Chapter 3I Only Talk To Dead Billionaires

My breath hitched in my throat.

That look of deep, stinging disappointment on her face was identical to the one from my second life.

"Your father might have the money, but I gave you life," she whispered, her voice trembling as she sat on the edge of the crib. "I went through body-altering physical changes for you. I tore, I bled, I lost sleep to nurse you, and you give him gifts while I get nothing?"

She pulled me into her arms, pouring out her grievances. But I wasn't really listening to the words anymore; I was analyzing the situation.

Her tone wasn't as icy as it had been in my second life. She wasn't planning to replace me yet; she was just deeply hurt, reacting like a child who had been left out of a game.

There was still room to fix this.

I wiggled out of her embrace and crawled as fast as my chubby limbs could carry me toward the nightstand.

I knew that in the bottom drawer, my parents kept the deed to my custom-built nursery mansion in the Hamptons and the spare keys to the family’s armored Rolls-Royce.

I tugged at the drawer with all my might, grunting with exertion.

Seeing me struggle, my mother wiped a stray tear and opened it for me. "Charlotte, what are you looking for? Mommy can help—"

Before she could finish, I grabbed the heavy leather-bound deed and dropped it right onto her lap.

While she stared at it in shock, I reached back in, grabbed the heavy silver Rolls-Royce keys, and plonked them into her palm.

Just like with my father, I didn't say a single word. I simply looked up at her with the most innocent, adoring baby-eyed smile I could muster, babbling happily.

My mother looked from the keys to the deed, her eyes suddenly welling with tears.

"Oh my god... Charlotte, are you giving me your mansion and the Rolls? You’re giving away your most expensive assets without a second thought... You really are Mommy's little angel, aren't you?"

She practically floated out of the room, shouting down the hallway: "Thomas! You bragged too early! Charlotte loves me way more! She gave you plastic toys, but she just gave me a mansion and a Rolls-Royce!"

I collapsed back onto my pillow. So that was it. My father's loud-mouthed bragging had triggered her insecurity.

Now, both of them were thrilled, reverting to a childish debate over who was truly the favorite.

"She gave me her favorite bear first, Victoria! That means I’m number one!"

"She gave me real estate, Thomas! Real estate!"

Even so, the fundamental problem remained: they were still waiting for that first spoken word.

I had no solution, so I kept playing the mute, dragging it out day by day.

But a few days later, my stalling tactics caught up with me.

My parents marched me into a private clinic, sitting me down in front of a team of world-renowned pediatric neuroscientists.

"Is there something wrong with our daughter?" my mother asked anxiously. "We did prenatal classical music, high-end sensory training, and early development classes. She’s clearly highly intelligent, so why hasn't she spoken a single word to us?"

After a battery of tests, the lead specialist turned to them.

"Physically, she is in perfect health. Her neural pathways are fully developed, and her cognitive recognition is off the charts. The delay isn't physical. It might be psychological."

I froze.

Should I just speak now to prove I wasn't broken?

But the memory of my three sudden deaths flashed before my eyes, and I kept my jaw locked shut.

After visiting three more specialists, my parents came to a terrifying conclusion: their daughter might have a developmental disorder.

Grandmother Emily’s reaction was swift and merciless.

"A Bradford heir cannot have a cognitive defect," she declared coldly over Sunday brunch.

My parents paced the floor of the drawing room in a panic. "Exactly. Most kids are babbling 'Mama' and 'Dada' by ten months. What is wrong with our Charlotte?"

"Next week is her first birthday gala," my father groaned, rubbing his temples. "We invited the elite of New York. We were planning to show her off, to prove we’ve bred the perfect successor. If she's... quiet, what do we tell them?"

"Is she really defective? Do we just keep waiting?"

Their anxiety was palpable, and my heart hammered against my ribs.

I had completely forgotten about the first-birthday gala. My father had invited every billionaire, politician, and socialite in the city. He wanted to use me as his ultimate trophy.

Grandmother Emily set down her porcelain teacup with a sharp clink, delivering her final ultimatum.

"The gala is her final test. If Charlotte does not speak by then, we will assume she is unfit for the succession. A family of our stature requires a healthy, capable heir. If she is compromised, we will quietly make arrangements to place her in a specialized facility upstate, and you two can start focusing on a second child."