Reborn: The Unwanted Girl's Spectacular Comeback

"Kalista, apologize to Isabel. Now. ”

That voice was cold and sharp, like shattered glass, piercing through the fog in her mind. It came from a tall figure, blocking out the glaring light of the chandelier above.

A wave of nausea swept over her. The stomach tightens, air is blocked from entering the lungs, stuck deep in the throat. She tried to propel herself up from the cold marble floor, but a scorching, electric pain shot up from her right foot, stealing her breath and forcing a choked gasp from her lips. Ankles.

A few feet away, a soft, delicate voice reached his ear. The sobbing is the cry of an injured bird, meant to evoke sympathy and hint at vulnerability. That was Isabel Sterling's voice.

Kalista's vision cleared. She saw her brother Ethan standing above, his chin tensed in dissatisfaction, and there was no warmth in his eyes. The way he looked at her was not like he was looking at his sister, but rather at the stain on the family's reputation.

And there, carefully arranged on a soft Persian carpet, is Isabel. Her white dress was spotless, and the tiny scrape on her knee became a perfect canvas. She looked like a broken porcelain doll. Her gaze met Kalista's for less than a second. In that fleeting moment, beneath the flickering tears, Kalista saw: a trace of victory satisfaction.

Then it disappeared, drowned out by another burst of heart-wrenching sobs.

"Kalista, apologize to Isabel. Now. ”

Those words echoed not only in the lobby but also in the deepest, most fearful corners of her memory. This scene, this pain, this accusation—everything is terrifyingly chilling, yet so familiar.

The floodgates of her memories suddenly opened. It wasn't a trickle, but a massive flood—a raging torrent from the life she had already lived. His life ended in a cold, sterile hospital ward.

This was seven years ago. She was twenty-one. This is the day it all began. She was falsely accused of pushing Isabel down the stairs on the day.

In her first life, she once cried out about her innocence. She had cried and begged, swearing she had never touched her. No one believed her. Ethan's face wore a mask of disgust, while his father's face bore a cold, disappointed portrait.

The result of her resistance was a one-way ticket to what they called the "Youth Correctional Center"—a gilded cage, a private institution where wealthy families hid their shameful children. It was hell, the place where her spirit was systematically destroyed.

A tremor began in her hand and spread throughout her body. This is not a nightmare, not a memory. The pain in her ankle was too real, the icy cold of marble pressing against her skin.

Her heart pounded violently against her ribs, like something crazy and trapped.

This is true. She came back. She was reborn at the beginning of her own destruction.

Ethan saw her silence and trembling, mistaking it for stubborn resistance. His voice grew louder, carrying a hint of menace. "Are you deaf?" Or do you need me to drag you over myself? ”

Isabel, always a peacemaker, added fuel to the fire. "Brother, please don't be mad at her," she said softly, her voice full of false concern. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have blocked her way...... She may not have done it on purpose. ”

The implication was clear: she did it, but perhaps not out of malice. This is a clever maneuver.

Ethan's expression grew even more stiff.

Kalista took a deep breath, a rough, trembling breath. The fire of hatred in her chest burned fiercely enough to burn the entire world. But she couldn't let it go, not now. If she resisted, if she shouted the truth, she knew exactly what would happen to her.

She couldn't go back to that place. Never.

She had to stay, endure, and gradually dismantle the family until she could finally leave as she wished.

She looked up.

In an instant, her face fell. The cold resoluteness in his eyes vanished, replaced by pure, undisguised fear and regret. Real tears streamed down her cheeks. She has enough pain to absorb.

When she spoke, her voice was a broken, trembling whisper.

"Sorry...... Ethan ...... I'm truly, really sorry, Isabel......"

The effect is immediate. Ethan froze, his mouth slightly open. He was ready for a quarrel, screaming, and denial. He was not prepared to face this—this immediate, complete submission.

Even Isabel's trained sobbing paused for a second, and her performance made a brief mistake.

Callista propped herself up again, and with her ankle protesting, a painful whimper escaped her lips. She fell back to the floor, her face pale, tears soaking her cheeks. She didn't look at Isabel, her eyes fixed on Ethan, big and full of pleading, mixed with pain and desperate regret.

"I...... I really didn't mean to. She stammered, her words rushing out rapidly. I just ...... Rushing to grab my design sketches. I'm afraid I'll be late for submission......"

The excuse was pale, but her expression was flawless. It sounds like something a panicked, clumsy girl would say.

Ethan's anger, which had just been a raging flame, had now faded into a pile of smoldering embers. He still looked down at her from above, his brows tightly furrowed into a deep, doubtful line, but the threat before him had already passed.

Kalista knew she had won her first battle. She avoided the worst possible outcome.

She let her gaze fall to the floor, her damp lashes covering her eyes. She needed to hide them, to hide the cold, calculating coldness that was plotting her path of revenge.

"Let's start now," she thought. "Now."