AFTER REBIRTH I BECAME STRONGER

The cold metal of the operating table bit into my bare skin, sharp and unforgiving, but it was nothing compared to the frost that had settled deep in my chest. I was dying. I could feel it — my life slipping away slowly, second by second, like grains of sand spilling through my fingers. And in those final, blinding moments, as the sterile lights burned into my eyes, one truth cut deeper than any scalpel: my parents had never truly valued me. Not really. Not the way they should have. Not the way they valued her. But it was too late now. Far too late for regrets, far too late for explanations, far too late to ask why. I stared up at the surgeon’s face, his expression focused, professional, utterly indifferent to the girl strapped to his table. "She’s the perfect match," he said to the room at large, his voice steady and calm, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than ending a life. "Begin the procedure." Begin the procedure. For Emily. Always, always for Emily. I watched through tear-blurred eyes as the instruments came down. I felt the first cut — sharp, burning — and I screamed. I screamed until my throat was raw, until my voice broke and cracked and faded into nothing. I begged. I pleaded. I promised I’d be better, I’d do better, I’d give them everything — just please, please don’t do this. But no one looked at me. No one met my eyes. No one cared. To them, I wasn’t Stacy. I wasn’t their daughter. I wasn’t a person. I was just… a collection of organs. A perfect match. A vessel to keep Emily alive. And then I saw her. Standing by the door — not in a hospital bed, not hooked up to machines, not pale and weak as she was supposed to be — but perfectly healthy. Standing tall. And she was laughing. Emily, my own sister, the one I’d given everything for, the one I’d sacrificed so much to protect — she was leaning against the doorframe, watching me be cut open, and she was laughing. The sound of it — bright, clear, cruel — cut through the pain and the fear and the chaos of the room, sharper than any blade. It was the last thing I needed to see. The final piece of the puzzle clicking into place, too late, far too late. "What did I do to deserve this, Emily?" I cried, the words tearing themselves from my throat. "What did I ever do to you?" Her laughter died away, replaced by a cold, satisfied smile that made my blood run cold. She pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, close enough that I could see the malice glittering in her eyes — eyes that I’d once thought were kind. "Stacy," she said, her voice low and steady, as if she were explaining something simple to a child, "you took everything away from me. You always get everything you want while I have to suffer for it. You have the parents’ love, the money, the status — everything. And now you have Dad’s business too. It was never supposed to be yours. It was always supposed to be mine. You have to die today so I can take over the Hayes business. So I can finally have what I’m owed." "But Dad gave the business to me!" I sobbed, fresh tears spilling over. "It was supposed to be mine — it’s my birthright! Not yours!" "It was supposed to be mine," she hissed, the words sharp and venomous. "And today, finally, it will be." I twisted against the restraints, reaching out a trembling hand toward her, desperate for even a single crumb of mercy, even a flicker of regret. "Emily… please… we’re sisters… please tell them to stop… I’ll give you the business — I’ll give you anything — just don’t let them do this…" She didn’t take my hand. She didn’t even flinch. She just looked at me — really looked at me — with pure, unmasked disdain. "You’re not my sister. And you never were. You’re trash. And trash are supposed to be thrown away." Those words — cold, final, absolute — were worse than the scalpel, worse than the pain, worse than the death creeping up on me. They were the truth I’d been running from my whole life. I cried my heart out then, until there were no more tears left to shed, until my body felt heavy and distant and far away. I closed my eyes and let the darkness start to pull me under, and I made a wish — a desperate, foolish, final wish. If I could have just one more chance… if I could go back… I would never have taken the blame for my sister. I would never have tried to please the Hayes family at the expense of my own health. I would never have been so kind, so naive, so willing to give everything to people who would never give me anything in return. But wishes in the face of death are nothing more than whispers carried away by the wind. I knew it was too late. I knew there was no going back. And it hurt — not the physical pain, but the deeper, aching hurt of knowing that after everything I had done for my family, after sacrificing my future, my dreams, my life — they still hurt me this way. Why was the world so cruel to kind people? Why was it always the ones who gave the most who were taken first? As my consciousness slowly faded, slipping further and further away, I thought of all the times I’d covered for Emily. All the times I’d said it was me, not her when she broke something, when she spoke back, when she failed a test. All the times I’d stayed up late helping her study, only for her to lie and say she’d done it herself. All the times I’d given her the last slice of cake, the better gift, the nicer room. I’d loved her. I’d loved her. And this was how she repaid me. The darkness swallowed me whole. "Stacy, darling — wake up. It’s daytime." A voice. Warm. Familiar. Kind. My eyes flew open. My heart hammered in my chest — strong, steady, whole. I lay still for a long moment, breathing hard, sweat beading on my forehead. The voice… it couldn’t be. It was impossible. Wait — wasn’t that Uncle Ben’s voice? The voice of the man who’d died three years ago, of a sudden heart attack, while I was at university? Did he also follow me to the afterlife? Was this what death was like? Familiar voices calling you home? Then came a soft knock on my door, and I heard the knob turn — and the voice became clearer, closer, more real than anything I’d ever known. "Stacy? Up you get, love. Breakfast will be on the table in ten minutes." I sat up fast, my head spinning. I was in my bed. My bed. The one in my childhood bedroom at the Hayes family mansion. The cream-colored curtains were drawn back just enough to let bright, golden morning light spill across the duvet. The walls were still covered with the posters I’d loved in my teens. The vanity table by the window was cluttered with my favorite perfumes and jewelry. It was all so… real. I quickly opened my eyes fully and looked toward the door — and there he was. Uncle Ben. Standing in the doorway, wearing his favorite grey cardigan and a crisp white shirt, his hands folded neatly in front of him. And he was smiling — that same perfect, warm smile that showed his bright white teeth, the ones I’d always teased him about. He was here. He was alive. "Uncle Ben?" I whispered, my voice trembling, confusion written all over my face. I rubbed my eyes, half-convinced I was dreaming. "Umm… Uncle Ben? Is that really you?" He chuckled, stepping into the room and shaking his head fondly. "Silly girl, of course it’s me. Who else would be waking you up at this hour? The sun’s been up for hours, you know. Now — quickly freshen up and don’t be late for breakfast. Your dad wants to see you before he goes to the office — so be fast. He’s already running behind schedule." He turned and left, closing the door softly behind him, leaving me sitting there in bed, staring at the empty doorway, my heart racing a mile a minute. Wait. What was going on? The last thing I remembered was me laying on the operation table with my chest cut open and Emily standing over me with a wicked grin on her face. I remembered the pain. I remembered the fear. I remembered the cold. So how… how was I here? In my room? In my bed? And Uncle Ben — he was alive? I threw back the covers and practically fell out of bed, stumbling toward the full-length mirror that stood against the far wall. My hands trembled as I reached it, as I lifted my head and looked. No cut on my chest. No scar. No pale, deathly skin. I looked… perfect. Healthy. Whole. And younger. So much younger. My hair was longer, my face softer, my eyes bright with the vitality of someone who hadn’t yet had their heart cut out of their chest. "What in the heavens is going on here?" I whispered, touching my face, my neck, my chest — searching for the wound that should have been there. There was nothing. Not even a faint line. I was completely unharmed. I stood there for a long moment, just staring at my reflection, trying to process what was happening. Was this a dream? A hallucination brought on by my dying brain? Or… was it something else entirely? Something impossible? I shook my head, pushing the questions aside for the moment. Whatever this was, I was awake. I was alive. And I was going to find out when I was. I quickly freshened up — splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair back into a simple ponytail — and then I dressed. I chose a pair of comfortable joggers and a white short-sleeved shirt, my hands still shaking slightly as I buttoned it up. Every movement felt like a miracle. Every breath, every heartbeat, every step on the soft carpet — all of it was a gift I never thought I’d get again. I made my way downstairs, my mind still racing, still trying to make sense of everything. The house was exactly as I remembered it — grand, elegant, filled with expensive furniture and beautiful paintings — but it felt different. Brighter. Warmer. Less… haunted. I walked into the dining room and saw him. My dad. Sitting at the head of the long mahogany table, reading the morning newspaper, a cup of coffee steaming beside his plate. He looked up as I entered, and a warm, genuine smile spread across his face — the kind of smile that used to make me feel safe, loved, cherished. Before everything went wrong. "Good morning, Dad," I said, walking over to kiss him on the cheek. It felt familiar and foreign all at once — the scratch of his stubble, the scent of his expensive cologne, the warmth of his skin. I had missed this. I had missed him. "Morning, my dear," he said, turning his head to smile at me properly. "How was your night? You slept well?" "It was okay, Dad," I said, sliding into my usual seat — the one to his left, the one that had always been mine. "It was… perfect, actually." "Good, good," he said, folding his newspaper and setting it aside. "Today is a big day, after all. You should be well-rested." I looked at him, my heart starting to thud faster. "A big day?" Uncle Ben walked in then, carrying a tray loaded with fresh fruit, warm toast, and a pot of tea. He set it down in front of me with a wink. "Happy birthday, my dear Stacy." Happy birthday. Dad nodded, his expression proud and pleased. "Since it’s your 20th birthday today, you will officially take the position of Vice Chairwoman of the Hayes Group tomorrow. I hope you are excited about it? It’s a great responsibility — but you’re ready for it. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked, how much you’ve learned. You’re going to be wonderful, Stacy." Wait. My mind started racing to a thousand different possibilities, each more impossible than the last. 20th birthday. He said… 20th birthday. I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white. "Dad — what did you just say? I’m twenty?" "Twenty today," he confirmed, smiling. "My little girl is all grown up. Hard to believe, isn’t it?" Twenty. I was twenty years old. Which meant… which meant I had gone back five years. Five years before the operation. Five years before Emily’s betrayal. Five years before I died. I had been reborn. "Oh my God," I breathed, the words barely a whisper. I sat back in my chair, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. "I… I’m twenty." "I thought this only happened in novels," I murmured to myself, my mind reeling. But then again — if heaven had given me another chance, if this was real… then I would make good use of it. I would not waste this. Not a single second. Not a single opportunity. "Stacy? You alright there, love?" Dad asked, leaning forward slightly, his brow furrowing with concern. "You’ve gone very pale. Is everything okay?" I took a deep breath — steady, deliberate — and looked him in the eye. "Everything is perfect, Dad. I’m just… surprised. That’s all. Twenty. It feels so… grown up." He laughed — a deep, rich sound that filled the room. "It is grown up. And you’re more than ready. Now — here." He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a sleek black card, sliding it across the table toward me. "Take this. Get yourself anything you want today. It’s your birthday — treat yourself." My eyes widened. It was the black card — the unlimited spending card he only gave to us on very special occasions. "Dad — are you sure?" "Absolutely," he said warmly. "Anything for my princess." "Wow — thank you so much, Dad!" I picked it up, holding it in my hand, feeling the weight of it, the cool plastic against my skin. It was real. All of it was real. "Alright — I have to go now," he said, standing up and pushing his chair back. "Big meeting with the board in an hour. Take care of yourself, Stacy. And happy birthday, once again. I’ll see you this evening." "Bye, Dad," I said, watching him leave the room, watching the door close behind him. I sat there for a long moment, holding the card, the reality of everything slowly sinking in. I was twenty. I was alive. Uncle Ben was alive. And I had five years to change everything. After finishing my breakfast — which was delicious, even though I was too distracted to truly taste it — I decided to go back to my room. I had so much to think about, so much to plan, so much to remember. I stood up from the table, but before I could take a single step toward the stairs, I heard her voice — sweet, cloying, sickeningly familiar. "Happy birthday, Stacy." I stopped. I didn’t turn around. I knew that voice. I knew the fake sweetness, the practiced innocence, the underlying malice that lay beneath it. Emily. I kept walking. I didn’t stop, didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me react. "Stacy — don’t be rude to your little sister," Ruth’s voice called out — sharp, commanding, the voice of a woman who believed she was owed respect she hadn’t earned. I stopped on the first step. I took a breath. And then I turned around slowly, looking at both of them — Ruth, my stepmother, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, and Emily, her daughter, standing beside her with that same fake, polite smile she’d perfected over the years. I looked at them both with a very calm expression — calm, but clear, unwavering, absolute. "She is not my sister," I said. It was only five words, but they hung in the air like a thunderclap. Ruth’s face flushed red with anger. Emily’s eyes widened — in surprise, or offense, or both. "Shut up, Stacy!" Ruth’s voice was sharp and angry, echoing off the high ceilings. "How dare you speak like that?" But I couldn’t care less. Not anymore. I knew the truth now. I knew exactly who they were, exactly what they wanted, exactly how much they were willing to destroy to get it. And I wasn’t going to play their game anymore. Not this time. I watched as Emily’s face crumpled — perfectly, beautifully — into an expression of hurt and sadness. Her eyes glistened with tears that weren’t real, her lip trembled just enough to look heartbreakingly vulnerable. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. And I wondered — how could I not have seen through her schemes in my past life? How could I have been so blind, so eager to believe the best of her, when every single tear was a lie? "Well now," Emily said, her voice soft and trembling, acting all pitiful in front of her mother, "I know you never acknowledge me ever since I came to this family with Mom. It’s okay. I understand. I just… I just want you to know that you will always be my sister to me. No matter what." Ruth wrapped an arm around her shoulders, glaring at me. "See? Look at how kind she is, Stacy. This is how you should be behaving." I looked between them — the fake tears, the fake comfort, the fake family unity — and I felt nothing but pity. Pity for them, because they thought this would still work. They thought I was still the same naive, soft-hearted Stacy who would fall for every act, every word, every tear. They were wrong. I turned away, walking back toward the stairs, leaving them standing there. As I climbed, my mind drifted back — to my real mother. My mom. She had been diagnosed with cancer when I was fifteen years old. It had come on fast, spreading too quickly for the doctors to stop it. She’d fought so bravely, for so long, but in the end… she’d been too tired. I remembered the last time I saw her, sitting up in her hospital bed, her hand thin and cold in mine. "Be kind, Stacy," she’d whispered. "Always be kind. And look after your father." I’d tried. I’d tried so hard to be kind. After she died, Dad had been broken — a hollow shell of the man he used to be. He’d told me he was thinking of marrying again, that he didn’t want me to lack motherly love, that he wanted someone to look after us both. And I — foolish, loving, fifteen-year-old me — I’d encouraged him. I’d told him it was a good idea. I’d told him he deserved happiness. And now I regretted it. With every fiber of my being, I regretted it. If I had put in a little effort to stop him… if I had just said no… I would not have Ruth in my life. I would not have Emily as a so-called sister. I would still have just been us — Dad, me, and the memory of Mom. But the deed had already been done. Ruth was here. Emily was here. And they weren’t going anywhere. Not unless I made them. I will show this mother and daughter their rightful place in this family, I thought, my hand tightening on the banister as I reached the top floor. They think they can take everything? They think they can steal, and lie, and hurt people without consequence? Not this time. I’m not the same girl they betrayed five years ago. I’m stronger now. Smarter. And I’m going to take back everything they stole. I walked into my room and closed the door, leaning against it for a long moment, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for years. My heart was still racing, my mind still spinning, but beneath the fear and the shock, there was something else. Something warm and steady. Determination. I walked away from the door, shaking my head. Sometimes I wondered how my father ever met this mother and daughter duo. How he ever looked at Ruth and thought yes, this is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. How he ever looked at Emily and thought she’s a good girl. They were both so transparent — so obviously fake — and yet in my past life, I’d been too sad, too lonely, too desperate for affection to see it. Not anymore. After I got to my room, I turned on my computer. I needed answers. I needed to understand what had happened to me. I typed into the search bar — rebirth, second chance. I scrolled through page after page, reading every result I could find. But there was nothing. No news stories, no scientific explanations, no personal accounts of anyone else who had walked where I was walking. It was all fiction — novels, movies, urban legends. Nothing real. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen. I really didn’t understand what was going on. Had my mother, watching from somewhere, whispered a prayer on my behalf? Or was it simply… fate? I didn’t know. And as the minutes ticked by, I realised I didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter why I was here. What mattered was that I was. I was alive. I was twenty years old. And I had a second chance to do things right. "Mmm…" I murmured to myself, closing the laptop. "I’m just grateful for this chance. Whatever the reason, I’m not going to waste it." I sat there for a long time, thinking, planning, remembering. I needed to be careful. I needed to be smart. Ruth and Emily were dangerous — far more dangerous than I’d ever realised. And they were already embedded in my father’s life, in the company, in the house. I couldn’t just accuse them — not without proof. Dad would never believe me without evidence. He’d think I was bitter, or jealous, or just going through a phase. So I would be patient. I would watch. I would wait. And when the time was right… I would strike. All of a sudden, something else came to me — a memory, sharp and painful. The necklace. In my past life, Ruth had taken my mom’s pearl necklace from me — the last gift my mother had ever given me, the one thing I had left of her — and given it to Emily for her sixteenth birthday. I’d looked everywhere for it, turned my room upside down, cried for days — but I’d never found it. I’d thought I’d lost it. But I hadn’t. Ruth had stolen it. I stood up fast, walking over to my jewelry box — the mahogany one with the brass lock, the one Mom had given me for my thirteenth birthday. I opened it, my hands trembling slightly. And there it was — resting in the velvet-lined compartment, exactly where it had always been. The delicate strand of white pearls, the small gold clasp, the way it caught the light just so. It was here. It was mine. And this time, I would never let it out of my sight. "I will take back everything she stole from me," I whispered, closing the box and locking it, tucking the key into the pocket of my joggers. "Everything." Suddenly, a soft knock came at my door. "Miss Stacy?" It was Martha, the housekeeper. "Mr. Damian is here to see you." My heart stopped. Damian. What was Damian doing here? So early in the morning? On my birthday? "I’ll be out shortly!" I responded quickly, standing up from my bed, smoothing my shirt and running a hand through my hair to fix my ponytail. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Damian is here. Damian. I headed downstairs, my mind racing as I walked. In my past life, I had an arranged marriage with Damian. Our families had agreed to it when we were teenagers — a business merger, a union between two powerful families. But I hadn’t loved him. I’d barely even known him. I’d seen him as a transaction, a business deal, something that took away my freedom. So when I was twenty-two… I’d broken off the engagement. I’d told him I didn’t want to marry him, that I wanted to focus on my father’s business, that I wasn’t ready. And he’d let me go. Quietly, respectfully, without a fight. But there was something I hadn’t known then — something I’d only learned in the final moments of my life, when it was too late to say anything. Damian had loved me. Truly, deeply loved me. And I… I’d thrown him away like he meant nothing. I remembered something else too — something that had happened two years from now, in my past life. Emily had hired thugs to beat me up on my way home from work. I’d been alone, scared, and outnumbered. And Damian — he’d been there. He’d seen it happening. He’d fought them off, carried me to his car, taken me to the hospital, and stayed with me all night. He’d never asked for anything in return. Never demanded thanks. Never even told me why he’d been there. He’d just… been there. And then, on the operating table — the day I died — he’d been the one who tried to stop it. He’d arrived at the hospital, screaming that they couldn’t do this, that he had proof Emily was lying — but it had been too late. The surgery had already started. Security had dragged him away. And I’d never gotten to say thank you. Or goodbye. Or I’m sorry. But this time… this time was different. As I got downstairs, I saw him standing by the large floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the gardens. He was looking out, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but somehow tense, as if he were waiting for something important. He turned as I approached — and my breath caught in my throat. He was very handsome. More handsome than I remembered. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that fell slightly over his forehead, and eyes — dark, deep, expressive eyes that seemed to see everything. He had perfect white teeth that showed when he smiled, and his lips were a soft, natural pink. He looked like a piece of artwork — carefully crafted, beautiful to look at, too good to be true. Oh God, I thought, my heart doing a strange little flip in my chest. I’m so obsessed with white teeth. He had a way of standing that made him look cold and aloof from a distance — distant, untouchable, as if nothing could ever truly reach him. But I knew better. I knew what was beneath that calm exterior. I knew he had a soft heart. I knew he was loyal. Why did I never notice how handsome he was in my past life? I wondered, walking toward him, my steps slow and deliberate. How could I have been so blind? How could I have thrown away something this perfect? "Hi, Damian," I said, stopping a few feet away from him, suddenly feeling shy. "What brings you here?" He turned fully toward me then, a slow, warm smile spreading across his face — the kind that reached his eyes and made them light up. "Am I not welcomed here?" he asked, his voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that made you want to lean in and listen closer. "Happy birthday, Stacy. Twenty looks beautiful on you." My face heated up. "Thank you, Damian. You’re… very welcome. Always." "Good," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Because I’ve made reservations for both of us. Get dressed — something nice. I’ll explain everything on the way." I raised an eyebrow at him, crossing my arms and trying to look stern — even though my heart was racing. "Gosh, Damian. Who makes reservations without informing the other? You have a lot to learn." He laughed — a low, warm, rich sound that filled the hallway and made my chest feel light. "I’ll keep that in mind for next time," he said, his eyes dancing with amusement. "I’ll be waiting. Just go do your thing — and try not to take too long. He walked back toward the front door, leaving me standing there, staring after him, my hand pressed to my chest as if to hold my heart in place. Next time, he’d said. As if there will be more I looked at his retreating figure — tall, confident, wonderful — and smiled. A real smile. The first genuine smile I’d had since waking up. I won’t mess this up. Not with him. I turned and hurried back toward the stairs, already mentally running through my wardrobe, already knowing exactly what I was going to wear. Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, flooding the hallway with golden light — and for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t look dark. It looked bright.