I Took the Fall for My Sister

Chapter 3

"You cold-blooded, vicious woman—you deserve to go to hell! You were always the one who should take the blame for the Scott family!"

My body stiffened.

Those words—exactly the same as in my previous life.

After Freya died in my previous life, he'd choked me like this too, saying I deserved to die.

Tears spilled down my face in a daze.

Seeing my tears, Charles seemed to sober up slightly, hastily releasing his grip in panic.

"Cough, cough..." I leaned against the wall, coughing violently.

A flicker of remorse crossed his eyes as he reached out. "Ava, I'm sorry... I drank too much last night. I didn't mean to..."

Wordlessly, I pushed his hand away and got into the car.

I knew his guilt toward me never came from love—only because my mother had once shown him kindness.

He'd always seen me as an obligation and a sister he was forced to look after. And I was the one who misunderstood, clinging to him my whole life.

This time, I had to wake up.

After returning from the cemetery, the moment I stepped through the front door, I saw a warm scene playing out in the living room.

Charles and Freya sat on the sofa. He held a first-aid kit, carefully applying ointment to Freya's wrist.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, like a scared rabbit.

"Charles, it doesn't hurt, don't worry," she said in a fragile voice.

Charles's brow furrowed, yet his movements were gentle. "How could you be so careless? You've hurt yourself."

The tenderness and adoration in his eyes—I had never seen anything like it in our ten years of marriage.

My heart clenched with pain.

Freya looked up, a glint of triumph flashing in her eyes before she resumed her pitiful act.

"Ava's back," she whispered, then turned to Charles. "Charles, I'm sure Ava doesn't want me hurt either. Don't be angry with her."

Charles paused, shooting me an icy glare.

"If she truly cared about you, she wouldn't make you take the blame."

I stood frozen, a chill creeping through me.

Michael must have already told Freya that I would be the one going to prison. But she clearly didn't tell Charles. She wanted him to misunderstand me, to hate me.

I remember this wound.

In my past life, Freya slit her wrists at home to avoid prison.

Though the cut wasn't deep, it terrified Charles and hardened his resolve to protect her.

This time, she was pulling the same stunt again.

"Charles, don't say that about Ava." Freya tugged at his sleeve, her voice quivering with fake tears. "It's all my fault. I'm useless—I can't help Dad with his troubles."

"Freya, don't be foolish." Charles pulled her into his arms. "The Scott family's problems have nothing to do with you. The one to blame is Ava."

He glared at me, his eyes sharp as knives. "Happy now? Pushing Freya to suicide—does that make you proud?"

As I watched them embrace, all I felt was irony.

I was the one about to go to prison, yet he didn't offer me a single word of concern.

I'd had enough of their drama and turned to head upstairs.

The next morning, I prepared to surrender myself.

When I opened my door, a medicine kit sat outside, with a sticky note on top.