Chapter 3

2

The next evening, Liam went straight to the study after coming home from work.

He had been getting home earlier lately. His excuse was that his “project wasn’t busy.” But my memories from the past life told me he didn’t have a project at all―he had been unemployed for two full months, putting on a suit every day to go sit on a park bench and scroll through job sites.

He came home early because his mother, Linda, would “patrol” my wardrobe during this time.

Sure enough.

At 7:12 PM, my phone buzzed. An Arlo motion alert―someone was in the living room.

I pulled up the hidden surveillance feed.

On the screen, Linda was wearing a garish floral dress, walking in from the entryway. She was followed by a woman carrying a large shopping bag―her sister, Sheila.

The two of them didn’t even change their shoes; they headed straight for the bedroom.

I watched them open my wardrobe and rummage through my clothes like they were picking out merchandise at a thrift store.

“This one is mine,” Linda said, pulling out my cashmere coat and holding it up against herself. “It cost over four hundred dollars; it’s such a waste for her to wear it.”

“How about this one?” Sheila picked up a designer silk scarf. “This must be worth at least five hundred, right?”

“Take it, take it. She’s got plenty in her closet anyway.” Linda’s tone was airy, as if those items naturally belonged to her. “I’ve served this family for so many years, what’s wrong with taking a few clothes? She doesn’t deserve to wear them, anyway.”

I watched the footage with an expressionless face.

In my past life, this was how Linda slowly emptied my belongings. From clothes to jewelry to cosmetics, she even secretly drained my pre-marital stock account. And Liam played dumb the whole time, calling it “keeping the family close.”

This time, I didn’t plan to argue with them.

I picked up my phone and sent a message to Brenda, Liam’s aunt and Arthur’s sister.

Brenda was a snob, but she was useful―her snobbery was one-way; she only cared about money. In my past life, she had a terrible relationship with Linda because Linda had once embezzled an inheritance that belonged to Brenda’s mother.

And I held a trump card.

That cashmere coat―in my past life, I had said something in front of the whole family on my birthday: “I’m going to give this coat to Aunt Brenda as a birthday gift.”

Linda’s expression back then had been priceless. She had secretly tried the coat on herself, only for me to assign it to someone else―and someone she didn’t want to give gifts to.

Later, while I was out, she stole the coat.

What did this coat mean to Brenda? It meant a physical item worth four hundred dollars, and more importantly, it was proof that “Linda stole the birthday gift her niece-in-law promised her.”

I clipped the crucial part of the surveillance footage―the shot of Linda saying “What’s wrong with taking a few clothes” and the close-up of her stuffing the coat into Sheila’s shopping bag.

The caption was simple:

“Aunt, the birthday gift I promised you was taken by my sister-in-law.”

The moment I pressed send, I felt a cold, surgeon-like satisfaction.

I didn’t need to sharpen the knife myself. Using someone else’s hand to cut the same meat was much cleaner.