The Blake mansion in Beverly Hills stood like a fortress of old money and secrets. Its manicured lawns and luxury cars spoke of endless wealth, but for seventeen-year-old Amy Chen, it was nothing more than a gilded prison.
"Miss Amy, your breakfast is getting cold." Rosa, the elderly housekeeper, was the only one who still showed her genuine kindness in this household.
Amy stared at her reflection in the mirror, her green eyes—so similar to her father's—staring back at her. Those eyes were both a blessing and a curse, a constant reminder of her status as James Blake's illegitimate daughter, born from a moment of drunken indiscretion with her mother, a former housemaid.
The morning sun filtered through the heavy curtains of her third-floor bedroom—the smallest in the mansion, tucked away like an embarrassing secret. From her window, she could see her half-sister Emma's brand new Ferrari pulling into the circular driveway. Perfect Emma, with her perfect blonde hair and perfect life, who never let Amy forget she was nothing but a stain on the Blake family name.
"Coming," Amy called out to Rosa, but her voice caught in her throat. Today marked exactly one year since her mother's death. One year since she found Linda Chen's lifeless body in their small cottage at the edge of the estate, an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand and a tear-stained note that simply read: "I'm sorry, my love. I'm not strong enough."
The memories flooded back as she made her way down the grand staircase, her footsteps echoing in the marble foyer. Her mother's gentle smile, her warm hands, the way she would sing old Beatles songs while cleaning the mansion—back when she was still allowed to work there, before Emma's mother deemed it "inappropriate" to have James's mistake's mother working in the house.
"Well, if it isn't our little charity case," Emma's voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. Her half-sister stood at the bottom of the stairs, designer handbag dangling from her arm, lips curved in a cruel smile. "Daddy's asking for you. Try not to embarrass us more than your existence already does."
Amy's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. The familiar mixture of rage and helplessness bubbled up inside her. At Greenwich Academy, Emma and her friends had made sure Amy's life was a living hell. The whispers, the "accidental" spills on her clothes, the anonymous notes in her locker calling her "gold-digger spawn."
James Blake's study was at the end of the east wing, a room that smelled of expensive cigars and leather-bound books. He barely looked up from his Wall Street Journal as Amy entered.
"The school called," he said, his voice as cold as the January air outside. "Your grades are slipping."
"I've been trying—"
"Trying isn't good enough." He finally looked at her, those matching green eyes holding no paternal warmth. "You're lucky I even allow you to attend Greenwich Academy. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to keep your... situation... quiet?"
The words stung, but Amy had learned long ago not to show weakness. Her mother had always told her to hold her head high, that she was just as worthy as anyone else. But her mother wasn't here anymore, was she?
"I understand, sir." The word 'father' had been forbidden since she was old enough to speak.
"Good. You may go." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, already returning to his newspaper.
As Amy left the study, she heard Emma's laughter floating up from the kitchen, probably sharing another cruel joke about her with her equally privileged friends. The sound followed her back to her room, where she collapsed onto her bed, tears finally breaking free.
On her nightstand sat the only photo she had of her mother—young, beautiful, and full of life, taken before Amy was born. Before the Blake family destroyed them both. Her fingers traced the edge of the frame, a familiar ritual that brought both comfort and pain.
"I miss you, Mom," she whispered. "I don't know how much longer I can take this."
But as the words left her lips, something shifted in the air. A strange sensation washed over her, like static electricity dancing across her skin. For a split second, the world seemed to blur at the edges, and she heard a whisper, so faint she might have imagined it:
*"Then don't take it anymore."*
Amy sat up, her heart pounding. The voice had sounded like her own, but different—harder, colder, more determined. She shook her head, trying to clear it. But the sensation lingered, along with a new thought, one that felt both foreign and intimately familiar:
*This time, things will be different.*
She didn't know what "this time" meant, but as she looked at her mother's photo again, something had changed. The tears had dried, and in their place, a small, dangerous smile began to form.
That evening, the Blake mansion was hosting another one of its famous charity galas. Amy could hear the sounds of classical music and laughter drifting up from the grand ballroom. She wasn't invited, of course—Emma had made sure of that, telling their father it would be "awkward" to explain Amy's presence to their high-society friends.
From her window, she watched as luxury cars pulled up one after another. Women in designer gowns and men in tailored tuxedos stepped out, all wearing fake smiles that probably cost as much as their jewelry. Amy recognized some of them—the same people who would pretend not to see her when they crossed paths at the country club, the same ones who whispered behind their hands when they thought she couldn't hear.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Rosa: "Made you a plate from the kitchen. Left it in the usual spot. Stay strong, pequeña."
Amy smiled despite herself. She hadn't eaten all day, but food was the last thing on her mind. That strange voice still echoed in her head, growing stronger with each passing minute. She felt different somehow—like she was watching herself from a distance, seeing all the pieces of a puzzle she hadn't even known she was trying to solve.
Walking to her laptop, she opened a private browser window. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before typing: "Blake Industries financial scandal 2020." It was the year her mother died, and something had always felt off about the timing.
The search results were mostly sanitized PR statements and glowing press releases, but one buried link caught her eye—a blog post by an investigative journalist who had mysteriously stopped writing shortly after publishing it. The article suggested there had been massive irregularities in the company's charitable foundation, the same one hosting tonight's gala.
As she read deeper, her head began to throb. The words on the screen seemed to swim, and that static electricity feeling returned, stronger this time. Suddenly, a flash of memory hit her—not her own, but her mother's. She saw Linda Chen in this very room, late at night, copying documents with trembling hands. She heard Emma's mother's voice, dripping with venom: "If you breathe a word of what you saw..."
Amy gasped, the vision disappearing as quickly as it had come. Her mother hadn't taken her own life because of the bullying and shame—she had discovered something. Something big enough to get her killed.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. All these years, she'd been playing the wrong game, fighting the wrong battle. They hadn't just been cruel to her mother; they had silenced her. Permanently.
A knock at her door made her jump. "Amy?" It was Emma's voice, sickly sweet. "Daddy wants you to bring down more wine from the cellar. Try not to embarrass yourself in front of the guests if you happen to be seen."
Amy closed her laptop slowly, that dangerous smile returning. "Of course," she called back, her voice steady. "Anything for the family."
She heard Emma's heels clicking away down the hall, and for the first time, the sound didn't fill her with dread. Instead, she felt something new: anticipation. Because now she knew—her mother's death, her own suffering, all of it was connected to whatever secret lay buried in the Blake family's perfect facade.
Standing up, she straightened her simple black dress and looked one last time at her mother's photo. "I understand now, Mom," she whispered. "And they're going to pay. All of them."
Little did she know, this was the last day of her first life. Tomorrow, everything would change. But this time, she would be the one changing it.
The wine cellar was dark and cool, its stone walls lined with bottles worth more than what most people made in a year. Amy's footsteps echoed as she made her way down the narrow stairs, her phone's flashlight casting long shadows. The Blake family's wine collection was legendary, carefully curated over generations, and tonight's gala would feature some of their rarest vintages.
As she reached for the specific bottle her father had requested—a 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild—she heard voices drifting down from above. Emma's mother, Katherine Blake, and someone she didn't recognize.
"The foundation's audit is next week," the unknown voice said, male and worried. "If anyone looks too closely at those numbers—"
"No one will," Katherine's voice was sharp, confident. "James has the board wrapped around his finger. Besides, after what happened to that nosy little maid, I doubt anyone else will be stupid enough to ask questions."
Amy's hand froze on the bottle. Her heart thundered in her chest so loudly she was afraid they might hear it. The static electricity feeling returned, stronger than ever, and suddenly she could hear their thoughts as clearly as their words:
*"That Chen woman should have kept her mouth shut. At least the sleeping pills made it look natural..."* Katherine's mental voice was cold, calculating.
*"If this gets out, we're all finished. The foundation, the company, everything..."* The man's thoughts were a panicked swirl.
The bottle slipped from Amy's trembling fingers, crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the cellar.
"Who's down there?" Katherine's voice cracked like a whip.
Amy's heart raced. She quickly grabbed another bottle and called up, trying to keep her voice steady, "Sorry, Mrs. Blake! I dropped one of the bottles. It's just me—Amy."
There was a long pause. In that silence, she could hear Katherine's thoughts as clearly as day: *"Just like her mother. Always where she shouldn't be. Maybe we should have dealt with her too..."*
"Clean up that mess," Katherine finally called down. "And bring up a 1990 instead. Try not to break any more of my husband's precious wines."
Amy heard their footsteps retreating, but she remained frozen in place, her whole body shaking. The truth she had just discovered was worse than anything she could have imagined. Her mother hadn't just stumbled upon some financial irregularities—she had uncovered something so damning that they had murdered her for it. Made it look like suicide. And now they were talking about doing the same to her.
She looked down at the shattered bottle, the expensive wine spreading across the stone floor like blood. In its reflection, she saw her own face, but different somehow—older, harder, with eyes that had seen too much. The static feeling was overwhelming now, and she could hear fragments of thoughts from all over the mansion—the guests upstairs, the servers, Emma bragging to her friends, her father making deals in his study.
"Mom," she whispered into the darkness, "I promise you, they won't get away with this. I'll make them pay. All of them."
As if in response, the lights in the cellar flickered, and for a moment, Amy could have sworn she saw her mother's reflection in the spilled wine instead of her own. Then everything went black.
When the lights came back on a few seconds later, Amy Chen was gone. In her place stood someone else—someone who had lived this life before, someone who knew exactly what needed to be done. Someone with the power to hear every dark thought, every guilty secret, every hidden truth.
The game was about to change. And this time, she would make sure the Blakes learned the true price of blood.