A Cruel Inheritance

In my last life, my brother chose the Hamiltons and I was taken in by a mechanic.

It was a disaster for him. The Hamiltons were a vipers’ nest of old money and cold shoulders. His new parents ignored him, and his adoptive sister, Chloe, and her pack of hyenas made his life a living hell. He ended up with nothing.

My life, on the other hand, played out like some indie romance movie. I had a warm, loving home, and somehow, the rich girl—the same Chloe Hamilton—fell desperately in love with my supposed "tortured artist" persona.

My brother killed me for it. He was consumed by a hatred so pure it was almost beautiful.

And then we woke up, right back in the sterile-smelling reception room of St. Jude's Home for Boys, on the day we were chosen.

This time, he didn't hesitate. He sprinted toward the mechanic and his wife.

"My brother, this time I'm going to be the one who wins," he’d whispered to me moments before, a feverish glint in his eye.

But he never understood. A winning hand isn't about the cards you're dealt. It's about how you play them.

1

So there we were. Reborn on adoption day.

The Hamiltons, one of Boston’s most powerful families, were here to select a son. At the same time, a mechanic—a man named Miller—and his wife were here to do the same.

The three Hamiltons were a portrait of old money, dressed in quiet luxury that screamed its price tag. Their daughter, Chloe, was a miniature queen in designer clothes, a delicate pout already fixed on her face. They were the kind of family you read about in magazines, the kind whose name even the state senator knew.

By contrast, the Millers looked worn down by life. Their clothes were clean but faded, their hands permanently etched with the ghosts of grease and oil. A deep, tired kindness radiated from them.

It didn't stop my brother, Caleb, from running to them as if they were the finish line of a marathon.

"Mom! Dad!" he cried, his voice thick with a calculated eagerness. "From now on, I'm a Miller!"

I watched his performance, a cold smile touching my lips, and quietly walked over to the Hamiltons.

Mrs. Hamilton’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitted together for a fraction of a second. She said nothing.

And just like that, the choices were made. We were led away to our new lives.

As I left, I overheard the director of the home muttering to an assistant.

"That's strange. Caleb always had such ambition. Why would he choose a mechanic?"

She couldn’t understand it.

But I knew exactly why.

2

In our first life, Caleb had schemed and scraped to become Caleb Hamilton. He thought he'd step into a world of privilege, maybe even spark a storybook romance with the beautiful Chloe.

Instead, Chloe had frozen him out with a single, contemptuous look.

"Don't think just because you live in my house you're my brother," she'd told him. "I can't stand social climbers like you. Stay away from me."

She mocked his ambition, called him a gold-digger, and led her clique in a relentless campaign of psychological warfare against him. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were no better. They'd only adopted him because some guru their mother consulted told them a boy born in his year would bring good fortune to the family business. They had no affection for him, and they certainly never intervened when their daughter was being cruel.

But me? The poor kid from the other side of the tracks? Chloe had found me fascinating.

"There's something about Leo Miller," she used to say to her friends. "He's… real."

When the Hamiltons eventually passed away, Chloe kicked Caleb out with nothing but the clothes on his back. Then she turned around and offered me the entire Hamilton empire on a silver platter, just for the chance to be my wife.

On our wedding day, Caleb, completely unhinged, plowed his car into mine. We died together and came back here.

So this time, he was desperate to be chosen by the Millers, desperate to live my "perfect" life.

He wanted it? Fine. He could have it.

3

Caleb was right about one thing: Chloe Hamilton’s cruelty didn't take long to surface. This time, however, it was aimed at me.

In the polished hallway of our elite private school, I was suddenly drenched in cold, murky water. I looked up to see Chloe and her friends, their faces alight with malicious glee as they watched me drip onto the marble floor.

"You may have my family’s name, but don't you ever forget what you are," she said, her voice echoing in the corridor. "When you're out in public, you don't mention us. You're just a stray dog we took in. Got it, Leo Hamilton?"

Whispers erupted from the other students. I kept my expression blank.

A teacher, drawn by the commotion, hurried over. Chloe’s face instantly transformed into a mask of innocent concern.

"Oh, sir," she said, pointing at me. "Leo made a terrible mess on the floor."

It was the exact same move she'd pulled a dozen times on Caleb in our last life.

The teacher, likely intimidated by the Hamilton name, didn't even ask for my side of the story. He just handed me a mop and told me to clean it up.

I didn't argue. Under Chloe's triumphant smirk, I silently started mopping the floor. The crowd of students, bored now that the main event was over, dispersed. Chloe and her friends swept away, laughing.

A moment later, a thin hand picked up the bucket of dirty water.

It was Sarah Jenkins, our class president. She was a scholarship kid, fiercely intelligent and perpetually overworked. Years of what looked like poor nutrition had left her looking fragile, but her eyes were sharp.

"You should probably tell a teacher what really happened," she said quietly, not quite meeting my gaze.

She turned to leave, but I remembered. In our past life, Sarah had tried to help Caleb once, fetching a teacher when Chloe was tormenting him. Caleb had screamed at her to mind her own business. Rumors started that she had a crush on him, which only gave Chloe another target. After that, Sarah never got involved again.

Just before the SATs, she’d killed herself.

It was only then that we learned the whole story. She lived alone with her grandmother. Right before finals, her deadbeat, gambling-addicted father had reappeared. To pay off his debts, he’d forced her grandmother into a state of fatal anxiety and then tried to sell Sarah to a loan shark. She jumped from a bridge rather than let him.

Not wanting to get entangled, Sarah was already walking away.

"Sarah!" I called out, my voice louder than I intended.

She turned, a flicker of surprise on her face.

"I, uh... I can't find the cafeteria," I said, feeling my cheeks flush. "Could you show me where it is?"

She hesitated, then gave a curt nod.

A few minutes later, she was staring at the table I’d loaded with food—braised short ribs, garlic noodles, roasted vegetables. Her own tray held only a small salad.

"Ha," I laughed, trying to sound casual. "I wasn't sure about the portion sizes. I ordered way too much. Eat with me. Consider it a thank-you for being my guide."

She didn't refuse. She picked up her fork and began to eat, slowly, deliberately. I watched the delicate bones in her wrist and felt a pang of something protective.

This life, I would save myself. And if I could, I would save her, too. A girl this decent deserved a better hand than the one she’d been dealt.

I plastered a friendly smile on my face.

"Hey, Sarah? I'm completely drowning in AP Chem. Would you be willing to tutor me? I'll pay you, of course. Market rate."

Before she could object, I pulled out my phone and sent her a payment on Venmo.

"Don't worry," I added quickly. "I checked the standard tutoring rates. This should cover the rest of the school year."

I knew she was too proud to accept charity, so I framed it as a transaction. Thanks to the ridiculously generous allowance the Hamiltons gave me—guilt money, I figured—I could afford it easily. To them, it was pocket change. To Sarah, it was enough to get her and her grandmother a small, safe apartment away from her father.

We agreed on a tutoring schedule, and I left the cafeteria, walking back to the Hamilton mansion alone. Chloe never had the driver wait for me.

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