I always smiled and tolerated her, never arguing back.
Even the housekeeper couldn’t understand.
“Miss, why let the second young lady bully you? You should teach her a lesson.”
They didn’t realize—
the more I indulged my fake sister, the more spoiled and reckless she would become.
Only then, when she eventually discovered she wasn’t the real daughter, would she desperately cling to the life she’d stolen, willing to do anything to keep it.
Meanwhile, I never let myself slack off. From preschool onward, I studied multiple foreign languages, practiced piano and calligraphy, and trained in Taekwondo to stay fit.
My parents thought I was too hardworking.
But to me, this was a dream reborn—
in my past life, trapped in a body crippled by cerebral palsy, I could only envy other children’s freedom.
Now that I had been given another chance, how could I not give everything?
Life flowed peacefully for a while. Allison’s features, however, began to resemble Martha’s more and more with each passing year.
Then came her sixth birthday.
The celebration was grand, filled with relatives and friends. But one blunt relative asked the question that silenced the entire room:
“Why doesn’t Allison look like her parents at all?”
Allison froze, her face twisting. Then she screamed, grabbed the cake, and hurled it at the relative.
“Country bumpkin! You’re lying!” she shouted.
The scene turned painfully awkward.
She threw herself onto the floor, kicking and wailing.
“I look the most like my parents! Even more than my sister!”
I watched her coldly, fighting the urge to laugh.
It wasn’t just the guests who noticed—my parents, too, had begun to wonder privately.
I hesitated. Should I take this chance to expose the truth?
But before I could act, my grandfather stepped forward, his expression stern.
“I was there when Allison was born,” he said firmly. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
His words restored order, and my parents rushed to comfort Allison, clearly shaken.
At that moment, I changed my mind.
I approached and gently hugged her.
“Don’t listen to them,” I whispered. “You’ll always be the Evans family’s second daughter. No one can take that from you. Even if someone tries, you must protect it with everything you have. Understand?”
She blinked through her tears, half-confused, then nodded seriously.
I smiled inwardly.
The seed of greed had been planted.
After being scolded, Allison seemed to have learned her lesson. She no longer threw tantrums in public. Instead, she began to imitate me—studying hard, trying to behave like a proper young lady.
But blood never lies.
No matter how hard she tried, she struggled with everything. She couldn’t keep up in her studies, cried whenever she was frustrated, and constantly tested her teachers’ patience.
I didn’t have to say or do anything—my parents could already see the difference.
Still, I continued to play the role of the gentle, understanding older sister.
By ten, I had passed my eighth-grade piano exam and won first place in the National Children’s Brush Calligraphy Competition.
My grandparents were so proud that they gifted me two villas.
My parents, overjoyed, began to focus all their attention and resources on me.
Meanwhile, whispers about Allison grew louder:
“How could the Evans family, with such good genes, have such a slow, awkward daughter?”
“Allison and Lydia look nothing alike. Shouldn’t they do a paternity test?”
Every time she overheard these remarks, Allison would cry hysterically, taking her frustration out on me.
But when she saw my parents’ cold, disappointed eyes, she would stop and swallow her anger.
Eventually, realizing I was the only one who still treated her kindly, she tried to win my affection.
“Sister,” she said one night, clinging to me, “I’ll always be your sister, right?”
I smiled softly and nodded, repeating the words that would shape her fate.
