, pretending to lose his grip, he flipped it upside down. The paper cranes scattered across the marble floor. White paper wings everywhere, each one bearing her name in my unmistakable handwriting. The room went dead silent. Whispers and looks of disgust pinned me to the spot. My parents' faces twisted in shame and anger. And Cassie, standing in the center of the room, looked as if she had swallowed glass. But Jared delivered the killing blow, gasping in mock horror: "Dylan... how could you harbor those kinds of feelings for your own sister?" That single word—sister—sealed my fate. I was branded a degenerate. 2 Standing in the familiar grand ballroom this time around, the glittering lights and false laughter only leave me feeling hollow. Jared strolls over, champagne flute in hand, his eyes locking onto the glass jar in my arms. "A gift for your sister? How thoughtful. All handmade, I assume?" He reaches out, his fingers clawing for the glass. It is the exact same play as before. I pull the jar back, my voice flat and sharp. "Yes. And only my sister touches it. Keep your hands to yourself, Jared." His smile falters, a flash of pure malice crossing his eyes. Right on cue, a server carrying a tray of champagne walks past. Jared nudges her hard, sending her crashing straight into me. The collision is violent and sudden. The glass jar slips from my grip, shattering against the polished marble floor. The jar bursts, and instead of cranes, hundreds of colorful, tightly rolled scrolls of paper spill across the floor, scattering among the shards. The entire room goes quiet. In my past life, this floor was covered in my shame. This time, guests instinctively kneel down to help sweep up the mess, picking up the small scrolls. Naturally, they read the neat, elegant ink on the pages: ‘May my parents find peace, health, and happiness in all things.' ‘May our family remain united and free of worry.' ‘May my sister find joy on her birthday, and may her path ahead be bright and safe.' Line after wish. Clean, honest, and entirely appropriate. There is no forbidden longing here. No desperate confession. Just a brother's quiet, genuine blessings for his family. The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. The disgust in the guests' eyes turns into warm, approving smiles. "He made these for the whole family? What a sweet, thoughtful boy." "To write so many by hand, wishing them safety... he's so devoted." "Where did those awful rumors even come from? He's clearly a good kid." My parents stand in the crowd, their expressions softening into relief and quiet pride. Only Jared looks like he's about to explode. While everyone is distracted, he leans in close, whispering in my ear: "Don't play cute with me, Dylan. I know exactly how obsessed you are with Cassie. You better hide it well, because you won't get this lucky next time." I offer him a faint, mocking smile. My heart doesn't even skip a beat. Obsessed? My love for her rotted in the dirt of that freezing garage a long time ago. I don't bother wasting my breath on him. I look past his shoulder, my eyes finding Cassie. She is kneeling on the floor, her fingers trembling as she holds one of the stray paper slips. She stares at the words written in my steady, clean handwriting: ‘May my sister find joy on her birthday, and may her path ahead be bright.' Her thick eyelashes cast long shadows over her face, hiding her eyes, but her entire posture screams devastation. I don't care to watch her self-inflicted misery. I turn my back on the noise and step out onto the terrace. The night breeze is cool, sweeping away the stifling heat of the ballroom and calming the ghosts of my past. Soft footsteps click behind me. Cassie. She stops a half-step away, close enough to block my escape but far enough to respect my space. "Dylan... you're back." My spine goes rigid. My heart drops into my stomach, my blood turning to ice. You're back. Two simple words, but heavy with an impossible truth. She isn't talking about the terrace. She's talking about the rebirth. I force my face to remain a mask of calm. "What do you mean, back? I've been here the whole time." I try to play dumb. But Cassie knows me too well. Two lifetimes of codependency mean she reads my every micro-expression. She looks up, her eyes desperate. "You came back too, didn't you?" So, I wasn't the only one given a second chance. I let the feigned ignorance drop. My eyes turn to flint as I face her, done with the charade. "Yes," I say, my voice dead. "I'm back." "But I didn't come back for you, Cassie." "In our last life, I was foolish enough, tired enough, broken enough. I bled for you, ruined myself financially for you, endured every humiliation, and died alone in a dark garage. This time, I only want to protect my parents and live my own life." "You and I are done. No more ties. No more us." The color drains from her face. Panic flares in her eyes, and she reaches out to grab my hand. "Dylan, no... please, let me explain—" I don't want her regret. I don't want her dynamic, useless amends. I raise my hand and slap her across the face with every ounce of strength I have left. Her head snaps back, a bright red mark blooming on her pale cheek. I look at her, my gaze frozen. "That's for the slap you gave me in our last life. Now, we're even." I turn to leave, but before I can take a step, she throws herself forward, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist, burying her face into my chest. Her body is shaking violently as she sobs. "No, we can't be even," she weeps, her voice muffled against my shirt. "Dylan, I can't watch you die again... I can't let you leave me. I've always loved you. I won't let go this time. I'll prove it to you. I'll show you I mean it." I stand frozen in her embrace, my heart a flat, silent line. 3 Of course, I remember. After I died in that garage, my spirit lingered for a while, floating above my cold body. I saw her break down. I saw the untouchable, ruthless Cassandra Wilder collapse on the concrete beside my corpse, weeping until she couldn't breathe. I heard her desperate, empty confessions. But so what? Late affection is cheaper than dirt. I firmly push her off me, my voice devoid of warmth. "I can't afford your love, Cassie. And I don't want it." Without waiting for her to wipe her tears, I turn and walk back into the bright, noisy ballroom. The moment I step inside, Jared is waiting for me. He must have been stewing in his own frustration. Seeing me alone, he corners me, his voice a quiet, venomous hiss. "You think changing a few paper slips makes you a saint, Dylan? You and your mother are nothing but parasites. She sold her body to Charles Wilder to get you a seat at this table. Don't act like your hands are clean." That is the line he shouldn't have crossed. I can tolerate people dragging my name through the mud, but I will never let anyone insult my mother. My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish the sentence. "Keep her name out of your filthy mouth," I spit. Jared stumbles back, clutching his face, his eyes instantly welling with theatrical tears as he prepares to play the victim. The guests gasp, crowding around us to watch the drama unfold. Everyone expects Cassie to step in, to scold me for being violent and unhinged, just like she always did. But instead, a slender figure steps in front of me, shielding me from the crowd. Cassie glares at Jared, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. "If you can't control your tongue, you deserve to be taught a lesson." The room falls into a stunned silence. Before anyone can process her defense of me, Cassie raises her chin, her voice echoing clearly across the ballroom. "I would like to make an announcement. Effective immediately, my engagement to Jared Westbrook is off." The room explodes. The Wilder-Westbrook alliance was a massive corporate merger masquerading as a marriage. It was a done deal, tying billions of dollars together. Jared turns pale, staring at her in sheer disbelief as tears stream down his face. "Cassie! Do you have any idea what you're saying?!" "Enough!" An authoritative, booming voice cuts through the chaos from the top of the stairs. Thomas Wilder, my step-grandfather, stands there, leaning heavily on his gold-headed cane. His presence instantly suffocates the room. He glares down at Cassie. "A child's temper tantrum is nothing to take seriously. The alliance stands. No one speaks of canceling the engagement again." He waves his hand dismissively to the security detail. "Take her upstairs. She is confined to her quarters until she reflects on her behavior." The guards step forward, ignoring Cassie's stiff resistance, and lead her away. Before she disappears, she throws one last, desperate look at me, her eyes burning with stubborn possessiveness. After the party, I return to the family estate. Unsurprisingly, the patriarch orders me confined as well—no leaving the grounds, no outside contact. I accept it without a fight. A few days later, Helen, my mother, slips into my room late at night. She sits on the edge of my bed, her eyes searching mine with a mix of guilt and hesitation. "Dylan... would you like to go study in London?" I look at her, my mind clear. This isn't a question; it's an ultimatum from Thomas Wilder. He wants me gone. He wants to eliminate the variable, separate me from Cassie, and force the Westbrook alliance back on track. I nod slowly. "Sure. I'll go." In the days leading up to my departure, Cassie tries everything to reach me. Her actions are frantic, borderline obsessive. She floods me with quiet, desperate gestures of affection, trying to undo a lifetime of neglect. It's as if she wants to lay the world at my feet to make up for the past. But my heart remains a block of ice. The day of my flight is bright and cloudless. It is also the day of Cassie and Jared's rescheduled wedding. On one side of the city, the cathedral doors are open, the red carpet rolled out, guests arriving for a grand ceremony. On the other side, I sit in the back of a black town car, quietly heading toward the airport, chasing a new life. The silence in the car is heavy, almost suffocating. Just as the car climbs onto the suspension bridge overlooking the bay, the driver, who hasn't spoken a word the entire trip, says quietly: "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilder." 4 Before I can even process his words, the driver yanks the steering wheel to the side, slamming his foot on the gas. The car swerves violently, crashing straight through the concrete guardrails! The wind roars through the shattered glass as we go airborne, gravity disappearing for one terrifying second. Then, we plunge. The car slams into the freezing, dark waters of the bay. The sea swallows the light instantly, pressing against the windows, filling the cabin, choking the breath right out of my throat. I can't even struggle. A deep, bitter sorrow fills my chest. Even with a second chance, I couldn't escape my fate. In my last life, it was an "accident" in a garage. This life, a plunge off a bridge. It was never an accident. Someone wanted me dead, wanted me erased from this family completely. As my consciousness fades, I don't think of Cassie's late love, or the messy entanglements of our past lives. I think of my mother's warm smile, and the quiet life I never got to live. A fierce, desperate anger grips my soul, refusing to let me close my eyes. I refuse to die like this, leaving my killer to walk free. Suddenly, a blinding beam of light pierces through the dark water.
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