Blurb：
She sacrificed everything for her sister Bella’s baby—her art career, her reputation, even her life. But when Bella returned with a thug husband and a fake Rolex, her own son called her a “pathetic, broke bitch.” After being thrown out by her parents and cornered in the red-light district, she leaped from the Brooklyn Bridge… only to wake up 18 years earlier. Now, as the midwife knocks again, she vows: This time, she’ll take control. No more being the fool who gave everything and got nothing. Dive into this gripping time travel saga of revenge, family betrayal, and redemption.
Content：
My sister, Bella, had a baby in a back-alley shithole.
Then she disappeared.
A midwife tracked me down using an address Bella left behind.
She shoved the newborn at me like a sack of garbage.
My parents fell to their knees. Crying. Begging me to take her bastard.
Just like that, my future as a promising artist was gone.
The neighbors, the priest, my landlord… they all called me a whore. A sinner who had disgraced God.
They ran me out of the neighborhood .
My life was over.
Eighteen years later, Bella waltzed back into my life.
A cheap thug with a fake Rolex dangled from her arm.
She held my son, crocodile tears streaming down her face.
She called me jealous. Accused me of stealing her flesh and blood. Of keeping a mother from her child.
And my son? The one I bled myself dry for?
The son I poured every last cent into, turning him into a brilliant painter?
The son I starved for, so much that I ended up in a hospital bed?
The moment he saw his “real” mother, he cast me aside without a second thought.
“You pathetic, broke bitch!” he spat. “You stole everything from us! All the happiness that was supposed to be ours!”
My parents threw me out like a dog.
Bella’s thug husband had his men corner me in the red-light district.
They pinned me against a wall, their threats vile and clear: Never come back.
I had no way out. I threw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then, I opened my eyes.
I was back. Eighteen years in the past.
Then came the knock. Hell had found my door.
I wasn’t going to be the fool who gave everything and got nothing.
This time, I took control.
Chapter 1
My sister, Bella, had a baby in a back-alley shithole.
Then she disappeared.
A midwife tracked me down using an address Bella left behind.
She shoved the newborn at me like a sack of garbage.
My parents fell to their knees. Crying. Begging me to take her bastard.
Just like that, my future as a promising artist was gone.
The neighbors, the priest, my landlord… they all called me a whore. A sinner who had disgraced God.
They ran me out of the neighborhood .
My life was over.
Eighteen years later, Bella waltzed back into my life.
A cheap thug with a fake Rolex dangled from her arm.
She held my son, crocodile tears streaming down her face.
She called me jealous. Accused me of stealing her flesh and blood. Of keeping a mother from her child.
And my son? The one I bled myself dry for?
The son I poured every last cent into, turning him into a brilliant painter?
The son I starved for, so much that I ended up in a hospital bed?
The moment he saw his “real” mother, he cast me aside without a second thought.
“You pathetic, broke bitch!” he spat. “You stole everything from us! All the happiness that was supposed to be ours!”
My parents threw me out like a dog.
Bella’s thug husband had his men corner me in the red-light district.
They pinned me against a wall, their threats vile and clear: Never come back.
I had no way out. I threw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then, I opened my eyes.
I was back. Eighteen years in the past.
Then came the knock. Hell had found my door.
I wasn’t going to be the fool who gave everything and got nothing.
This time, I took control.
…
Before dawn. The knocking sounded like Death, here to collect.
I was soaked in a cold sweat.
In my last life, that midwife banged on the door just like this.
Loud enough to wake the whole damn building.
In front of everyone, she shoved that wrinkled baby into my arms and screeched that I was an irresponsible whore.
I’ll never forget the way the neighbors looked at me.
That mix of scorn, disgust, and that holier-than-thou smugness.
Father Wilson of St. Mary’s had my name struck from the list of volunteers for “defiling God’s gift of purity.”
My landlady, Linda, showed up the next day to kick me out.
Said she couldn’t have an “unclean woman” ruining the building’s reputation.
What broke my heart was how everything I’d built in the art world turned to dust.
The Williams Gallery canceled my solo show.
An art critic for the New York Times wrote a hit piece on my “moral decay.”
Not a single collector would look at my work again.
But the worst part was pushing away the one person who actually cared.
When I was at my lowest, someone anonymously sent me expensive art supplies.
They quietly bought my most expensive piece.
Mr. Williams once hinted, “He’s watching out for you. Says real talent shouldn’t be buried by gossip.”
I knew it was him.
Dante Moretti.
The man who owned Chicago’s shadows.
In my last life, pride and pain made me a fool.
I ignored every lifeline he threw me.
I swallowed the poison alone.
But now, I wouldn’t be their fool again.
Now, that woman’s shrill voice was back.
“Elena! You bitch! Open this door!”
The midwife’s voice sliced through the door, joined by Father Wilson’s condemnation in a chorus from hell.
“Elena! Stop playing dead! Do you think we don’t know what you’ve done?”
The banging got louder, crazier.
Her curses echoed in the hall.
“The whole building’s watching! The priest from Saint Mary’s is here! You godless slut!”
I looked through the peephole.
My heart almost stopped.
It wasn’t just the midwife.
Father Wilson was there, holding a cross.
A few of the neighborhood gossips were there, too.
Someone was even holding a camera, ready to snap a picture.
The memory hit me like a fist.
Those photos ended up in the local rag.
The headline: The Ugly Truth of a Fallen Artist.
I remember that feeling, like the whole world was judging me.
Every step was like walking on broken glass.
A jolt went through me.
I got up, barefoot, and yanked the door open.
A familiar, greedy face.
She was holding a bundle.
Behind her, half the floor was crowded around, whispering.
“Finally decided to open up?” she snarled. “You know how long I’ve been waiting?”
She shoved the bundle into my arms.
A weak cry came from inside the blankets.
“Your baby! You know child abandonment is a felony in New York?”
Her spit nearly hit my face.
I looked down. A baby.
A newborn.
The neighbors started pointing.
Their whispers hit me like ghosts from the past:
“God, is Elena even married?”
“A baby? She’s so young! She always seemed so innocent.”
“Doesn’t look like she’s married… a baby out of wedlock! It’s a sin against God!”
“Women like her should be kicked out of the neighborhood! She’ll be a bad influence on our children!”
Father Wilson held up his cross. “Child, you have disappointed the Lord. Your parents can’t even show their faces in church.”
The talk was a wave, about to drown me.
The midwife raised her voice, making sure everyone could hear.
“Elena, you think you can screw around with some bum and then just dump the kid on someone else? This is your responsibility!”
In my past life, I chose silence. I accepted it all.
I thought if I was patient and kind, they would understand.
I believed my family would protect me.
All I got was humiliation and a social death sentence.
But not this time.
I won’t let anyone trample on me again.
I gently placed the baby on the shoe rack by the door and turned back into the apartment.
My eyes landed on the heavy sculpture on my desk.
t was a decorative bronze pistol, with a sharp, dangerous-looking barrel.
I knew it was hollow, just for show. But it was convincing.
It was my entry for the Chicago Art Fair.
One of the judges was Dante’s art consultant.
Please, God, let this work.
I grabbed the sculpture and stormed back out.
“What was that?” I stalked toward the midwife, the sculpture held like a weapon. “Say it again. I dare you.”
“What… what are you doing?” She stumbled back.
I pressed the sharp edge of the sculpture to her temple.
My voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “A new mother is a cornered animal. You think I don’t have the strength to cave your skull in?”
The crowd gasped.
“She’s crazy… Elena’s lost her mind…”
“Someone call the cops!”
The midwife’s face went white. “You… you can’t…”
“I can’t what?” I smiled, a cold, sharp smile. “You barge into my home, humiliate me in front of everyone, and you expect me to just take it?”
I looked around at the neighbors, at their faces hungry for gossip.
“Ladies and gentlemen, does a normal midwife run around the streets holding a stranger’s baby, calling them out by name?”
The crowd started murmuring.
“That does seem strange…”
“Maybe she’s a kidnapper?”
The midwife panicked. “I’m not! I’m a registered…”
“Registered what?” I cut her off, pressing the sculpture in a little deeper. “A registered midwife hands a baby to a stranger without any hospital papers? A registered midwife spreads rumors and slander in public?”
She started to shake. “Elena, don’t make things up…”
“Am I?” My voice went soft, but it was more dangerous. “Then let’s have certain people decide if you’re following proper procedure.”
I pulled out my phone and pretended to dial.
“Let’s call Chicago.” My voice was deceptively calm. “See what they think of midwives who help steal babies. I’m sure they can… clear this up.”
The midwife’s eyes went wide.
In this neighborhood, any threat involving Chicago was no joke.
“Wait!” She threw her hands up. “I’ll talk! I’ll tell you everything!”
Just then, footsteps pounded up the stairs.
“Elena!” my mother gasped, my father right behind her. “We heard… child, this has to be a misunderstanding…”
“A misunderstanding?” I turned to them, not lowering the sculpture. “What misunderstanding?”
My mother saw the weapon in my hand.
Her voice trembled. “Elena, put that down. Let’s talk this through…”
“Talk about what?” I sneered. “How this woman broke into my home to slander me? Or why you two just happened to show up?”
My father tried to grab the sculpture. “That’s enough, Elena! Stop this!”
I stepped back, aiming it at him. “Don’t touch me.”
The midwife, seeing her chance, finally broke. “It was Bella! Your sister, Bella, sent me! She said if there were any problems, I should find you! She gave me your address!”
The hallway went dead silent.
I looked at my parents’ shocked faces and let a cruel smile spread across my lips.
“I see.” I put the sculpture down and dusted off my hands. “Well, that makes things simple.”
I picked up the baby and walked to the midwife. “A bastard’s blood would ruin my art. I don’t want it.”
“Elena!” my mother screamed. “You can’t! That’s your…”
“My what?” I cut her off, my eyes like ice. “My burden? My shame? Or the mistake someone else made that I’m supposed to carry?”
The midwife was cornered.
She finally exploded.
She screamed, “You tell Bella she can clean up her own damn mess! Don’t you dare try to dump it on me!”
Chapter 2
The midwife’s words sent a shockwave through the hallway.
I didn’t let the moment pass.
“So,” I said, walking slowly toward her. “You’re admitting this kid is Bella’s. And that she used stolen goods as payment?”
“I didn’t say stolen…” the midwife stammered.
“A Cartier bracelet,” I said, cutting her off. “Worth thirty grand. Right?”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know…”
The neighbors started whispering.
“A thirty-thousand-dollar bracelet?”
“Where would Bella get that kind of money?”
“Had to be stolen…”
I kept coming. “What else? Besides the bracelet, what else did she leave you?”
The midwife looked at me, really scared now. “She… she left a copy of your ID. And a rent receipt for this apartment…”
“A rent receipt.” I repeated the words, then turned to my parents. “My rent receipt. How did Bella get her hands on it?”
My mother’s face was pale. “Elena, this has to be a mistake…”
“A mistake?” I laughed, a cold, empty sound. “She steals my identity, steals my jewelry, then dumps her bastard on my doorstep. You call that a mistake?”
My father tried to smooth things over. “Maybe she just…”
“Just what? Wanted to ruin my reputation?” I looked around at the neighbors. “Now the whole building knows Elena is a slut who got knocked up, right?”
I picked up the sculpture again. This time, I pointed it at the midwife’s throat.
“Let me paint you a picture.” My voice was dangerously low. “A young girl disappears after giving birth. Then a shady midwife shows up with the baby and the girl’s ID. Smells like human trafficking, doesn’t it? Maybe even organ harvesting. That’s a story the cops would eat alive.”
The crowd started to get agitated.
“Oh my God…”
“That’s horrible…”
“We should call the police…”
The midwife completely fell apart. “No! It’s not like that! Bella’s alive! She’s at the clinic!”
“Prove it,” I pressed. “Take us there. Now.”
“Elena,” my mother grabbed my arm. “Calm down. Let’s all go and see…”
I shook her off. “You go. I’m not going.”
“What?” my father said, stunned. “Why not?”
“Because if it’s a trap, I don’t plan on dying in some filthy clinic.” I shrugged. “You go make sure Bella’s safe. And give her this kid back while you’re at it.”
I shoved the baby into my mother’s arms.
“But Elena…”
“No ‘buts’.” I turned and walked back to my apartment. “You have two hours.” The words were ice. “If I don’t hear from you, I’m calling the police. I’ll tell them an organ trafficking ring has my family.”
The midwife was frantic. “You can’t do that!”
“Of course I can.” I stopped at the door and looked back at her. “Unless you can prove everything is legal. Your license. The clinic’s license. And a birth certificate for this baby.”
Her mouth hung open. She couldn’t say a word.
“Go on,” I said to my parents. “Go see your precious little girl. Ask her why she was using my ID.”
The door clicked shut behind me.
I leaned against it, listening to the chaos of footsteps and arguments fade away.
Ten minutes later, the hall was quiet.
I moved fast.
The emergency cash from the shoebox.
My grandmother’s locket.
A few unfinished canvases.
I stuffed everything of value into two suitcases.
Just as I was finishing, the landlady knocked.
“Elena? Are you okay? Those people…”
Her concern was a world away from how she’d kicked me out in my last life.
I opened the door and handed her a note. “Linda, if anyone else delivers a ‘package’ for me, throw it in the trash. I’m not coming back.”
“What? You’re moving?” she asked, surprised by my suitcases.
“I am.” I dragged the cases toward the stairs. “As of today, this address has nothing to do with me.”
“But your deposit…”
“Keep it. For the cleaning.”
I’d just gotten downstairs when my phone rang.
Unknown number.
“Elena?” It was my mother’s voice.
The background was loud, and I could hear a baby crying.
“What?”
“You monster!” Her voice was pure hysteria. “Where are you? What are we supposed to do with this… this baby?”
My father’s curses were just background noise.
And Bella? The architect of this whole nightmare?
She was long gone.
Just like she was in my last life.
“That’s your problem,” I said, about to hang up.
“Elena! Wait!” my mother screamed. “You can’t treat your family like this! You…”
I ended the call and crushed the SIM card under my heel.
Chapter 3
The next morning, I was packing.
I was ready to leave this city for good.
Then my phone rang.
“Elena? Tom. From the art shop.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Get your ass down here and get your kid. He’s been screaming outside my store all night. I’m running a business, not a damn daycare!”
The phone shook in my hand. “What kid? I don’t have a…”
“Cut the crap!” Tom roared. “Note says ‘Elena Johnson’s son.’ Plain as day. You think you can just dump a baby on my doorstep and I’ll raise him for you? Get down here. Now. Or my next call is to the cops.”
A baby’s screams tore through the phone.
I heard the crowd murmuring. A public spectacle.
My heart sank.
“I’m on my way,” I said through gritted teeth.
“You better be. You’ve got a whole damn audience out here for this freak show.” Tom slammed the phone down.
Twenty minutes later, I got to the art shop.
The scene hit me like a fist to the gut.
A crowd, three deep. A circus. And I was the main attraction.
At the center of it all, a beat-up stroller. A monument to my shame.
The baby’s cry was hoarse, but he was still screaming his lungs out, his little fists waving helplessly.
“It’s her! Elena’s here!”
Someone shouted, and every head turned to me.
Their eyes were greedy, curious, scornful, excited.
“That’s her! I see her in here buying supplies all the time!”
“Damn. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Just goes to show, you never know.”
“What a piece of work. Having a kid that young and just dumping him.”
“Women like her are trash.”
Tom stormed out of the shop, his face red with anger. “Elena, you finally showed up! Get this thing out of my sight! You have any idea how much business I’ve lost today because of your mess?”
I walked toward the stroller. I saw the note: “Elena Johnson’s son.”
The handwriting was neat. Deliberate. Meant for an audience.
“Everyone,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I held up the note. “I need to clear something up. My name is on this note, but…”
“Still lying?” A woman cut me off. Her voice dripped venom. “Your name’s right there! How many other Elena Johnsons you think there are, huh?”
“Yeah! Still trying to get out of it!”
“That poor baby, having a mother like you!”
The air was thick. Suffocating. Every word was a knife twisting in my heart.
My hands trembled. I pulled out my phone. I dialed my mother.
“How could you dump this baby here?”
I wanted to scream, but the weight of my anxiety and pressure pinned my voice down, and I had to force myself to sound calm.
“That’s enough!” My mother’s voice turned shrill. “Elena, when are you going to stop this? That child is yours! You had him, now you deal with him!”
My head spun. I could only whisper a weak defense.
“But you know he’s Bella’s…”
“Bella?” she shrieked. “Bella is GONE. He is your problem. Your responsibility. You walk away from him, you walk away from this family. You’ll be on your own. An orphan.”
“And another thing,” her voice turned venomous. “You think changing your number means you can hide? His mother is gone because of YOU. Do you want him to die on the street? Is that it? Are you that heartless?”
Hearing the call, the crowd’s faces changed.
Not to sympathy.
But to a deeper, more judgmental scorn.
“You hear that? Her own mother admitted it!”
“Still trying to lie! Even her mom can’t stand her!”
“What a fake! Dumps her own kid and tries to blame someone else!”
A man in glasses pointed a finger in my face. “Lady, we all heard it. Your own mother just sold you out. How long are you gonna keep up this act?”
“Yeah! Pick up your son! Stop letting him cry!”
“Have a heart!”
Tom jumped back in. “Elena, look at him! How can you be so cruel?”
I was trapped. Judged by a jury of vultures.
Every look was an accusation. Every word was a sentence.
Just yesterday, I thought I was free. Now this… this was a nightmare I couldn’t control.
The shame from my past life washed over me again. The despair of being abandoned by the whole world threatened to swallow me whole.
My mother’s curses were still pouring from the phone. “You abandoned us first!”
She was screaming now. “He’s your son! You have to raise him! If you leave him, I’ll kill myself! I’ll tell everyone I raised a monster for a daughter!”
The accusations from the crowd grew louder.
“Just admit it!”
“Stop torturing the child!”
“Look how pathetic he is!”
“You can’t be this selfish!”
A young mother holding her own baby looked at me, her eyes full of tears. “Ma’am, the little one is so helpless. Please, just take him. How can a mother abandon her own child?”
I looked at the innocent, guilty baby.
His face was red from crying, streaked with tears.
Forced by the crowd, I reached out my trembling hands.
“I…”
“Miss Johnson,” a social worker stepped forward. “If you confirm this is your child, please sign this form.”
I stared at the document, my hand shaking too hard to hold a pen.
Signing this meant reliving the nightmare.
But if I didn’t, this mob would tear me apart.
“Sign it! What are you waiting for?”
“Hurry up! Stop wasting our time!”
“The kid’s gonna cry himself to death!”
I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and was about to sign…
Suddenly, my eyes snapped open.
No.
Not this time. I won’t be their victim.
I threw the papers on the ground and walked.
“Elena! Where are you going?” Tom yelled after me.
“To find the only person who can clear my name,” I said, not breaking my stride.
An uproar exploded behind me.
“She’s running away!”
“That heartless bitch!”
“Don’t let her get away!”
I pushed through the crowd, tears blurring my vision.
But these weren’t tears of weakness. They were tears of rage.
I was going to make every single person who hurt me pay.
An hour later, I stood before a discreet gallery.
It was my last hope.
This gallery didn’t exist for the public.
It was a place where men with blood on their hands came to wash their money clean with art.
And I knew about it because of Dante.
In my last life, I ran from his attention. Now, he was my only way out.
I pushed the door open.
“Can I help you?” The gallery owner was a thin, middle-aged man with sharp eyes.
I took a painting out of my bag.
On a black canvas, a silver serpent devoured its own tail, forming a perfect circle.
Its eyes were chips of ruby, glinting with menace.
I’d drawn this symbol many times, hidden in sketchbooks, never showing anyone.
Because I knew what it meant.
The mark of the Moretti family.
I’d seen it once. A photo of him in a society magazine.
A tiny lapel pin most people would miss. But I don’t miss details.
“I’d like to sell this piece. Anonymously.”
The owner’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the symbol.
“The Ouroboros,” he muttered, then looked up at me. “Miss, do you have any idea what this means?”
“I do,” I said calmly. “And I know someone who will be very interested in it.”
In my past life, I missed all his signals.
The anonymous art supplies.
The concern he passed on through Mr. Williams.
This time, I was making the first move.
He took the painting carefully, studying it. “The technique is unique. Not many people would dare to paint this symbol. Fewer still could paint it so… precisely. Have you seen the real pin?”
I didn’t answer. I just said, “So, will you sell it for me?”
“Of course. One moment.” He went to the back and picked up a special phone.
Ten minutes later, the back door of the gallery opened.
A man in a suit walked in.
“Miss.” His nod was sharp. He held out a phone. “Mr. Moretti wants to talk. About the painting.”
I took the phone.
“Elena,” a deep male voice came through, with a faint Italian accent. “Your painting is… interesting.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you know what the Ouroboros means?”
“Eternity,” I answered without hesitation. “Destruction and rebirth.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Good. Walk out of the gallery. Get in the car. We need to talk.”
I followed the man in the suit outside.
He opened the door to a black sedan for me.
The inside was suffocatingly luxurious, the leather seats smelling faintly of cigars.
“Dante Moretti,” the man said, offering his hand. “From Chicago.”
I took his hand, meeting his gaze. “Elena.”
He nodded, his expression relaxed, almost lazy.
“You know our symbol?”
“I do,” I said. My voice was steel. “I need your help.”
A dangerous smile touched his lips. “Help has a price. What do you have to offer?”
I looked him straight in the eye, my voice quiet but firm. “Right now, all I have is me.”
A dangerous light sparked in his eyes. “You,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Are more than enough.”
He leaned forward, his gaze intense, a look of pure appreciation on his face.
“First, let’s see about helping you.”
That night, using Dante’s network, a bounty appeared on several underground forums.
FIND HER: $50,000 CASH. BELLA JOHNSON.
Last Seen: Brooklyn. Brown hair, green eyes, butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder.
PROFILE: High-class grifter. Sleeps with marks for money, leaves a baby in her wake. Leaves broken families.
WARNING: Manipulative as hell. Uses a pregnancy sob story. Don’t fall for it.
KNOWN ASSOCIATES: Lowlifes and dealers. Rico Martinez, Tommy Chen, Jackson Williams.
Attached were the photos I took. The baby. The stroller. The expensive ring left like a calling card.
CONTACT: [Encrypted Email]
Because of who posted it, the bounty was pinned to the top, highlighted.
If Bella showed her face, there would be nowhere to hide.
This time, I wasn’t going to let Bella dump her mess on me.
I had a life of my own, and I’d rather burn her script than play a single part in it.
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