1 I was the real heiress, switched at birth. In my past life, I died in a staged car crash. Before losing consciousness, I saw Vivian Forte—the girl who stole my life—watching from a distance. Then I understood the terrible truth. I had endured every insult, believing my birth family would someday accept me. But it was all a one-sided delusion. Reborn, I faced my "parents" again, hearing the same hollow words: “Erica, we’ve come to take you home.” I smiled coldly and slid a ledger across the table. “First, let’s settle the bill: 18 years of expenses—$385,000 owed to my real parents. Cash or transfer?” … The air in our little diner froze. A collective gasp rippled through the neighbors and customers crowded around. My adoptive parents looked like they’d seen a ghost. Mom snatched the ledger from my hands, her own trembling as she waved them off. “No, no, Mr. and Mrs. Forte, please, she’s just a kid, talking nonsense! We never wanted any money, not a single penny!” My dad chimed in, forcing a nervous laugh. “That’s right, that’s our Erica. Always joking around.” As he spoke, he was jabbing me frantically in the ribs behind his back. I ignored him, my gaze fixed on the two people who were supposed to be my real family. William Forte’s face was as dark as thunder. This was clearly not the heartwarming reunion he’d envisioned. As for his wife, Victoria, the flicker of guilt in her eyes had vanished, replaced by a deep, undisguised contempt. “Erica, we know you’ve had a difficult life. We understand you’re resentful,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. She retrieved a platinum credit card from her Hermès bag and placed it on the table with a theatrical sigh. “There’s fifty thousand dollars on this. A little something to compensate you. The PIN is your birthday.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now, stop with these cheap theatrics. Come home with us, and don’t make things difficult for your adoptive parents.” Her words were a slap in the face, a charity handout meant to shut me up. As if my demand was just a pathetic ploy for attention from a girl who’d never seen real money. In my last life, this very card was all it took to buy their way out of eighteen years of gratitude. And I, like a fool, had accepted it with tears in my eyes. This time, I just laughed. I slid the card back across the table. “Mrs. Forte, you’ve misunderstood.” “First,” I began, my voice steady and clear, “my life hasn’t been difficult at all. My parents love me. We may not have much money, but we’re happy.” “Second, this isn’t compensation; it’s a transaction. You want your daughter back? You pay the price. There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world.” “And third, if you think three hundred eighty-five thousand is too much, that’s fine.” I paused, letting my words hang in the air before delivering the final blow. “You don’t have to acknowledge me at all. I’ve managed for eighteen years without you. I think I’ll be just fine.” My words struck them like a physical blow. The Fortes, William and Victoria, stared at me in disbelief. They had probably never imagined that their immense wealth and status, the very things they used to control the world, would mean absolutely nothing to me. William’s lips trembled with rage. “You… You’re being utterly unreasonable!” Just as the standoff reached its peak, the door of their Bentley opened, and a girl in a white sundress emerged. Vivian. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed as she drifted timidly to Victoria’s side. “Dad, Mom, please don’t pressure her,” she whispered, her voice a fragile, honeyed thing, brimming with manufactured kindness. “It’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, my sister wouldn’t have suffered so much.” She turned to me, her expression a perfect mask of empathy. “We should be more understanding.” She approached my counter, her eyes wide and pleading. “Sister… my name is Vivian. I know you must hate me right now, but… I’m so, so happy you’re back.” “From now on, I’ll share Mom and Dad’s love with you. I’ll give you half of everything! No, I’ll give it all to you! I’ll treat you like my real sister. Can’t we please be a family?” It was a masterful performance. The onlookers were completely captivated, their expressions softening with sympathy and admiration. Look at her, their faces said. So kind, so generous. A true lady. And then there was me. The cold, calculating monster, shaking down my long-lost family for cash. In my last life, that innocent act had fooled me completely. I’d truly believed she was just a sweet, naive little sister. Now, it just made me sick. I slammed my metal spatula down on the hot griddle. CLANG! Hot oil spat, and Vivian flinched back with a tiny yelp. I met her gaze, my lips twisting into an ice-cold smile. “Let me guess,” I said, my voice low and sharp. “You’re terrified I’m going to come back and take everything from you, aren’t you? Your fiancé, your inheritance, this perfect little life you’ve built. So you came running over here to play the part of the loving sister, just to feel out how much of a threat I am.” The color drained from Vivian’s face. I slapped a menu down on the counter in front of her. “Stop the act. It’s exhausting to watch.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Order something, or get lost. You’re holding up my line.” 2 Tears welled in Vivian’s eyes, spilling over and tracing glittering paths down her cheeks like perfect, practiced pearls. She looked so utterly wounded, you’d think I was the one who had wronged her. “Sister, I… I didn’t…” she choked out, turning a desperate, pleading gaze to William and Victoria. Victoria immediately wrapped a protective arm around her. “Erica, that’s enough!” she snapped, her voice sharp with fury. “Vivian is trying to be kind to you! What is this attitude? Have you no manners at all?” I almost laughed out loud. Manners? In my last life, after they took me “home,” they forced me into etiquette classes I hated and dresses I couldn’t breathe in. They tried to sand down every rough edge, to erase every habit I’d ever learned. If I slipped up, even once, they’d say it: “See? You can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can’t take the gutter out of the girl.” Their idea of “manners” was just another word for a leash. “The only manners I know are the ones my parents taught me,” I shot back, my voice ringing with defiance. “You treat people with respect, and they’ll treat you with respect. You try to screw them over, you get what’s coming to you.” The great family reunion ended right there, with William Forte storming away in a cloud of impotent fury. They dragged the sobbing Vivian with them, leaving a wake of chaos. I thought that would be the end of it. But I had underestimated their need for control. The next day, my dad’s supervisor called him into the office. He was being “temporarily” laid off due to “restructuring.” Soon after, the supermarket where my mom worked let her go, citing “overstaffing.” Then, an anonymous complaint was filed against our diner. A sudden health code violation. We were forced to shut down pending an investigation. In the blink of an eye, every source of income we had was gone. My parents were beside themselves with worry, their faces etched with anxiety. That night, we sat in the suffocating silence of our living room. My dad finally let out a long, weary sigh and slid a credit card across the coffee table toward me. “Erica,” he said, his voice heavy. “This is… from your birth parents. They had someone drop it off. It’s the fifty thousand.” His eyes were a storm of conflicting emotions. “They said… as long as you agree to enroll at Northwood Preparatory Academy, our lives can go back to normal.” Northwood Prep. The most elite private high school in the state. The school where Vivian and her older brother, Ethan Forte, were students. I stared at the card, a bitter cold seeping into my bones. So, this was their game. They never cared about what I wanted. They only cared about forcing me into the life they’d chosen for me, all under the guise of “what’s best.” They thought that by cutting off our livelihood, they could starve me into submission. Force me back into their gilded cage, where I could finally play the part of their obedient, grateful long-lost daughter. In my last life, it worked. My parents, heartbroken but not wanting to hold me back, had tearfully put me in the Fortes’ car. This time, I wouldn’t let them win. I pushed the card back. “Dad, Mom, don’t worry about this,” I said. My heart ached seeing the despair on their faces, but my voice was unwavering. “We can find new jobs. We can move the diner. We can start over.” I looked from one to the other, my resolve hardening. “But if you lose your daughter, she’s gone for good.” “I don’t want to go to Northwood Prep. And I don’t want to go ‘home’ with them. The only place I want to be is right here, with you.” Tears streamed down my mother’s face as she pulled me into a fierce hug, sobbing too hard to speak. My dad’s eyes were red, and he slammed his fist on the table. “That’s right!” he declared, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re not going! To hell with them and their money! I’ll go work construction if I have to! I can still provide for my family!” A profound warmth spread through my chest. Having parents like them was the greatest treasure I could have asked for, in this life or the last. But I knew this wasn't over. Hiding wouldn't solve anything. I had to go on the offensive. The next day, I put on my faded public-school uniform, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and walked straight through the gilded gates of Northwood Preparatory Academy. 3 Northwood Prep lived up to its reputation. Even the front gates were gold-plated, gleaming ostentatiously in the morning sun. My worn, slightly-too-small blue and white uniform stood out like a sore thumb in a sea of custom-tailored blazers and luxury cars. Nearly every eye was on me, filled with a mixture of curiosity and undisguised disdain. The Fortes’ network was ruthlessly efficient. Before I’d even set foot on campus, the story of my “legendary” origins had already made the rounds. I was the long-lost heiress from the wrong side of the tracks, the charity case desperate to claw her way into a world she didn't belong to. I ignored the whispers and stares, heading straight for the administration office. But I was intercepted before I could even round the first corner. A clique of girls blocked my path, with Vivian Forte, of course, at its center. When she saw me, her face lit up with a look of feigned, delighted surprise. “Sister! You really came! This is wonderful!” She rushed forward, reaching to link her arm with mine. I took a sharp step to the side. Her hand froze awkwardly in mid-air. The color drained from her face, and her eyes immediately welled with tears. “Sister… are you still angry with me?” One of her friends instantly stepped forward, jabbing a finger in my direction. “Hey! Who do you think you are? Vivian was just trying to be nice to you. What’s with the attitude?” Another girl chimed in. “Yeah, I heard you were Vivian’s long-lost… sister? She’s the sweetest person here. You better not be planning on bullying her.” Vivian quickly intervened, playing the part of the gracious peacemaker. “Don’t say that! It’s not her fault. My sister… the place where she grew up was… a lot simpler. She’s just not used to this environment. We should be patient with her.” With just a few carefully chosen words, she had painted me as the jealous, uncivilized rube from the sticks, while she remained the kind, benevolent princess, suffering my brutishness with a saintly grace. The crowd of onlookers grew, their whispers turning into a low hum of judgment. “So that’s the real heiress? She looks so… cheap.” “Right? Compared to Vivian, she’s like a different species.” “God, how embarrassing. If I were her, I’d just leave.” I stared at Vivian’s perfectly crafted mask of innocence, feeling nothing but a profound sense of boredom. In my last life, her little games had worked perfectly, isolating me until I became the paranoid, bitter person everyone already believed I was. This time, her high-school theatrics were just pathetic. Just then, the crowd parted, and a tall, handsome boy strode through. He wore the student council uniform, the president’s badge pinned neatly to his chest. His expression was one of innate, casual arrogance. It was her older brother, Ethan Forte. The moment he appeared, Vivian’s tears overflowed. “Ethan…” she whimpered, scurrying to hide behind him like a frightened kitten. Ethan didn’t even glance at me. He just frowned, patting Vivian’s shoulder with practiced concern. Then, his cold eyes finally found mine. “You. Come with me.” He led me to the deserted rooftop. The wind was strong, whipping at the hem of his perfectly pressed blazer. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing to get into Northwood, but you need to understand something,” he said, his voice low and menacing as he looked down at me. “Vivian is the most precious person in this family. She’s pure, kind, and incredibly sensitive. If you do anything to hurt her, I swear, I have a hundred ways to make your life a living hell here.” It was the exact same speech he’d given me in my past life. Word for word. Back then, his threat had terrified me. I’d stammered and tried to explain, but he hadn’t listened. But now… I lifted my chin, meeting his icy gaze without flinching. “Are you done?” I asked calmly. Ethan blinked, thrown off balance. This was clearly not the reaction he’d expected. I took a step closer, closing the distance between us. My voice was quiet, but every word was a shard of ice. “First, I’m not here for you, or for Vivian, or for the Forte family. So you can take your self-important warnings and shove them.” “Second, her being ‘pure and kind’?” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “That’s not kindness. That’s because you’re blind.” “And finally,” I said, watching his face slowly turn crimson with rage, “you need to control your little sister. Tell her to stay away from me.” “Because if she tries anything again, I can’t guarantee that precious, innocent little mask of hers will stay in one piece.” 4 Ethan’s face went from red to a deep, mottled purple. He’d probably never been spoken to like that in his entire privileged life, especially not by someone he considered to be nothing more than trailer trash. He lunged forward, radiating a palpable fury. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?” “Who am I?” I met his rage with unnerving calm. “You’ve already had me thoroughly investigated, haven’t you? I’m Erica Harris. Eighteen years old. Your biological sister. And the single greatest threat to your precious Vivian’s fairy-tale life.” Without another word, I turned and walked away, leaving him seething on the rooftop. I could hear his enraged shout behind me, but I didn’t look back. There was no point in reasoning with people like this. They only understood one thing: power. The only way to make them feel anything was to systematically dismantle everything they held dear, piece by painful piece. In the days that followed, I became the laughingstock of Northwood Prep. Under Ethan’s direction, no one dared to speak to me. My desk was regularly filled with trash, and my homework would mysteriously disappear. Vivian, meanwhile, followed me around with her entourage, constantly putting on a show of sisterly affection that only made me look colder and more ungrateful. I ignored it all. I was just biding my time. Soon, it was time for the school’s annual Arts Festival. The grand finale, as always, was a piano solo by the one and only Vivian Forte. When I saw the program and the title of her piece—a composition she was claiming as her own, retitled “Awakening”—a sharp, familiar pain lanced through my heart. The song’s real name was “Echoes of Home.” My adoptive mother had once been the most promising student at her music conservatory, with dreams of becoming a composer. But she had given it all up. To adopt me, to pay for my childhood medical bills, to give me a chance at a good life, she and my dad had abandoned their stable careers to run a small diner, working themselves to the bone day and night. Her dreams were ground to dust by the harsh realities of life. She never touched a piano again. “Echoes of Home” was the only complete piece she ever wrote—the embodiment of her lost youth, her sacrificed dreams. She had only ever taught it to me, and the hand-written score was the most precious gift she had ever given me. This time, I had locked the score away in a hidden drawer. I never thought Vivian would find it. But she had. She hadn’t just stolen my mother’s dream; she was about to use it to build her own pedestal of fame and glory. I would not let that happen. The night of the festival, the auditorium was packed. William and Victoria Forte sat in the front row, center stage, their faces beaming with pride. Vivian, dressed in a flowing white gown, floated to the Steinway grand piano at the center of the stage. The spotlight followed her, making her look ethereal, almost angelic. She gave a graceful bow, her eyes flickering for a split second in my direction where I stood in the shadows. Then she sat, her slender fingers caressing the keys. The familiar, haunting melody filled the hall. When she finished, the auditorium erupted in thunderous applause. The host rushed onto the stage, breathless with excitement. “That was simply breathtaking! Vivian, I heard that you composed this piece, ‘Awakening,’ yourself. Can you tell us about your inspiration?” Vivian took the microphone, a perfect, practiced smile on her face. She was just about to speak when I emerged from the darkness and walked onto the stage. Every head in the auditorium turned. Every spotlight swung to find me. The smile on Vivian’s face froze. “Sister? What are you—?” I ignored her. I took the microphone from the stunned host’s hand and faced the audience. “A beautiful performance,” I said, my voice ringing out with perfect clarity. I paused, my gaze sweeping over the shifting, uneasy faces of the Fortes before landing squarely on Vivian’s ghostly pale one. “Too bad it’s not original.” “In fact,” I continued, my voice dropping into a deadly calm, “it was stolen. By a thief. From my home.” A shocked gasp swept through the crowd. Before anyone could react, I pulled a folded document from my pocket and held it up for the stage cameras to capture. “This song’s real name is ‘Echoes of Home.’ And its copyright,” I announced, letting the words sink in, “was officially registered three days ago. By me, Erica Harris.” I brandished the copyright certificate, my voice sharp and clear. “Vivian Forte, what you’ve just committed is not just plagiarism. It’s breaking and entering, theft, and copyright infringement.” My eyes locked onto hers. “So, what will it be? Shall we settle this privately… or should we see each other in court?”
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