Chapter 5

With that kind of money, the possibilities were endless.

I started by visiting a nearby known university. I found a few fresh-faced college students there and paid them to post flyers advertising tutoring services.

After interviewing the applicants, I hired nine tutors to work for me.

Next, I scouted for clients at middle school entrance prep classes and nearby high schools.

To reel parents in, I performed impressive “party tricks”: reciting the digits of pi, reciting poetry, and solving advanced math problems on the spot.

And just like that, my tutoring business took off.

Even before I officially moved into my school district townhouse, I’d secured all the necessary permits to run my tutoring center legally. No shady business here—I was a model citizen.

The money started pouring in. I claimed I was paying my tutors high wages, but most of it went straight into my pocket.

Then, I gave some of the earnings to Mom, who quietly used the funds to buy up small shares in Dad’s company, Skyward Entertainment Group.

Dad might have been the largest shareholder, but he was too busy chasing skirts to notice the details of his business.

When Mom’s shares added up to make her the second-largest shareholder, I was already in high school, and Vanessa’s son was three years old.

Kids grow fast, and he was no exception. I only visited the Riverside Mansion during holidays; I stayed away the rest of the time, claiming I was focused on studying and planning to skip grades.

Dad didn’t believe me initially, thinking I was just being stubborn. He tried to compensate me by sending me more money, which I accepted with a “heartbroken” expression.

Little did he know the saying “a crooked bamboo can sprout fine shoots” applied to me.

I got so caught up in my studies that I accidentally excelled during exams. My teacher, impressed, dragged me to the principal, who fast-tracked me ahead by two grade levels.

It was a win, but I couldn’t pretend to be a child prodigy anymore.

Dad was stunned and stopped pressuring me to return home. Instead, he gave me even more freedom, which, in hindsight, I should’ve taken advantage of earlier.

One day, I looked at Vanessa’s son. His features were undeniably delicate, but none of them resembled Dad’s.

If anything, he looked suspiciously like a particular actor who rose to fame in my past life.

I scratched my head—time to dig deeper.

That night, I reached out to Master Alaric Whitlock online. His live streams, in which he spilled celebrity gossip and told fortunes, had become my guilty pleasure.

Sending him Dad’s ID photo privately, I asked him to analyze Dad’s “lineage fortune.”

The old man squinted at the picture and said, “Too much Photoshop. Send me a candid shot.”

I froze. How did he know I was a girl? My profile used a random guy’s photo from school!

This guy had some fundamental skills.

I rushed downstairs, snapped many candid shots of Dad watching TV—front, profile, close-up, everything—and uploaded them.

Dad looked utterly confused, but I mumbled a weak excuse and fled.

When the photos popped up on Alaric’s livestream, he sighed.

“Troublesome kid, wasting my storage space.”

Soon after, he confirmed my suspicions: Dad’s “child fortune” only allowed for one offspring. Me.

Oh, Vanessa was about to face some serious consequences.

Just as I was preparing to unleash my evidence, the hospital called.

Mom had been in an accident.

I raced to St. Mary’s Medical Center, only to see her through a pane of glass, her body covered in tubes.

A wave of pain consumed me, sharp and relentless, as fragmented memories flooded back.

I saw my past self standing beside Mom in a hospital bed, the flatline on the monitor, and the gut-wrenching scream that tore through me.

Then, the scene shifted—dark skies, bloody hands, and endless despair.

I jolted awake, my vision blackened by rage.

Everything came back to me.