Chapter 1
By the fifth year of that woman hijacking my body, she finally got bored.
She packed up her glitchy system and peaced out of this world without so much as a goodbye. What she left me was a bratty, overindulged son and a husband colder than a Midwest blizzard.
Before I could even piece my thoughts together, a wave of glowing messages—like some livestream chat—flashed before my eyes:
[This has gotta be the worst opening to a novel ever. Who lets a transmigrator come in five years early and screw everything up, just to leave the real wife with the wreckage?]
[She was supposed to reform the little villain, warm up the cold villain husband, and stay away from the main couple. But nooo, she dodged the death flags and spent five years living her best life.]
[Kid’s ruined, husband’s distant, and now I hate the whole damn family. Let ‘em all burn.]
That’s when it hit me: I was a disposable character in a novel. And my husband and kid? Both villains.
The comment stream kept rolling, listing off every terrible thing my son had done.
Rude. Entitled. Selfish. Bullied other kids.
Before I could process it all, I heard a thudding noise on the stairs.
A round little ball of a boy barreled down like a wrecking ball in sneakers.
It was instant. Some kind of mother’s intuition. That was my kid.
He spotted me in the living room but ignored me completely, stomping straight to the fridge.
Behind him, our nanny scrambled after him.
“Liam, honey, that’s your third ice cream today. You’ll get a bellyache, and Mr. Carter’s gonna be mad at me again.”
The kid didn’t even blink.
The nanny turned to me for help.
[Girl, you think the bio mom’s gonna do anything? She’s been gone five years. She’s just gonna spoil him more out of guilt.]
[Am I the only one who thinks the transmigrator was fake as hell? Called it motherly love but just let him run wild. Now the poor kid’s fatter than ever, even lost the only thing going for him—his looks.]
[At this rate he’s gonna grow up drinking, cheating, blowing money, and cursing out his folks.]
[If this little pork dumpling croaked, I wouldn’t even blink.]
That was it. I snapped.
“Liam Carter. Put the ice cream down.”
I remembered the name. Logan and I picked it out eight months into my pregnancy. Gender-neutral. Warm meaning.
Liam looked at me like I was a fly buzzing in his ear.
“You’re so annoying. Mind your own business.”
Then, locking eyes with me, he took a massive bite of the ice cream.
Vanilla smeared across his mouth. His eyes—reduced to slits from the baby fat—squinted smugly.
Then he raised both hands and flipped me double birds.
I saw red.
Spoiling him?
Not on my watch.
I lunged and grabbed the little beast.
“Where’d you learn that, huh? Who taught you to flip people off?!”
“Let go of me! Let go! If you don’t, when Dad gets home you’re dead meat!”
Oh please.
The way he’s turned out, Logan’s getting slapped too.
I told the nanny, still frozen in shock, to go grab me duct tape.
Then I wrapped Liam’s middle fingers up tight.
If he loved giving the finger so much, he could keep it up. Literally.
Liam didn’t cry. Just glared at me like a crab with his taped-up fists.
“When Dad gets back, I’m telling him you abused me! No more allowance for you! Say goodbye to your stupid jewelry!”
“When’s your dad coming back?”
He pouted and stayed silent.
I glanced at Nancy.
“Mr. Carter’s on a business trip in Chicago. Should be back in about a week.”
“And this is normal for him?”
Nancy looked sheepish. “He’s better behaved when his dad’s around.”
I nodded, told her not to untape him under any circumstances, and marched upstairs.
The décor hadn’t changed a bit.
Even the little porcelain horse on the bookshelf—still missing one ear from the time I knocked it off in a rage—sat in the same spot.
Five years ago, right after giving birth, I lost consciousness.
It felt like I was stuck in a dream I couldn’t wake from.
I could hear myself talk, move, act—but it all felt like I was floating behind the scenes.
I thought I’d just been asleep.
Then I saw the comment stream.
Five years had passed.
I walked to the master bedroom, following my memories.
A keypad lock I’d never seen before blocked my way.
[She doesn’t even know the code. That lock was put there just to keep her out.]
[Anyone figure it out yet? The transmigrator tried a bunch—Liam’s birthday, her birthday, Logan’s—but kept triggering the alarm system. Her panicked face was hilarious.]
[No one’s ever even seen Logan’s room.]
I raised an eyebrow and typed in a code I knew by heart.
A chorus of shocked reactions scrolled by as I turned the knob.
Inside, the room looked exactly like it had the day I left for the hospital.
Same furniture. Same pale blue bedding.
Except now, the nightstand held several locked journals.
Guess Logan had gotten used to keeping things behind lock and key.
I picked one up.
Some pages were water-damaged, wrinkled like they’d soaked up tears.
The comments buzzed with curiosity, urging me to crack them open.
I didn’t.
I put them back exactly how I found them.
Because some things… you should be invited to read.
And I wasn’t ready to see what Logan wrote when he thought I was gone.
