Part 1True Heiress’s Wish to Die

Seven years. That's how long I'd been back with the Moreaus, the family I was born into. And in all that time, they all still hated me.

My parents found the stench of poverty impossible to wash off me, a stark contrast to the effortless grace of the girl who had taken my place.

My biological brother, Marcus, blamed me for the year the false daughter had to move out and "suffer" after I first came home. When she moved back in, he guarded her like a junkyard dog, convinced I was a constant threat.

Even Rhys, the boy I practically raised from infancy, declared that the false daughter, Sophie, was the sister he'd always dreamed of.

Me? I was the wicked witch who wouldn't let him eat junk food or play video games all day.

He once told me, with all the certainty of a child, that no one in the world would ever love me.

I thought he was right.

It had to be something in the air of this world, something fundamentally toxic to my existence.

So when a System appeared out of nowhere and asked if I wanted to complete missions in other worlds, I didn't hesitate.

I agreed instantly.

…

The System came for me the day I got out of the detention center.

I'd been locked up for two weeks. Outside, winter had sunk its teeth into the air. I wrapped my thin windbreaker tighter around myself.

Hunching my shoulders against the biting wind, I mumbled to the System.

"Are you sure? As soon as this body dies, you can take me away?"

After receiving a firm confirmation, my eyes settled on the nearby lake.

I had just started walking toward it when a heavy coat was draped over my shoulders.

I turned my head and came face-to-face with a sight that made my stomach churn.

My dear brother, Marcus Moreau.

Two weeks ago, he was the one who had personally escorted me to the police station.

It was because Sophie's masterpiece for the art competition, which had mysteriously gone missing, was found in my room. In shreds.

At first, I had screamed myself hoarse, trying to defend myself.

But as I looked at their impassive faces, my explanations withered into despair.

I had forgotten. Sometimes, the truth doesn't matter.

Everyone has their own set of scales.

And a single one of Sophie’s tears could outweigh my entire existence.

Marcus had wiped away that tear and told me, his face a mask of cold disappointment, that I needed to learn a lesson.

Remembering that, I shrugged my shoulders.

The heavy men’s coat slid off and landed in a heap on the dusty ground.

Marcus’s face tightened, his expression growing colder still.

The old me would have been a mess of anxiety, forcing a placating smile. But now, I just gave him a sideways glance before looking away.

"Does Sophie know you're here?" I asked, my voice flat. "Because I'd hate for her to shed a tear and have you pin the blame on me again."

I offered a thin, humorless smile. "Two weeks ago, she cried, and you sent me to a detention center. You gave me a permanent record and made sure I wouldn't be able to graduate. If she cries again, what's next? Do you want me to bleed out to dry her tears for you?"

Marcus, who had bent down to pick up the coat, froze. He stayed like that for several long seconds.

After all, we both knew the truth. Sophie had destroyed her own painting. It was a pathetic, self-staged drama.

Over the years, her schemes had always been clumsy and obvious, but our parents, Marcus, and Rhys had all chosen to be blind.

Finally, he straightened up, brushing the dust from his coat. He didn't offer it to me again.

He kept his eyes on the ground.

"Come home. Mom and Dad are waiting."

He paused, then finally looked at me. "Mom bought you a strawberry cake."

He reached for my hand.

I flinched back, taking several steps away. "I don't eat strawberry cake. I ate Sophie’s once, and you locked me outside in the courtyard to stand all night. Remember? It was snowing, too."

The fingers of his outstretched hand curled into a fist. He looked away, his gaze darting around like a cornered animal.

A silent, bitter laugh formed on my lips.

I knew he remembered. That night, as I stood shivering in the snow-filled courtyard, I had looked up and seen him in his second-floor bedroom, warm in a thin sweater.

He gave me a single, indifferent glance before drawing the curtains shut.

Snowflakes landed on my eyelashes, melting into cold trickles that slid down my numb face. I couldn't tell if they were water or tears.