Chapter 2: Second Chances and Family Secrets

What? I finally made it out—I don’t want to be buried!

The shock jolted through my tiny body like a live wire. No way was I going out like this—after everything, I refused to let my story end before it even began.

Terrified for my tiny life, I immediately opened my mouth and let out a kitten-like wail. It started as a squeak, but desperation turned it into a sharp, insistent cry—a sound no parent could ignore. The kind of cry that demanded the world take notice.

My old man, hearing my cry, was instantly overjoyed, his tears dripping onto my face. The transformation was immediate. The cold mask shattered, replaced by a raw, unfiltered joy that seemed to light up the whole room. His tears mixed with mine, warm and real.

“Quick, get the doctor! The baby’s crying—she’s alive!”

Panic gave way to purpose. People rushed around, bumping into each other, hope sparking in their eyes. Even the monitors seemed to beep a little faster.

He hurriedly pulled open the blanket, his stubbly chin gently pressing to my cheek. His beard was scratchy, but his touch was gentle—tentative, as if afraid I might slip away again. I felt his pulse, quick and hopeful.

“Sweetheart… don’t leave your old dad. As long as you survive, I swear I’ll never hurt anyone again. I’ll do good, for you.”

His voice cracked, the words a promise and a plea. I felt the weight of his vow settle over me like a second blanket, heavy but warm.

Too prickly. The beard tickled, making me squirm. I reached out blindly, waving my arms, searching for comfort.

I flailed my tiny hands. The doctors, who thought they’d have to follow the little girl in death, instantly perked up and took turns checking my pulse. Their hands were practiced but gentle, faces split between disbelief and cautious hope. The air buzzed with tension as they huddled close.

“There’s a pulse!”

The declaration sent a jolt through the room. A collective breath was released, hope spreading like wildfire.

“Strange, it was so weak just now, but now it’s growing stronger and stronger.”

The chief nurse’s brows shot up, her professional detachment slipping for a second. She glanced at my father, then back at me, shaking her head in amazement.

A sharp chief nurse immediately gripped Marcus Jennings’ arm, her hands clasped together as she exclaimed, "Mr. Jennings, you must be the luckiest dad in the world!"

Seeing me come back to life, Marcus Jennings was overjoyed and waved his hand: “Bonuses for everyone!”

The room erupted in quiet cheers. Someone pumped a fist in the air; another wiped away a tear. Even the janitor paused to beam at me as if I’d just delivered them all a winning lottery ticket.

I was wrapped in soft blankets by gentle hands, smacked my lips, and drifted into a deep sleep. The last thing I remembered was the lull of soft voices, the scent of baby powder, and the gentle sway of arms that promised safety. I let myself fall, trusting for once that the world would be there when I woke.

Grandpa Joe said, in my last life I did a lot of good, so this life I get to enjoy blessings. His words echoed in my mind, a comfort I clung to as sleep claimed me. Maybe this time, I really would get my happy ending.

So, I became the child of the villainous CEO in a group-pampering novel. Not exactly the American dream, but hey, it sure beat oblivion. At least here, my struggles might matter.

My old man was injured in a rodeo accident in his youth. Despite a string of girlfriends and socialites, he remained a lonely old man at thirty-eight. He was the kind of man who looked right at home in a Stetson, but now traded boots for bespoke suits. People still whispered about the day the bull threw him—about how he’d never been the same since.

He prayed at every church, just for a single heir. He’d lit candles in cathedral naves and knelt in small-town chapels, his name a regular in every prayer chain from here to Oklahoma.

The First Lady, competing for attention, forced herself to conceive using risky fertility treatments. Her desperation made her reckless. The tabloids loved to gossip about the lengths she’d gone to—every appointment, every failed attempt, splashed across social media like a badge of honor or shame.

Unfortunately, such a child was never healthy, and she was sabotaged at seven months, causing her to give birth prematurely. People whispered about bad luck, about curses. But the truth was, envy and ambition could be just as deadly as disease.

In the end, the child was born still. The hospital room turned cold. The silence that followed was heavy—no one spoke, but everyone knew it was the end of something precious.

When my old man saw his hard-won child die, he went on a rampage, launching lawsuits and business takeovers everywhere. He drowned his grief in paperwork and power plays, leaving no enemy standing. His name became synonymous with vengeance—a warning, not a legacy.

In the end, he was “moved” by the female lead, adopted her as his daughter, handed the Jennings Corporation to the male lead, and was finally destroyed by his enemies. That’s how the story was supposed to go. But now, I’d changed everything. Or so I hoped.