Chapter 2: Choosing Sides

Because of my arrival, the fake heiress Bethany Thompson was anything but pleased.

In the garden, she overturned a pot of rose bushes. The red petals scattered across the manicured lawn like drops of blood. I flinched at the thud, my hands curling tighter around the straps of my thrift store backpack.

In the corridor, she kicked and shattered an antique vase. The Ming dynasty porcelain—something my adoptive parents bragged about at every dinner party—lay in pieces on the Italian marble floor.

Bethany was the recognized little princess of the Thompson family. Spoiled to the core, the kind of girl who’d throw her Starbucks at a barista and expect Daddy to smooth it over with cash.

Right then, with shards everywhere, Mrs. Thompson didn’t scold her. Instead, she cooed, “Come on, honey, don’t make a scene. You know this isn’t our choice.” Her manicured nails clicked against her phone as she texted the housekeeper to clean up.

Bethany pointed at her nose and snapped, “Then you can’t favor her, even if she’s your biological daughter!”

“Oh, my precious, you’re my heart and soul. How could I ever not favor you?” Mrs. Thompson pulled her into a hug, stroking her perfectly highlighted hair.

The bias was impossible to miss. Mrs. Thompson clung to Bethany like those country club moms and their purebred poodles.

Even though she was supposed to conquer me, she couldn’t even pretend to love me.

I thought back to eighteen years in Saint Mary’s Group Home, where birthdays meant sheet cake and group hugs from people who’d be gone by morning. I’d been so desperate for family that I missed every red flag.

Mr. Thompson led me down the corridor, gesturing toward a pink two-story building in the back garden. “Rachel, there aren’t enough rooms in the house, so I built one just for you. The whole building is yours!” He swept his arm out like he was about to cut a ribbon at a new condo opening.

Bethany, mid-tantrum, suddenly cackled. The kind of mean-girl laugh that echoes through high school halls.

She crossed her arms and shot me a sideways look. “Wow, Rachel. Dad really went all out for you, huh? You’d better show him how grateful you are and move in ASAP.”

Last life, after so many rejections, I believed everything they said. I didn’t even notice Bethany’s sarcasm or Mr. Thompson’s true motives.

I moved into the house with a grateful heart—never realizing every night’s breathlessness and dizziness was more than anxiety.

The nosebleeds started. White pillowcases stained red by morning. I chalked it up to nerves, never suspecting the house itself was killing me.

Only after I died did I learn: the house was a cheap prefab, bought online, bypassing every safety code. Repainted with bargain-bin chemicals, filled with press-board furniture that reeked of formaldehyde. Sometimes, when the wind shifted, I could still catch a whiff of wet fur and bleach from when it was the family’s old dog house.