Chapter 1Loving My Living Ghost

In my previous life, I took a blade for my stepsister, Cassie, three times.

The first time, she was kidnapped by one of her father's ruthless business rivals. I traded my own safety to give her a window to escape, earning a jagged, permanent scar that stretched across my shoulder blades. She didn't even look at the bandages when I got home. She just shrugged and said, "You got lucky."

The second time, her hot-tempered fiancé threw a heavy crystal decanter at her during a public argument. I lunged in front of her, my cheek and neck shredded by flying shards. She looked at the blood on my shirt, frowned, and muttered, "Stop interfering in my life."

The third time, when her startup faced a sudden liquidity crisis, I secretly sold the plot of land my late biological mother had left me, scraping together ten million dollars to deposit anonymously into her corporate account. When she finally tracked down the source of the funds, she slapped me hard in front of her entire board of directors. "Are you pathetic, Dylan? Do you think I need your charity?"

That night, I drank myself into a stupor in my car in the basement garage. I never saw the out-of-control SUV that crashed through the concrete barrier, crushing my car and killing me instantly.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the year Cassie was first brought into the Wilder estate.

This time, when I saw her cornered by street thugs in an alley, I simply put my headphones on and took the long way home.

When she collapsed from a high fever at her desk in the study, I walked right past the door, acting like I saw nothing.

Now, her eyes are rimmed with red as she corners me in the hallway, asking, "Dylan, why did you stop caring about me?"

I tilt my head, my smile polite, distant, and utterly hollow.

"Well, Cassie... didn't you tell me to stay away from you?"

* * *

The moment the words leave my mouth, Cassie freezes.

She struggles to maintain her composure, leaning back against the leather sofa in the hall. Those cold, domineering eyes of hers stare at me, and then a tight, humorless laugh escapes her lips.

"What are you even throwing a tantrum about?" she asks, her voice tight. "Is this because I invited Jared to my birthday party? I know you two don't get along, but is it really worth making a scene like this?"

Jared Westbrook.

Just hearing his name makes a wave of physical revulsion crash over me. He was the golden boy of our social circle—charming, polite, and completely harmless in the eyes of our parents. But behind closed doors, he was a sociopath who spent years systematically isolating and tormenting me.

I will never forget that rainy autumn afternoon during our sophomore year of high school. He pretended to walk with me under his umbrella, only to steer me toward an unbolted storm drain cover hidden under a pile of wet leaves. I plunged straight into the freezing, flooded concrete shaft.

I fell feet-first into the dark, my knees scraping against the jagged iron edges until they bled. The foul, stagnant water rose to my chin, filling my throat every time I gasped for air, leaving me with a visceral terror of drowning that still makes my chest tighten on rainy days. Jared stood above the grate, looking down at me with a lazy smile. "Your mind is filthy, Dylan. Let the rainwater wash it clean."

He only hauled me out when he got scared I'd actually drown and get him caught. Then, sobbing hysterically to my parents, he said, "It's all my fault. I should have held his hand tighter... I didn't see him slip."

Everyone believed his tears. They thought I was just clumsy and dramatic. The more I tried to explain what happened, the more they accused me of being ungrateful to the boy who "saved" me. Even Cassie chimed in back then, looking at me with deep disappointment. "Jared scraped his arm trying to pull you out of that sewer, and you're pointing fingers? Show some respect."

The suffocating chill of those old memories creeps back into my chest, but I swallow the rising tide of bitterness. I keep my face perfectly smooth, devoid of anger or defensiveness.

"I'm not angry," I say quietly. "Mr. Westbrook is your fiancé. Going to his party is your business. It has nothing to do with me."

The boundary is drawn, sharp and clean. Cassie's face darkens, the confusion in her eyes hardening into a sullen glare. She cannot accept this absolute detachment. But I don't care to watch her play-act her emotions anymore.

I remember tonight's party all too well. In my last life, this was the night I ruined myself. Desperate, young, and foolishly in love, I gathered all my courage to confess my feelings to Cassie in front of all our guests. The result was a public scandal. My parents were furious, calling me shameless and a disgrace to the family name.

That was the day my living nightmare truly began. Cassie grew to despise me, and the mockery from our peers, combined with my family's relentless scorn, crushed my pride into dust.

But this time? My only goal is to protect my parents, protect myself, and live a quiet, decent life. As for the past, my only lingering obsession is finding out who caused that fatal "accident" in the garage and making them pay. I turn and walk away without looking back.

That night, the Wilder mansion is ablaze with light, filled with the city's elite celebrating Cassie's birthday in grand, ostentatious style. Jared, her classmate and golden-boy suitor, arrived early. He glides through the crowd, charming the elders, a picture of effortless grace. I watch him from a quiet corner, my blood running cold.

Last time, I was the clown of the evening. I had spent a month folding nine hundred and ninety-nine paper cranes, writing Cassie's name on every single wing, pouring my silent, agonizing crush into a massive glass jar. I wanted to give it to her tonight.

Instead, Jared intercepted me, smiling warmly as he took the jar from my hands. "Dylan, this is so sweet. Such a beautiful gift for your sister." Then, pretending to lose his grip, he flipped it upside down.

The paper cranes scattered across the marble floor. White paper wings everywhere, each one bearing her name in my unmistakable handwriting.

The room went dead silent. Whispers and looks of disgust pinned me to the spot. My parents' faces twisted in shame and anger. And Cassie, standing in the center of the room, looked as if she had swallowed glass.

But Jared delivered the killing blow, gasping in mock horror: "Dylan... how could you harbor those kinds of feelings for your own sister?"

That single word—sister—sealed my fate. I was branded a degenerate.