It was the twelfth year since I had been adopted by the wealthy family.

The biological daughter had finally returned.

Upon learning about the tragic life she had led all those years, my adoptive parents gradually grew to resent me.

They planned to have me pack up and move out, but my older brother stepped in just in time to stop them.

Four years later.

Christian chose to marry me.

Little did I know, his only intention in doing so was to torture me.

"Chloe suffered for so many years. You must spend the rest of your life atoning for your sins."

In the third year of our marriage, a violent argument erupted between us.

In a fit of rage, Christian abandoned me on the highway, leaving me to perish in a massive multi-car pileup.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back at the orphanage.

Once more, I stood before that familiar young couple.

I froze in absolute shock.

Until a little girl nearby covered her nose in disgust, shrieking at the top of her lungs:

"Director! Clara wet her pants! That is so gross!"

1

Yes.

I had wet myself.

As a warm, damp puddle spread down my pants.

The surrounding children immediately gathered to watch the spectacle, covering their mouths and snickering endlessly.

The commotion quickly caught the attention of the director and the elegantly dressed young couple.

The housemother rushed over, her eyebrows knitting together tightly as she glared down at me.

"Clara, what on earth is going on here?"

I kept my head down, remaining dead silent.

Seeing no other choice, she hurriedly escorted me back to the dormitory to change into fresh clothes.

Once I was changed, I spoke up in a weak, fragile voice:

"Auntie Lee, my stomach really hurts. Do I have to go back down?"

She frowned deeply.

"The gentleman down there is the heir to the grand corporate empire. He might choose one of you to be his daughter today. Everyone must be present. Now be a good girl and come down with me."

When we returned to the main hall.

All the children had already lined up in neat rows.

Accompanied by the director, Mr. Charles and Mrs. Catherine paced up and down, sizing up the children of various heights.

Walking beside the couple was a young boy wearing a crisp black shirt. His sharp features carried a distinctly arrogant air—it was Christian.

"Sweetheart, what happened to your face?"

Mrs. Catherine, my adoptive mother from my past life, stopped directly in front of me, exactly as she had done before.

I pulled away my sleeve, revealing blood trickling steadily from my nose.

I had deliberately slammed myself against the wooden banister while walking down the stairs moments ago.

"Why are you bleeding so heavily?" she asked with genuine concern.

I shook my head.

"I don't know. I get nosebleeds all the time anyway."

The girl from earlier eagerly chimed in, projecting her voice toward the adults: "Ma'am, she's the one who just wet herself a minute ago!"

Hearing this, Mrs. Catherine looked down at me with a wave of pity and regret.

Christian stood right by her side.

His cool gaze swept over me lazily, before indifferent drifting away.

Though he was only eight years old, his refined features were already remarkably striking.

An undeniable aura of nobility and aloofness enveloped him.

It felt as though he and us dusty, impoverished children belonged to completely different worlds.

In the end.

The family selected another girl who was roughly my age.

Her name was Seraphina.

It was glaringly obvious how ecstatic and thrilled she was, though her excitement was tinged with a hint of nervous anxiety.

Her eyes were locked onto this family that had seemingly dropped from the heavens.

The beautiful, elegant mother; the extraordinary father; the cool, handsome older brother.

The little girl’s eyes were brimming with bright anticipations for the future.

Just like mine had been in my past life.

2

In my previous life, the little girl adopted by that family was me.

At that time, it had been exactly one year since their biological daughter, Chloe, went missing.

Grief-stricken by the loss of her child, Mrs. Catherine spent her days weeping, drowning in sorrow.

The family consulted a renowned spiritual master, who divined that Chloe was indeed still alive.

The master advised Mrs. Catherine against succumbing to excessive grief, warning that it would severely damage her health and vital energy.

Furthermore, crying day in and day out would take a heavy toll on her eyesight.

If they were to adopt a young girl of a similar age and shower her with love, it might accumulate spiritual blessings to protect their real daughter out in the world.

Taking the advice to heart, the family immediately visited the orphanage and adopted a girl who matched their daughter's age—me.

From then on, they raised me like a precious, flawless jewel.

Perhaps the blessings truly did work.

They were just a bit late.

It was not until my twelfth year with the family, when I turned eighteen, that Chloe finally returned.

One could only imagine the sheer euphoria that swept through the household.

Mrs. Catherine wept tears of absolute joy as she locked her long-lost biological daughter in a fierce embrace.

However.

When the family discovered that Chloe had dropped out of school at fourteen, been manipulated and heartbroken at fifteen, given birth to a child at sixteen, and had a kidney harvested while working odd jobs at seventeen.

Mrs. Catherine was utterly thunderstruck.

Subsequently, the entire household plunged into a profound, suffocating sorrow.

They could never have fathomed that the soft, sweet little princess who had once been the center of their universe would return in such a shattered, broken state.

Her adult life had barely even begun.

Then, their gazes naturally shifted toward me, the adopted daughter.

Though I was the exact same age as Chloe.

I was vibrantly healthy, radiantly beautiful, and exceptionally poised.

Thanks to the family's immense wealth, I could play the piano, dance gracefully, fence, and ice-skate flawlessly. I spoke four languages fluently and maintained impeccable academic grades.

As soon as senior year concluded, I was scheduled to board a flight to attend an elite university in Boston.

Every single bit of this deeply pierced the hearts of my adoptive parents.

Their flesh and blood had endured endless suffering and torment in the slums, while an outsider had lived a life of luxury, effortlessly consuming the finest resources in their home.

After agonizing over the situation, my adoptive mother approached me and bluntly stated that they would no longer fund my education abroad.

Not only that, but she requested that I move out of the house as soon as possible.

Because of my presence, Chloe had been deeply unhappy every single day since her return.

Despite the crushing sorrow of leaving the only family I knew, I calmly agreed to her demands.

Chloe’s tragic past was not my fault, yet I couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of guilt whenever I looked at her.

The undeniable truth was that I had only been brought into this house because of her.

It was because of her absence that I had enjoyed twelve years of an idyllic, carefree life.

Now that the true young mistress had reclaimed her throne.

I had absolutely no justification to remain under their roof.

Strangely, barely three months after I moved out.

Christian, who was supposed to be studying in Boston at the time, rushed back to the country and forcefully dragged me back to the estate.

He then used every ounce of leverage he had to convince our parents to let me stay.

Seeing his son’s fierce obstinacy, the father ultimately relented and permitted me to remain.

I could not comprehend why Christian was doing this.

I foolishly assumed he treasured the bond we shared growing up together, unable to bear the thought of seeing me abandoned.

Even though I repeatedly assured him that moving out was my own choice, and not forced upon me by our parents.

Christian adamantly refused to let me walk away.

In the end, due to his intense opposition, I stayed in that house.

Back then, I never could have anticipated that this very decision would set the stage for our relationship to end in utter tragedy.

3

Once the wealthy family departed from the orphanage, a wave of relief washed over me.

In this life, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with them.

Thinking it through, staying at the orphanage was not a bad alternative.

Though my physical body was merely six years old, my mind was that of a twenty-five-year-old adult.

I understood the basic rules of survival.

I could easily navigate the environment to ensure I wouldn't be mistreated or bullied by the other kids.

Moreover, my academic performance in my past life had been stellar.

Academics would be an absolute breeze for me.

Once I entered middle school and high school, I could easily take up tutoring gigs or work odd jobs.