Chapter 2I Only Talk To Dead Billionaires

In my third life, I had fallen for that exact trap. I had assumed her fondness was genuine, that securing the matriarch's favor was the ultimate shield.

But when I squeaked out "Nana," my parents didn't even have time to react before Emily’s face hardened.

"A child should love her parents above all else," she had declared coldly to the room. "To ignore them and fawning over an old woman... it’s unnatural. She is far too calculating, too opportunistic. That kind of greed can't be nurtured. We should quietly send her away before she becomes a liability."

In the Bradford family, when Grandmother Emily suggested "sending someone away," it was as good as done.

The sheer injustice of it, mixed with the terror of losing everything, had literally suffocated me right there.

Recalling those three miserable, absurd deaths, I made a firm decision: I was going to play dumb.

I would play the mute. Keep my mouth shut, offend absolutely no one, and buy myself some time. Once this immediate crisis passed, I could figure out a long-term strategy.

So, I let out a loud, bubbly baby giggle and reached my hands high into the air.

My parents leaned in close, their eyes wide. "What is she doing?"

I timed it perfectly. The moment my tiny hands reached their peak, I grabbed.

Left hand wrapped around my father’s thumb; right hand clamped onto my mother’s index finger.

Both of them instantly lit up, their rivalries melting into sheer delight.

"Oh, look at our clever girl! She’s barely a year old and she already knows how to keep the peace!"

But I wasn’t done. To make sure my bases were fully covered, I tilted my head back and sweetly nudged my forehead against Grandmother Emily's chin.

The three of them erupted into laughter, passing me around like a prized trophy. For the moment, the dreaded question of "Dada" or "Mama" was successfully shelved.

I had survived the fatal trap of my past lives. I thought I could finally catch my breath.

But that very night, the peace shattered.

My bedroom door creaked open, and my father slipped quietly to the side of my crib.

"Hey there, Charlotte," he whispered, holding up his phone with an eager, recording grin. "Just give Dada one little word. Just a quick 'Dada' so I can show the guys at the club, okay?"

He leaned over, shining the screen light in my eyes. "All my partners' kids said 'Mama' first. If you say 'Dada' first, I’ll have bragging rights for the next ten years. Besides, I already told the board you’re a daddy's girl. Don't make me look like a fool, sweetheart."

I stared at him, my eyelids twitching.

So that was why he had lost his mind in my first life. It wasn't about love; it was about his fragile, billionaire ego at the country club.

I let out a silent, weary sigh.

The man had a net worth of fifty billion dollars, and he was losing sleep over a toddler's vocabulary.

But then I shook myself. If solving this petty insecurity was the key to spending the rest of my life lounging on a private island, I had to pull myself together.

I stared up at him, my brain working at warp speed.

Think, think, think. How do I make him happy without making Mom want to replace me?

"I set up a fifty-million-dollar trust for you the day you were born, Charlotte. I bought you a penthouse, a fleet of strollers, and I’m transferring shares to your name for your first birthday. I do all of this, and you won't even say 'Dada' for me?"

Seeing the dangerous shade of disappointment creeping onto his face, my survival instincts kicked in.

I scrambled around my crib, grabbed the heavy gold Cartier bracelet my mother had left on my dresser, and shoved it into his hand.

Before he could process that, I piled my favorite stuffed bear, my teething rings, and my custom rattle into his arms, babbling frantically in baby talk.

My father stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, staring at the pile in his hands. Finally, a slow, ecstatic realization washed over him.

"Are you... are you giving me your favorite things, Charlotte?"

My cheeks flushed red as I nodded vigorously.

He looked like he had just won the lottery. "You're barely a year old, and you're already showing gratitude? You're giving your own father gifts?"

He scooped me up, kissing my cheeks repeatedly, before frantically snapping selfies. "Look at this! My daughter is giving me presents! Take that, you guys!"

He spent the next hour bragging in his group chats, ordering ten more designer toys for me on his phone before finally slipping out of the room.

I collapsed back onto my mattress, exhaling a sigh of relief.

But the door clicked open again.

My mother walked in, her face clouded with quiet resentment.

"Charlotte... how could you do that to me?"