I was the brightest child in the foster shelter. When I was seven, the couple who ran the small broth-and-dumpling cart just outside the shelter gates finally saved up enough money to adopt me. I had spent countless afternoons perched on their wooden crate, warmed by their laughter and the steam rising from their pots. Yet on that very same afternoon, my biological parents arrived. My birth mother stood before me, draped in designer silk and dripping with diamond jewelry. She held out a porcelain doll with golden curls, her voice smooth as velvet: "You are an heiress of the Prescott family, darling. Come home with Mommy." Aunt Marlene, wiping her flour-dusted hands nervously against her faded apron, blinked back tears and nudged me gently. "A real family with wealth can give you the world, sweet girl. Go on. You belong with them." Torn and hesitant, I left with my birth mother. In the first month, I lived in an opulent manor with a sweeping spiral staircase and wore handmade lace dresses. In the second month, they hired four private tutors who rotated every single day, drilling me in phonics, ballet, French, and classical piano. In the third month, the piano teacher complained that my rhythm was consistently half a beat off. My mother tore my sheet music into shreds and hurled the pieces directly into my face. "Did you actually come from my womb? How could my daughter be dumber than a pig?" Later, she got pregnant again and gave birth to another daughter. From that moment on, I ate cold leftovers, wore hand-me-downs, and slept in the drafty attic. When I was twelve, in the dead of winter, my little sister was diagnosed with severe renal failure. My mother demanded that I give up a kidney to save her. Because of my frail, malnourished body, I never woke up from that operating table. When my spirit detached from my flesh, I drifted toward my solitary, unmarked grave. My parents weren't there. Only the couple from the dumpling cart stood in the freezing drizzle, their weathered hands trembling as they touched the photograph on my small headstone. They wept, their voices breaking: "In your next life, baby girl... you're going to be so, so happy." When I opened my eyes again, the porcelain doll was right in front of my face. I took a sharp step back, spun around, and sprinted into Aunt Marlene’s apron. In this life, I don't want a cruel mother. I want a good one. …… 1 "I don't want you." I gripped Marlene’s grease-stained apron with white knuckles, glaring at the polished woman standing on the gravel driveway. The practiced smile on Eleanor Prescott’s face froze instantly. Her outstretched hand hovered in the air, the tiny diamonds embedded in her manicured nails glinting sharply in the afternoon sun. "What did you say?" she asked, dropping her voice to a low, incredulous hiss. Marlene panicked, gently trying to ease me forward. "Sadie, sweetheart, don't talk nonsense. This is your real mother. She’s here to take you to a beautiful mansion where you'll never have to worry about a thing." I shook my head violently, burying my face deeper into Marlene's embrace—into the scent of fried scallions, yeast, and unconditional warmth. "I don't know her," I cried. "She isn't my mother." The phantom chill of the cold surgical steel from my past life still seemed trapped in the marrow of my bones. That sprawling mansion wasn't a home; it was a slaughterhouse built to harvest me. Eleanor’s facade shattered. She stepped forward in her designer stilettos, her hand clamping around my slender wrist like a vice as she yanked me toward her. "I carried you for nine months!" she snarled. "How dare you reject me?" Pain shot up my arm, and tears broke from my eyes. Marlene gasped, stepping in to block Eleanor’s grip. "Please, ma'am, be gentle! The child is just scared of strangers. You can't just drag her like that—" "Take your filthy hands off me!" Eleanor shoved Marlene away in disgust, snatching an iPhone from her limited-edition handbag. "If you want to do this the hard way, so be it." She dialed a number, speaking sharply into the receiver. "Barnes. Bring the team to the South City Foster Center right now. Yes, bring the DNA paternity tests and the legal custody decrees. We are taking her today. If anyone tries to interfere, call the police and have them arrested for kidnapping a Prescott heir." She hung up, glaring down at Marlene and me with pure disdain. "I am your legal guardian. Even if you die, you will die under the Prescott roof." The threat crashed over my chest like a lead weight. Half an hour later, three sleek black sedans pulled up outside the gates. Men in dark suits stepped out, effortlessly overpowering Marlene and shoving her aside. Like a discarded ragdoll, I was lifted off the ground and thrown into the back seat of the Maybach I remembered all too well. The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off Marlene’s desperate cries. The cabin smelled of cloying, expensive floral perfume that made bile rise in my throat. Eleanor sat beside me, pulling an antibacterial wipe from her purse, meticulously rubbing down every finger that had touched my arm. "Ungrateful little wretch," she muttered, not even looking at me. "Feral after a few years in the gutter. You don't have an ounce of manners." I curled into the corner of the seat, tucking my knees tightly to my chest. I didn't utter a single word. I just stared quietly at the leather seams beneath my shoes. When the car pulled up to the Prescott estate—a grand villa with cascading chandeliers and a curved double staircase—everything looked identical to my previous life. Only this time, I wasn't the naive little girl who twirled in excitement over silk dresses. As soon as we walked through the double doors, the head housekeeper hurried over. "Welcome home, Mrs. Prescott." Eleanor gave me a sideways glance filled with disgust. "Take her upstairs to the second-floor guest bathroom. Scrub her raw, and burn those filthy rags she’s wearing." The maids dragged me into the bathroom, using stiff-bristled sponges that scraped my skin until it burned red. After forcing me into a stiff, ill-fitting dress, they pushed me toward the dining room. A long mahogany table was laden with gourmet dishes. At the head of the table sat Richard Prescott, the chairman of Prescott Enterprises. My biological father. He didn't even lift his eyes from his financial journal when my footsteps echoed in the room. "You brought her back?" "Yes," Eleanor said, pulling out a chair with an irritable sigh. "She acts like a stray dog. Completely uncivilized." Richard turned a page without looking up. "Doesn't matter. As long as she's here. Did you arrange everything with the clinic? Get her in for a full medical workup first thing tomorrow." My fingers tightened around the silver fork. In my past life, they had waited months before sending me for comprehensive physical exams. Why tomorrow? Why so fast? I kept my head low, staring into my bowl. Suddenly, light, hurried footsteps sounded from the staircase. A little girl wearing a pastel pink nightgown rushed down, hugging a plush teddy bear. "Daddy, Mommy, my head hurts so bad..." Richard immediately dropped his paper, his face softening with a tenderness I had never seen. He opened his arms wide. "Oh, sweetheart, come let Daddy hold you." Eleanor jumped up from her seat, rushing to ladle a bowl of warm ginseng broth. "Did my precious Phoebe forget to take her medicine again? The specialist said you need absolute bed rest, my angel." I stared in shock at the little girl wrapped in their doting embrace. Phoebe Prescott. In my previous life, she was the younger sister born years after my return. But right now, I was only seven—and Phoebe looked at least six years old. They hadn't waited. She already existed. They hadn't tracked me down out of maternal longing or guilt over a lost firstborn. They brought me back solely because Phoebe was dying of kidney disease. I wasn't their reclaimed daughter. I was a living, breathing, zero-cost organ match. Phoebe finished her broth, turned her head, and locked eyes with me. There was no innocence in her large eyes—only an unmistakable, sharp cruelty. "Mommy, is that beggar girl my sister?" she whined, pointing a finger at me. "She's so ugly. I don't want her in my house." Eleanor stroked Phoebe's hair, her voice dripping with sickly sweetness. "Be good, darling. She's only staying here for a little while. Once she fixes Mommy's little princess and makes you all better, Mommy will throw her right back out onto the street, okay?" I sat at the far end of the lavish table, listening to them discuss my disposal without a shred of hesitation. A wave of nausea hit me. From the very beginning, I had never been a daughter to them. I was merely spare parts. 2 Before dawn broke the next morning, I was violently yanked out of bed by a maid. "Get up. Mr. and Mrs. Prescott are waiting downstairs." A coat was thrown over my shoulders, and I was shoved down the grand staircase. Richard was already dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, jingling his car keys impatiently. Eleanor was packing Phoebe’s little backpack, not sparing me a single glance. "Get her into the car. We're going to the clinic," Richard said, checking his gold watch with a scowl. I grabbed the brass railing of the staircase with both hands, refusing to take another step. "I'm not going to the hospital." My voice wasn't loud, but in the cavernous, quiet foyer, it rang with startling clarity. Richard paused on his way to the door, his brows knitting tightly. "What did you say?" "I'm not sick. I'm not going." I stared straight into his cold eyes, my palms slick with cold sweat. Eleanor stood up, crossing the floor toward me in swift, angry strides. "This isn't up for debate." She reached out to grab my collar. I thrashed against her grip, leaned down, and sank my teeth deep into the fleshy part of her hand. "Ah!" Eleanor shrieked in pain, instinctively flinging her arm out. Losing my balance, I tumbled down the last two marble steps. My knee slammed hard against the stone, sending a searing, white-hot ache through my leg. Richard marched over, his face darkening with fury. Without a word of warning, he raised his heavy palm and slapped me across the face. "Crack." My ears rang violently. The metallic tang of blood flooded my mouth. "You think you have a say in this?" Richard’s voice was venomous. "You eat Prescott food, you obey Prescott rules. Curtis, grab her. Tie her up and throw her in the car." Two hulking private security guards stepped forward. Ignoring my kicks and screams, they bound my wrists with a necktie and hauled me out to the car like a sack of grain. At the private facility, I was dumped into a sterile, windowless blood-draw room. Eleanor stood outside the glass partition, watching with dead, unbothered eyes. A nurse approached holding several oversized vials and a thick gauge needle. "Hold still, sweetie, or this will hurt." The two guards clamped their hands down on my shoulders and forearms, pinning me so hard my bones creaked. The cold steel punctured my vein. They drew four massive vials of blood from my small, seven-year-old body. My vision grew hazy, dark spots dancing across my eyes as an uncontrollable shiver racked my frame. Once they finished, they tossed me back into the car like a bag of rubbish. When we returned to the estate, Eleanor looked at my bruised, pale face and delivered her punishment without missing a beat. "Lock her in the attic. No food or water until I say so. A couple of missed meals will teach her who owns her." The attic was dark, damp, and suffocating, thick with the smell of mold and forgotten dust. There was no bed—only a torn, discarded sofa cushion on the bare floorboards. I curled onto the cushion, burning up with a sudden fever, my breath coming in hot, shallow rasps. Morning turned to afternoon, then into night. Not a single person opened the door. Between the fever, the hunger, and the gnawing cold, the memory of dying on that operating table rushed back to engulf me. "Tap. Tap." Two faint, hesitant knocks sounded against the lower panel of the heavy attic door. I forced my heavy eyelids open. Through the narrow crack at the bottom of the door, a small brown paper parcel slid onto the floor. "Sadie... baby, it's Auntie," Marlene’s choked whisper drifted through the gap. Tears sprang to my eyes. I scrambled across the dusty floor on my hands and knees, pressing my face against the wood. "Auntie..." I sobbed quietly, my tears splattering onto the floorboards. "Shh, keep your voice down, sweetheart. Hank slipped some cash to the kitchen delivery woman so I could sneak in through the back," she whispered frantically. Inside the greaseproof paper were four warm, handmade pork dumplings. "Eat, quickly. Don't let yourself starve." I shoved the dumplings into my mouth, barely chewing, swallowing them down along with my tears. The taste of home, of garlic and warm broth, flooded my senses. "Auntie, they took so much of my blood," I whispered against the floor, struggling to articulate the nightmare. "They're going to cut out my kidneys to save the other girl." A sharp, terrified gasp came from the other side of the door. "Those monsters! Even beasts protect their own cubs!" Marlene wept softly, her voice shaking with rage. "Don't be scared, Sadie. Hank is already looking into it. We... we will get you out of there, I swear on my life." I reached into my pocket, pulling out a crumpled slip of carbon paper I had managed to snatch off the nurse’s cart during the chaos at the clinic. "Auntie, give this to Uncle Hank." I shoved the paper through the bottom slit. "It has the names of the private hospital and the head surgeon written on it." Marlene grabbed it instantly. "Got it. I have to go before the guards make their rounds. Protect yourself, Sadie. Wait for us. We’re coming for you." Her hurried footsteps faded down the hall. I leaned back against the iron door, wiping the grease from my mouth with the back of my sleeve. Richard Prescott. Eleanor Prescott. In this life, I will never lie quietly on your chopping block again. 3 Two days later, the heavy attic door finally creaked open. Eleanor stood in the doorway, wearing an unsettling, sugary smile that sent a shiver down my spine. "Sadie, darling, come out. Mommy's taking you shopping for pretty new clothes." I knew what that smile meant: the tissue-matching results had arrived. I was a perfect, flawless donor for Phoebe. Suppressing the tremor in my stomach, I kept my eyes fixed on the floor and stepped out of the dark room. For the first time since dragging me here, Eleanor took my hand, her voice dripping with performative warmth. "Mommy was just under so much stress about Phoebe’s illness these past few days. I'm sorry for neglecting you, sweetie." She took me to a high-end luxury boutique, buying several frilly designer dresses, and then treated me to an elaborate French lunch I had never tasted before. All day long, she played the part of a doting, devoted mother. What she didn't know was that while Marlene was making her discreet food delivery earlier, she had slipped me an old, discarded smartphone. The device sat securely in the hidden pocket of my new skirt, screen darkened, quietly recording every single breath and conversation. When we returned to the villa, Phoebe was sitting in the living room playing with wooden blocks. The moment she saw me dressed in a stunning new velvet dress, raw jealousy flashed across her face. "Mommy! Why did you buy "her" new clothes?" Phoebe shrieked, kicking her blocks across the hardwood floor. Eleanor rushed over, kneeling to pull Phoebe into her arms. "Hush, my sweet girl, don't get upset. It's just for show." She dropped her voice to a whisper, but in the quiet, echoing room, the phone in my pocket captured every syllable. "The surgeon scheduled the procedure for the day after tomorrow. The doctor said we need her in high spirits beforehand, otherwise the stress hormones might degrade the organ quality." I stood motionless by the foyer, the microphone absorbing the poison. Phoebe wasn't satisfied. She wriggled out of Eleanor’s arms, stormed over to the coffee table, grabbed a pair of craft scissors, and lunged straight at me. "Riiip." The sharp blades sheared through the expensive velvet, slicing a thin, stinging line across my forearm. A bead of blood welled up. "Phoebe! What are you doing!" Eleanor gasped. Her panic wasn't for me; it was for the ruined fabric and the risk of trauma to my internal organs. "She doesn't deserve nice things!" Phoebe yelled, stamping her foot. "She's just my blood bag! Why does a blood bag get new clothes?" Holding my bleeding arm, I looked at Eleanor with wide, trembling eyes. "Mommy, she cut me. It hurts." Eleanor frowned, walking over to cast an indifferent glance at the scratch. "It's barely a graze. Stop making such a fuss." She turned back to coddle Phoebe. "You're the big sister, Sadie. You need to learn to yield to your little sister. She's delicate. Don't agitate her." That night, while locked in the bathroom under the guise of taking a shower, I connected the phone to the Wi-Fi and sent the audio file to Uncle Hank. Hank texted back immediately: [We have the recording. I looked into the private clinic—they paid off the lead surgeon. They aren't just taking one kidney, Sadie. They plan to take an entire kidney and part of the other to maximize her survival odds. They don't care if you survive the table.] Staring at the glowing screen, my blood ran cold. So that was why I never woke up in my past life. It wasn't because I was too young or frail. They had deliberately planned my death. As long as Phoebe lived, my pulse was entirely expendable. I took a slow, deep breath and typed back: [Uncle Hank. The day after tomorrow, ten in the morning. St. Jude Private Surgical Center, basement OR.] [We'll be there.] I powered down the phone and wedged it deep beneath the lining of the mattress. That final night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling patterns through the dark. The ghost of that old, searing agony in my side seemed to ache in sympathy. But this time, I wasn't an innocent lamb waiting to be butchered. 4 The house was a hive of quiet activity the next morning. Eleanor had the kitchen prepare an extravagant breakfast spread. "Eat up, Sadie," she said gently, sliding a plate of pancakes toward me. "We're just taking you in for a routine wellness checkup today." She couldn't even bring herself to say the word "surgery". I ate quietly, playing the part of the obedient, docile child. Richard sat across from me, offering an uncharacteristic, tight-lipped smile. "Once the checkup is done, Daddy will enroll you in the most prestigious private academy in the state." I swallowed my milk and nodded. "Thank you, Daddy." "Liars. Vicious, cold-blooded monsters." Before we headed out the door, the housekeeper handed me a glass of warm water. "Drink this up, young lady." I knew there was a heavy sedative dissolved inside. In my previous life, I had swallowed that exact glass and drifted into a black stupor that carried me straight into death. I took the cup, took a large gulp, and the moment their backs turned, let the liquid soak silently into the thick cuff of my sleeve. In the back of the car, I rested my head against the leather and kept my eyes closed, pretending to be fast asleep. Eleanor let out a long sigh of relief, turning to Richard. "The sedative worked quickly. We'll roll her straight down to the sub-level private surgical wing." "Has the director been settled?" Richard asked, lighting a cigar. "A hundred thousand in cash," Eleanor said coldly. "He guaranteed zero complications and complete silence." The vehicle glided smoothly into the underground parking garage of the private clinic. Still feigning unconsciousness, I let two orderlies lift my limp body onto a stainless steel gurney. The wheels clicked rhythmically across the linoleum tiles. The sharp, suffocating stench of surgical antiseptic enveloped me like a tightening noose. "Phoebe is already prepped in the adjacent suite," Eleanor’s voice echoed overhead, laced with suppressed excitement. "Get her in there and administer the general anesthesia immediately." The gurney was shoved into the freezing operating theater. The glaring overhead surgical lamps blazed to life. Cold monitoring pads were pressed against my chest. A nurse picked up an IV syringe, reaching for my arm to administer the anesthetic. "Monsters!" I snapped my eyes wide open, screaming at the top of my lungs. The nurse jumped, her hand trembling so violently she nearly dropped the syringe onto the floor. The lead surgeon frowned, turning sharply toward the observation glass where Eleanor and Richard were watching. "I thought you said she was heavily sedated! Why is she completely conscious?" Eleanor smashed the intercom button, her voice frantic. "Who cares! Hold her down and push the drug!" The nurse recovered, lunging forward with the needle. I sat bolt upright, knocking her tray away with all my might. "Get away from me!" I screamed, thrashing wildly, trying to roll off the operating table. Two burly male orderlies rushed forward, pinning my shoulders down against the metal slab with crushing force. My collarbones felt as if they were about to snap under their weight. "Feisty little thing, aren't you?" one muttered with a sneer, reaching for leather restraint straps to pin my wrists. The double doors swung open, and Eleanor stormed into the sterile theater, her heels clicking aggressively against the floor. She looked down at me pinned to the table, her eyes as vacant and dead as if she were inspecting a piece of meat. "Sadie Prescott, behave yourself," she hissed. "Your very life belongs to the Prescott family. Giving a kidney to your sister is your duty." I glared at her, my eyes bloodshot and blazing. "I owe you nothing! You bought off the doctor to harvest both of my kidneys! You never intended for me to leave this table alive!" Eleanor’s face drained of color. She stared at me in utter disbelief, baffled as to how a seven-year-old child could possibly know the intricate details of their scheme. Yet she quickly masked her shock with a vicious smirk. "So what if you know? It saves me the trouble of pretending. Giving your life so your sister can live is the only worthwhile thing you will ever do." "Do it now!" she barked at the medical staff. The nurse approached once more, the cold needle tip pressing against the skin over my vein. I closed my eyes in a wave of sheer terror. "Was history repeating itself? Was I doomed to die here all over again?" "Uncle Hank... Aunt Marlene... where are you?" Just as the needle was about to pierce my skin— "BAM!" The heavy steel doors of the surgical suite were violently kicked off their latches from the outside. The thunderous crash echoed off the tiled walls, freezing every hand in the room. "Get your hands off her!" Uncle Hank’s raw, furious roar shook the room. I opened my eyes. Uncle Hank stood in the doorway, eyes blazing red, clutching a heavy iron wrench. Behind him swarmed uniformed police officers and a flock of reporters with flashing cameras and boom mics. Aunt Marlene barreled in like a lioness, shoving the stunned orderlies aside without an ounce of hesitation. "Sadie! My baby!" She slapped the syringe out of the nurse's hand and pulled me tightly against her chest. "Don't be scared, darling. Auntie is here. We've got you!"
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