Reborn as Their Child After He Killed Me Six Times

Time flew by, and soon it was my first birthday. It was the day of the traditional 'Grab' ceremony, where the first object I snatched would foretell my entire future.

The family threw a celebration to mark it.

A week earlier, Claire had suddenly turned into a different person, overflowing with maternal affection.

Not only did she make sure I was fully fed, she held me in her arms, calling me “sweetheart” and “baby.”

Whenever she had the chance, she would dangle an emerald charm in front of me, her voice syrupy sweet.

“Sweetheart, pick this at the ceremony. Then you’ll be the Lewis family’s lucky star.”

I sneered inwardly.

Others might not know, but I knew perfectly well.

Back then, Derek’s father had spent over twenty million dollars at an auction just to win an emerald charm for his mistress, which angered Derek’s mother so much that she vomited blood on the spot and passed away not long after.

She wanted me to touch Derek’s deepest sore spot in public, to make him resent me?

Claire really thought this through.

Too bad she chose the wrong target.

I had been with Derek for eight years. No one understood him or the Lewis family better than I did.

The selection ceremony began.

In the grand hall, a red carpet stretched across the floor, golden lights dazzling overhead.

A ten-meter-long table was laid out, covered with symbolic prizes: a stack of property deeds, the company’s official seal, a title deed to a harbor terminal… and at the very center sat a luminous emerald charm worth eight figures.

I crawled across the long table, bare-bottomed.

Treasure after treasure lay within reach.

The crowd held its breath, waiting to see what I would choose.

I didn’t even glance at them.

I crawled straight to the corner, reached out, and grabbed an unremarkable silk pouch.

Someone in the crowd let out a snort of laughter.

“So tacky. Surrounded by a fortune, and she picks up trash.”

Hearing the mockery, Claire showed no instinct to protect me.

Instead, she curled her lips and watched my performance.

Amid the laughter filling the hall, only Derek’s expression changed.

His eyes widened as he rushed forward, lifting me high into the air, his voice trembling.

“Sweetheart, it seems even the Lewis ancestors have acknowledged you.”

He opened the pouch in front of everyone.

Inside lay an antique cufflink, its inner edge engraved with a single line of fine script: Heir to the Lewis family.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Lewis, your daughter picked the best fortune!” someone called out from the crowd.

Claire froze where she stood, her nails digging into her palm. The corners of her mouth twitched again and again, yet she still forced out a composed smile.

Curled up in Derek’s arms, I let out a soft giggle.

Derek once told me that the pouch contained the Lewis family heirloom, passed down only to each head of the family.

After the celebration, he became even more devoted to me, the picture of a doting father.

He had my crib moved into the master bedroom and personally fed me and burped me at night.

When he traveled for work, it was even more over the top—there was always a folded stroller tucked beside his luggage, and wherever he went, I went with him.

During business negotiations, I sat beside him in a baby seat, clutching my bottle and gulping happily.

When his assistant quietly reminded him that it wasn’t appropriate, Derek glanced up coldly.

“The future heiress of the Lewis family sits here. What’s inappropriate about that?”

At evening functions, he let me sit on his shoulders, showing me off to everyone he met.

“Look at my daughter. Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t she adorable?”

Outside, people spread the word that he and his wife were deeply in love and that he spoiled his daughter beyond measure.

When Claire heard this, she flew into a rage in the kitchen, smashing a stack of dishes, her fingers trembling with anger.

But soon, it was as if she had made up her mind. A cold smile curled on her lips.

Under Derek’s care, I lived a life soaked in sweetness, like being dipped in honey, until I turned three, and Claire was pushed into the delivery room once again.

A few days later, she returned triumphantly, holding a wrinkled newborn boy, smiling like she had just won a battle.

“You little brat, you’re finished! Now that there’s a son, let’s see if your father even looks at you anymore.”

Her nails dug into my cheek, almost drawing blood.

Tears welled up at the corners of my eyes, but inside, I sneered—she had just dug her own grave.