I Was Reborn in My Jealous Sister's Life

[Wow… he's so handsome. And he's my brother? His eyes are gorgeous, but why do they look so sad? Don't worry, big bro. With me here, you'll never be lonely again.]

The moment those thoughts reached him, Lance went utterly still. He had spent his entire life relying on no one—always polite, distant, and entirely numb to the loneliness that accompanied being unwanted.

No one had ever truly seen him, let alone spoken to the part of him he didn't dare show until now.

For the first time, someone reached into that cold, quiet space within him and ignited a spark.

His amber eyes gradually softened; the edges were no longer sharp, but instead tentative and curious.

Gently, almost as if he feared I might shatter, he laid me back in the crib. Then, without saying a word, he reached up and unclasped the ivory pendant from around his neck. The metal was still warm from his skin. He carefully fastened it around mine.

"This was the only thing my mother ever left me," he whispered. "Now… it'll protect you."

My chest ached with warmth. I knew exactly how much that pendant meant to him. That was the only thing connecting him to his mom, and he just gave it to me, no big deal.

Across the room, the billionaire and his wife—who are now my parents—watched us with tears in their eyes, holding each other as if they had just witnessed something sacred. It was the kind of moment you spend your whole life hoping to experience.

From that day on, Lance came to visit me at the postpartum center every single day.

And bit by bit, the frost on his face started to thaw.

Whenever I reached out with my tiny fingers to grab his hand, he'd freeze and quickly turn his head away. But the soft blush climbing up the tips of his ears always gave him away.

It wasn't long before he was mixing my formula and feeding me himself, holding the bottle with stiff hands as if I were made of glass.

From day one, I refused breast milk and only drank formula.

[Mom carried me for nine whole months. She deserves to rest now. I want to be a thoughtful baby.]

I even stuck to a perfect schedule, sleeping by 10 p.m. like clockwork, and waking up by 7 a.m. If I ever got hungry during the night, I pressed the nurse call button instead of crying or waking up Mom.

Unsurprisingly, I became the darling of the center.

And once I realized how much everyone loved a smart, polite baby, I started showing off just a little.

First, I started with 'Mommy' and 'Daddy.' Then I leveled up, calling the nurses 'Miss' and the other moms 'Ma'am.' The whole postpartum center lit up with excitement.

"Pearl's a genius baby!"

"She's talking already? She's barely a month old!"

While I was busy stealing hearts, my sister—on the opposite side of the center—was beginning to attract some attention as well. Her features had started to sharpen, and her skin was as fair and delicate as porcelain. People began commenting that she looked like a doll straight out of a luxury boutique.

And that was all it took for Vivian, my sister's new mom, to discover her motherly instincts suddenly. She cradled my sister like she was priceless fine silverware, softly singing lullabies as she rocked her in her arms. And then, to everyone's surprise, my sister started humming along.

That sent the whole center into a frenzy.

"No way! Two prodigy babies under one roof?"

"One's talking, the other's harmonizing? What are the odds?!"

During group events or check-ups, my sister would parade around as if she owned the place, chin held high and full of pride.

She made sure to shoot me a look every time, the kind that said:

[Watch yourself, sis. This time, I'm winning.]

Finally, after our one-month stay ended, Vivian couldn't get out of there fast enough. She practically ran out with my sister in her arms.

I knew exactly where she was headed.

She was about to visit her so-called sugar daddy — the man who had been financing her entire lifestyle.

Just like in our last life.

She thought now that she had "his child," she had finally locked down her place. But she was in for a brutal wake-up call.

The man took one look at them, slammed the door in her face, and tossed a wad of cash at her like she was a problem he was tired of fixing.

He was married, and his wife came from a powerful political family, so he wasn't about to jeopardize that.

He looked her dead in the eyes and said coldly, "Take the money and keep your mouth shut. Or I have ten thousand ways to make you and that kid disappear."

She took the money but never let go of the humiliation. She held onto that rage, letting it fester inside her. Eventually, she directed every ounce of that twisted energy into raising her daughter as a perfect, obedient weapon.

She smothered her, controlled her, and drilled her like she was some soulless machine.

She only lets me sleep four hours a day. The rest of my time was consumed with work: studying, dancing, acting, singing, and rehearsing like a show pony. She kept polishing until my shine dulled.

The exhaustion chipped away at me, day after day.

Once, I twisted my ankle so badly during a dance rehearsal that I nearly ended up with permanent damage.

And what did she do?

While I lay on the hospital bed, she opened a livestream.

She exploited my pain and injury for sympathy, using it as a means to garner new sponsors and roles. She milked it dry to feed her own rising fame.

By the time I turned eighteen, she looked me straight in the eye and told me it was time to "repay her" for raising me. She taught me how to please the industry's powerful men. How to survive in a world built on favors, deals, and fake smiles.

Eventually, she reached her goal.

She became a film queen.

And I became a superstar.

The country's hottest actress.

But the cost?

My body. My dignity. My tears.

So when Freya, my sister, who had literally kicked me into that woman's womb, showed up years later in a wheelchair, dragging me toward my death like some tragic villain in a drama…

She had no idea what kind of hell I had already clawed my way out of.