When my foster mother saw me, her composure cracked.
"You—you're back?"
"Shouldn't I be?"
Marco cut in, his tone impatient as he tried to usher me away, as if desperate to hide something.
"This is Camilla's room now. Mother arranged a new room for you—the servants' quarters in the southwest wing. You should go get some rest."
The servants' quarters. The dampest, darkest place in the entire building.
A cold smile touched my lips.
"I've only been gone a few days, and my apartment has already been claimed. You can't blame me for wanting to see it for myself."
Her face darkened, and she hissed in a low voice.
"Don't make a scene. We were just borrowing your things. You're back in one piece, so what's the big deal?"
"Borrowing? The Cartier necklace my father left me is one of a kind. How does she plan to return it?"
Just then, Camilla stepped forward, putting on her signature expression—a mix of wronged innocence and sensibility.
"Please don't be angry. I didn't know these were yours. I just thought, since you've already joined Killian's selection, you might be leaving the family someday. Keeping these things here with me... seemed practical."
Marco immediately jumped to her defense.
"She's right. You're going to end up with Killian anyway—these treasures would be wasted on you."
I looked at him.
"So you've all decided my future for me?"
My foster mother's voice hardened.
"That's enough. You're not yourself tonight. Go rest."
I nodded, not arguing further.
"Since my apartment no longer belongs to me, I demand to reclaim full ownership of all the personal assets my father left me before I go to Killian's territory."
Her face went pale.
"What are you trying to do?!"
I paused at the door and glanced back.
"Mother seems so certain I'll die. Is it really so wrong for me to settle my affairs beforehand?"
Marco scoffed.
"You're acting like a real outsider."
"You're the ones who treated me like an outsider first."
I met their gazes, calm and resolute.
Camilla was bathed in light. I stood in the shadows.
The scene was identical to my previous life.
Rage and injustice threatened to swallow me whole.
This time, I would not make the same mistake again.
To avoid handing over more property, my foster mother reluctantly returned the apartment to me.
Though the place was now unrecognizable.
The walls were bare. The custom handgun my father had left me was gone.
I stood there for a long time, motionless.
That handgun was custom-made for me by my father. The grip was even engraved with my initials.
I had used it to complete my first mission. After my father's death, that gun had been my companion through the toughest years.
I walked to the bookshelf.
The shelves of finance and strategy books had been replaced with gaudy fashion magazines, clearly just for show.
In the safe, my documents had been rummaged through and left in a mess.
My father's family ring was shoved in a corner, buried under a pile of junk—as if someone had intentionally tried to hide it.
I crouched down and picked up the ring.
The moment my fingertips touched the engraved crest, my heart tightened. Its familiar touch felt strangely alien.
I froze.
Something was wrong.
It wasn't like this before.
In my last life, I had never noticed these details. I was too busy trying to survive.
Looking back, none of it made sense.
