The Villainous Stepsister's Second Chance

Anastasia gasped. Her eyes widened, her chest heaving as she greedily gulped in air as though every last drop of oxygen had been ripped from her lungs. “Hah! Hah! Haahh…!” Sweat trickled gently down from her forehead to her temples. Her clothes felt damp against her skin, despite the cool air surrounding her. She wiped the sweat away with the back of her hand. What happened? A suffocating pitch-black darkness enveloped her, devoid of even the faintest glimmer of light, leaving her completely blind. Yet, piercing through the dark, a familiar scent drifted to her—a subtle blend of sweet violets and musk. Wrapping her arms around herself, she felt the warmth of her own skin and the violent, racing thrum of her heartbeat. A faint pulse of life—one that had long abandoned her body—had returned. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession as wild, unthinkable possibilities flooded her mind. Anastasia reached blindly into the darkness, her fingers brushing against the cool, silky embrace of a blanket wrapped around her. She wasn't floating in midair, nor was she bound to a chair; she was lying in a soft, luxurious bed. Her brow furrowed deeply as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Reaching out once more, her hand blindly searched the space around her until the back of her knuckles hit something solid to her right. A soft, dim light spilled across the room as her hand accidentally switched on the bedside lamp on the nightstand. It was her bedroom—the one in her parents' house. But how could she possibly be here? Just moments ago, she had been standing in the public cemetery, watching her own body—draped in white—lying inside a coffin, ready to be lowered into the cold earth. How could this be happening? Hadn't she… died? Or had it all been just a dream? A sharp knock on the door shattered her chaotic thoughts. Before she could offer a reply, the person on the other side pushed the door open. “Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday to you…” Rosalie, Rafael, and Ella walked into the room, their voices joining together in a cheerful birthday song. Ella held a birthday cake adorned with intricate decorations of a sewing machine and a mannequin. For a single heartbeat, her breath hitched at the sight of the middle-aged woman singing before her. Anastasia could barely believe her eyes. Her mother was alive, radiant, and healthy—wearing an elegant, deep emerald dress. “Mom!” Anastasia cried out, her voice cracked and raw. She almost stumbled over the blanket as she leapt out of bed, hurling herself into her mother's arms. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. “Mom!” she sobbed again. She burst into weeping so intense her chest felt tight. Her arms locked tightly around her mother's warm frame, clinging to her as if terrified that something terrible would snatch her away again. She felt the steady, soothing beat of her mother's heart against her skin. “Oh, honey… Why are you crying on your birthday?” Rosalie returned the hug tightly, her palm soothingly caressing Anastasia’s back. Yet, Anastasia could hear a hint of tender laughter laced in her mother's voice. From behind, Rafael reached out and stroked her hair with deep affection. “Happy birthday, Anna,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Dad!” Anastasia wrapped Rafael in an equally desperate embrace. Her stepfather was alive, too! Mom and Dad are alive! It was just a dream. It was all just a nightmare… “Are you really that touched?” Ella’s voice cut through her racing thoughts. Ella! Anastasia's heart stopped for an agonizing second before pounding frantically in her chest at the sound of her voice. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't utter a single word. “Alright, alright. Don't cry anymore. Come on, blow out the candles,” Rosalie chimed in smoothly. Anastasia froze as her eyes landed on the birthday candles atop the cake in Ella’s hands. 22. She had celebrated her twenty-second birthday three years ago. Three… years… ago… And everything was unfolding in exactly the same way. Her family surprised her that morning, holding a cake and singing “Happy Birthday.” The clothes. The cake. The timing. It was all identical to her memory. Was this a genuine memory that had already taken place, or just a crazy streak of déjà vu? Her voice trembled, the words stumbling over her lips. “W-what year is it?” “Twenty twenty-three, obviously! Duh!” Ella let out a soft laugh. “You’re only turning twenty-two, but why do you sound like you're practically eighty-two?” Twenty twenty-three? Was this actually real? “Oh, God!” “What is up with you?” Ella spoke up again, a faint trace of impatience creeping into her tone, even as a sweet smile remained on her pink-tinted lips. “Hurry up and blow out the candles before they melt away.” Wiping the tears that dampened her cheeks, she looked at her parents who were gazing back at her with beaming, happy smiles. With a hollow chest and a mind still scattered in utter chaos, she blew out the candles. “Your present is waiting outside,” Rafael said. “Come on,” Rosalie wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her downstairs. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, just before the front door, Rosalie covered Anastasia’s eyes with both hands. The exact same words. The exact same actions. Anastasia's body trembled harder, her legs growing so weak it felt as though she couldn't take another step forward. “Wait for me…” Ella called out from the bottom step. And just like three years ago, her foot caught on the stairs, sending the cake in her hands flying straight into Anastasia. “Oh my God, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Ella’s eyes welled with tears, her face a picture of sheer guilt. “Anastasia, I’m so, so sorry. Your cake… your clothes…” I just stood there in silence, staring at her. “Are you alright?” Rosalie asked, her voice laced with concern. “It’s… okay. I'll change.” Back in her room, she rushed into the bathroom. She stared blankly at the face, gazing back at her from the circular mirror hanging on the wall. Ignoring her cake-stained clothes, she rushed back into her room and snatched her phone off the nightstand. A barrage of notifications had been flooding her phone since last night, mostly birthday wishes. But one particular text caught her eye. It was from Ian, her new coworker. [ Ian : photo ] A new message notification popped up. Anastasia tapped it open. The first text included a photo of the storefront signage reading “Anastasia,” leaning against the wall. It was a dark charcoal gray. [ Ian : I returned the storefront signage that just arrived because it didn't match the order.] Anastasia stared at the short message for a long moment. Three years ago, the vendor had demanded full payment before fixing the error. Because the vendor had been recommended by Ella, her stepsister, Anastasia had complied out of trust. In the end, however, the storefront signage was never repaired, remaining delayed indefinitely. After careful consideration, her trembling hands typed out a reply to Ian. [ Anastasia : [Tell the vendor that per our agreement, we will not settle the final payment if the order is incorrect and not promptly fixed.] Ian’s reply came back almost instantly. [ Ian : I got it. ] This was no déjà vu, nor was it a dream. She returned to the bathroom to wash her swollen, tear-stained face, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and hurried downstairs. On the ground floor, her mother was wiping up the cake cream splattered across the floor, while Ella scrubbed at a faint smudge on the nearby wall. Ella was apologizing profusely to Rosalie. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You didn't mean to do it.” Anastasia watched as Ella nodded softly, her eyes brimming with tears. But from where she stood, Anastasia caught the slight, delicate curl at the corner of those small lips—a fleeting smirk, cold and ruthless. It lasted for only a fraction of a second, yet Anastasia had caught it clearly. Anastasia stood frozen at the top of the stairs, watching the scene unfold. Was God truly offering her a second chance? Did He want her to save her family from Ella’s insidious manipulations and cruelty? Memory after memory hit her like a speeding train. Murder! Embezzlement! Those were the vile accusations hurled at her and her mother by the crowd. Scornful charge after charge was spewed straight into their faces. Her mother had been thrown behind bars, only to take her own life, unable to bear the relentless ridicule and humiliation heaped upon her. As for Anastasia, she had been brutally murdered—her death meticulously staged to look like a suicide driven by guilt. Deep within her soul, Anastasia swore a silent oath: I will never let history repeat itself. No matter what it takes, she would save her family. =o=