A New Mom, But the Old Evil One

I was reborn, waiting in line in the Underworld, to pick a new mother.

The Fate Official, his face expressionless, presented me with three options.

Card A: Gentle and Loving Mother;

Card B: Wealthy but Single Mother;

Card C: Random Blind Box.

He asked, What did your last mother do to you, that you'd rather risk your soul dissolving than be tied to her again?

When my father was home, she would always make me wear a metal muzzle. She'd say, "Your voice is too seductive, it will steal men's souls."

The first lipstick my father ever bought me, she broke it in front of me, then brutally smeared it all over my face, accusing me of mimicking her to entice men.

When my father praised my good grades at the dinner table, she would immediately report me to the school for cheating, forcing me to read a public apology in front of the entire student body.

The Fate Official listened in silence.

I looked at the words "Gentle and Loving" on Card A and bowed deeply to him. "Sir, please, I just want to be the daughter of an ordinary person."

But to my dismay, when I opened my eyes again, I saw my mother.

Are you serious?!

They said I was getting a new reincarnation, but instead, I was back in my ten-year-old self.

The crystal chandelier in the living room cast fragmented light. My father, Mr. Harrison, pushed a delicate velvet box towards me.

"Stella, happy birthday."

I opened it.

Inside was a music box shaped like a ballerina, with a warm, white jade base.

My father smiled and said, "My daughter is so beautiful; she'll surely shine on stage like this someday."

Phoebe Frost, my mother, walked over, wrapped her arm around my father's, and smiled, her beauty graceful and moving.

"Of course our Stella is the best. Darling, you have such good taste, this gift suits our daughter perfectly."

Her fingernail brushed lightly against my shoulder, and my whole body tensed.

That night, I placed the music box by my bedside and wound it up.

Clear music flowed out, the ballerina spun under the lamp, her skirt twirling.

I watched it until I fell asleep.

In the middle of the night, I was startled awake.

Phoebe Frost stood by my bed, holding the music box.

In front of me, with a chilling smile, she slowly twisted the winding key until it snapped.

The crisp music abruptly ceased.

Then, as if breaking a dry twig, she easily snapped off the ballerina's head.

She tossed the fragments at my feet, looking down at me, her voice cold and piercing: "Do you deserve something like this?"

"Don't think just because your father gives you a few nice things you can become some princess. Dream on! You low-born trash, you only deserve garbage!"

At the dinner table the next day, my father asked about the music box.

Before I could speak, Phoebe casually said, "It broke. Kids are clumsy."

My father frowned. "How could you be so careless?"

Phoebe glanced at me, the warning in her eyes chilling me to the bone.

I could only lower my head, swallowing all my words.

My father didn't press further, just told me to be more careful next time.

But as he looked at Phoebe, a hint of doubt flickered in his eyes.

A few days later, my father returned from a business trip and brought me a delicate silver bracelet.

As soon as I put it on, Phoebe walked over.

She glanced at it, a sneer curling her lips.

In front of me, she unclasped the bracelet, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it with her high heel until the silver chain broke and deformed.

She dug her nails hard into my arm, warning, "Don't tell your father."

Then she said contemptuously, "Cheap junk, just like you. You only bring me shame. You're worthless!"

Phoebe's ways of being "good" to me were always unique.

She never hit me, never yelled at me.

She simply, with the gentlest demeanor, pushed me little by little into an abyss.

The school was holding an arts performance, and the teacher chose me to be the lead reciter.

I brought the notice home, and my father was overjoyed, saying that night he would buy me a new dress.

Phoebe smiled and said, "Our Stella is so impressive, Mother is proud of you."

The day before the performance, she brought in a cup of hot milk.

First, she scoffed at me, "A toad trying to eat swan meat. Someone as low-class as you doesn't deserve to be the lead reciter."

Then she pinched my arm hard, leaving an almost imperceptible bruise.

She handed me the milk, saying in a grim tone, "Drink this, and you won't have to make a fool of yourself."

I looked at the cup of milk, smelling the familiar, slightly bitter almond scent.

In my previous life, I drank this milk and developed a high fever the next day, missing the performance.

I smiled and took the milk. "Thank you, Mother."

The moment she turned away, I poured all the milk into the potted plant by my bed.

The next day, the leaves of that expensive orchid turned yellow.

On the morning of the performance, I discovered my speech was missing.

I frantically searched my entire room, sweating profusely.

Phoebe walked in, pretending to help me search.

She stroked my head, sighing, "Stella, are you too tired? You can't even remember where you put things."

"How about you just don't go? Mother feels bad for you."

I stood in the center of the stage, wearing the beautiful new dress my father bought me.

Phoebe and my father sat in the front row.

The lights came up, and I clearly saw the gentle smile on her face instantly freeze.

She clearly hadn't expected me to be able to stand here safe and sound, without even needing the speech manuscript.

I didn't look at any notes, delivering the recitation in the loudest, clearest voice.

The audience erupted in applause.

My father excitedly stood up, proudly introducing me to those around him, "That's my daughter!"

Phoebe also stood and clapped, but the smile on her face didn't reach her eyes.

On the way home, she kept praising me.

"Our Stella was amazing today, like a little star."

The moment we entered the house, the smile on her face vanished.

She walked into my room and closed the door.

She stared at me sinisterly, her voice slithering into my ears like a venomous snake: "You're very smug, aren't you? Don't forget, everything you have belongs to the Harrison family, including your life."

I needed an opportunity to escape.

An opportunity my father couldn't refuse, and Phoebe couldn't openly obstruct.

I began to "obsess" over painting.

I spent all my allowance on art supplies, shutting myself in my room every day after school.

My academic grades plummeted.

The teacher called my parents.

When my father came home, he lost his temper with me for the first time.

He threw a stack of failing test papers in front of me.

"Stella Harrison, what on earth are you doing?"

Phoebe quickly stepped in to mediate. She hugged me and said to my father, "Don't scare the child. Stella might just be under too much pressure lately."

She turned to me, gently asking, "Stella, tell Mother, why aren't you studying well?"

I lowered my head and pulled a drawing from my art portfolio.

It was a charcoal portrait of my father that I had worked on for an entire week.

In the drawing, he wore a suit, looking spirited and bright-eyed.

It was him at his most handsome, as I remembered him in his youth.

My father was stunned.

He picked up the drawing, his fingers gently tracing the image.

His anger visibly dissipated.

"This... you drew this?"

I nodded.

Phoebe's face changed.

I continued to pull out more drawings from my portfolio.

I had drawn him working, playing chess, and telling stories.

Every single one was him.

My father looked through them one by one, his eyes slowly reddening.

"Darling, look how much Stella loves you," Phoebe's voice was strained.

I seized the opportunity and whispered, "Father, I want to learn to paint."

Phoebe immediately objected, "What's the use of learning to paint? Can you eat it? The most important thing for you right now is to improve your studies!"

But my father carefully collected the stack of drawings and put them in a drawer in his study.

He came out and said to Phoebe, "Let her go."

"This child has talent."

"Hire the best teachers, go to the best art studio."

Phoebe's lips moved, but she ultimately failed to voice her objections.

After my father left, the facade on Phoebe's face instantly shattered.

She grabbed my arm, her nails almost digging into my flesh, hissing in a low voice, "You think just because you have some talent for painting, you can fly? You're useless! What else can you do besides paint? You don't deserve your father's love!"

The art studio my father found for me was called "River Bend."

It was the most famous art center in the city.

In my previous life, I was only recommended here by my school psychologist when I was on the verge of a breakdown.

Here, I met Professor Hayes.

She was the Card A I had drawn.

She was the only light in both my lives.

In this life, I arrived five years early.

Pushing open the studio door, the warm scent of paint washed over me.

Sunlight streamed through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, falling on easels and plaster casts.

Children sat quietly in front of their easels, only the soft rustle of brushes on paper to be heard.

A woman in a linen dress was bending over, teaching a child how to mix colors, hand-over-hand.

Her profile was gentle, her voice soft.

"See, add a little more blue, and it's like the evening sky."

It was her.

Professor Hayes.

I stood at the doorway, my heart pounding.

How could I get back to her side?

She seemed to notice my gaze, looked up, and met my eyes.

Her gaze was clear and warm, with an inquiring kindness.

I gripped the drawing board in my hand and walked towards her.

"Professor, hello, I'm a new student, my name is Stella Harrison."

She gave me a gentle smile.

"Welcome, Stella. What a beautiful name."

She pointed to an empty easel. "Your spot is over there. Go ahead and put your things down."

That afternoon, I painted a sunflower.

Vast fields of golden sunflowers, reaching for the sun, growing wild.

Professor Hayes walked behind me and watched for a long time.

She didn't comment on my technique, but just asked softly, "You seem to really like the sun?"

I nodded vigorously.

She ran her hand through my hair, a natural and intimate gesture.

"It's beautifully painted, full of vitality."

When my father came to pick me up, Professor Hayes chatted with him for a few minutes.

She praised me, saying I was "spirited, talented, a child born to walk this path."

My father was overjoyed, smiling all the way home.

Phoebe Frost's face, however, grew darker and darker.

That night, she walked into my room and picked up my sunflower painting.

"Not bad."

She placed the painting on the table, her fingertip aggressively slashing across the golden paint.

A glaring scratch appeared right in the center of the sun.

She then picked up a paintbrush, savagely poking at my painting, muttering, "So ugly, no talent at all."

She looked at me, a sinister smile playing on her lips. "You think you're good at painting? It's just Mr. Harrison's charity. You are nothing, and you'll never escape my grasp!"

My time at the "River Bend" art studio was the most peaceful period of my ten years.

Professor Hayes never stinted on her praise.

She would hang my paintings in the most prominent spots, and recommend my works to gallery owners who came to visit.

With her encouragement, I grew more confident, and my painting skills improved by leaps and bounds.

Phoebe's need for control, however, grew with my "unruliness."

She began to appear frequently at the studio.

Sometimes bringing afternoon tea, sometimes picking me up after school.

Each time she came, she would intimately link arms with Professor Hayes, addressing her as "Professor Hayes" over and over again.

"Our Stella really owes it all to you."

"This child has been shy since she was little, doesn't like to talk. Only you have the patience."

She handed Professor Hayes a beautifully wrapped box.

"Just a small token of my appreciation, please don't refuse."

Professor Hayes couldn't decline, so she accepted it.

After Phoebe left, Professor Hayes opened the box.

Inside was a scarf, gaudily colored and old-fashioned.

Most importantly, the price tag hadn't been removed.

A glaring number highlighted its cheapness.

Professor Hayes looked at the scarf, her expression becoming complex.

I walked over and whispered, "Professor, my mother, she..."

But Professor Hayes shook her head at me. She put away the scarf and gave me a gentle smile.

"Your mother loves you very much."

I knew she saw through it.

But she couldn't say anything.

Phoebe was too cunning. She disguised herself as an ordinary mother who loved her daughter dearly but was not good at expressing it.

Any questioning of her would be interpreted as a provocation against a mother.

Phoebe's tactics didn't stop there.

She started trying to isolate me.

She would bring exquisite pastries to the studio, distributing them to all the children, except me.

She would smile and explain, "Stella is a bit prone to heat lately, she should eat less sweets."

The children, eating their desserts, looked at me with a mix of pity and a hint of distance.

She would also, in front of Professor Hayes and other parents, "accidentally" bring up some of my "embarrassing moments."

"This child is particularly timid; she can't sleep alone at night."

"And she's a picky eater, won't touch a single green vegetable. She worries me sick."

With these trivial, seemingly harmless details, she wove a web.

Inside that web, I was a troublesome child, disobedient, needing constant "care."

And she was the great mother, worrying herself sick over me.

Professor Hayes noticed my low spirits.

That day, she kept me back alone.

She didn't ask me anything, but simply pulled out a photo album.

Inside were her paintings from childhood to adulthood.

The first one was a wobbly stick figure.

"This is what I drew when I was five. My mother said it was the handsomest prince she'd ever seen."

The last one was a mature oil painting that had won an international award.

She closed the album and looked at me.

"Stella, art doesn't lie."

"Your paintings tell me you are a child with a volcano inside."

"Don't let anyone extinguish your flame."

I looked into her clear eyes, and the ice that had frozen in my heart for so long cracked open.

That evening, I didn't go straight home.

I used the studio phone to call my father.

I said I missed him, and wanted to wait for him at the studio after work so we could go home together.

On the other end of the line, my father was pleasantly surprised.

Half an hour later, he appeared at the studio door.

Phoebe had come along, her face grim.

"Stella, why are you so thoughtless, bothering your father's work so late?"

But my father scooped me up.

"My daughter wanting me is never a bother, no matter the time."

He looked at Phoebe, his brow slightly furrowed.

"Don't always criticize the child."

This was the first time my father had openly contradicted Phoebe because of me.

Phoebe's body stiffened.

I rested my head on my father's shoulder, looking at her ashen face, my heart completely calm.

This was just the beginning.

The city was holding a Youth Art Competition.

The first-place prize was a full scholarship to an art summer camp in France.

For two months.

This was a perfect opportunity for me to escape Phoebe's control.

I poured all my time and energy into preparing my competition piece.

I would paint the best painting.

A painting that would allow everyone to see my light, and also her shadow.

I chose the theme "Caged Bird."

On the canvas, a magnificently plumed golden bird was trapped in an exquisitely beautiful cage.

Outside the cage, spring bloomed brightly, with flowers everywhere.

Inside the cage, there was only a small dish of clear water and a few grains of rice.

The bird's eyes stared out the window, filled with a longing for freedom.

When Professor Hayes saw my rough sketch, she was silent for a long time.

She only said one thing: "Stella, paint what you want, paint boldly."

I could feel Phoebe growing more anxious.

She would come to the studio every day, ostensibly to visit, but truly to supervise.

She would stand behind me, watching me construct that elaborate cage stroke by stroke.

Her voice was faint and eerie.

"Stella, the cage is so beautifully drawn."

"The bird stays inside, safe from wind and rain, so secure."

I ignored her, continuing to paint.

I didn't touch the afternoon tea she brought.

I didn't listen to a single word of her "jokes."

In my world, there was only the canvas, and that bird longing to fly.

The night before the submission deadline, I finally completed the painting.

I carefully rolled it up and placed it in an art tube.

I knew Phoebe would act.

I waited for her.

Phoebe came, as expected.

She carried a cup of warm milk, her smile as gentle as ever.

"Stella, when you're done painting, get some rest. You have the competition tomorrow."

I took the milk and meekly said, "Thank you, Mother."

She watched with satisfaction as I drank the "milk," then tucked me into bed and turned off the light.

I lay in bed, listening to her footsteps fade away.

Then, I immediately got out of bed, rushed to the bathroom, and spat out all the plain water I had just drunk.

I had already poured out that cup of milk.

I returned to my room, pulled an identical art tube from under my bed.

Inside was a rough draft I had hastily copied in two days.

I placed this art tube in the most obvious spot.

The real "Caged Bird" was hidden in the deepest part of my closet.

Having done all this, I lay back in bed and closed my eyes.

At three in the morning, my bedroom door quietly opened.

A dark figure tiptoed in and took the art tube from the table.

In the darkness, I opened my eyes, perfectly clear.

The next day, Phoebe drove me to the competition venue.

She encouraged me all the way.

"Stella, don't be nervous, just do your best. Winning or not isn't important; Mother will always be proud of you."

Her performance was, as always, flawless.

At the venue, staff began to receive submissions.

I handed over the art tube.

Phoebe stood beside me, her face a mix of anticipation and nervousness.

The staff member opened the art tube and pulled out the rolled canvas.

The moment the painting unfurled, everyone gasped.

The canvas was haphazardly smeared with black oil paint.

The golden bird was completely covered by heavy black, revealing only one desperate eye.

The entire painting was utterly destroyed.

Phoebe immediately rushed forward, her reaction even faster than mine.

She embraced me, her voice trembling with "shock."

"Oh my goodness! Who did this? How could this happen?"

Her eyes were red-rimmed as she looked at me, full of feigned distress.

"My Stella, you spent so long painting... what will we do now..."

Her acting was worthy of an Oscar.

The surrounding parents and contestants gathered, pointing and whispering about the ruined painting.

I stood rooted to the spot, unmoving.

I looked at Phoebe, at her face etched with "grief" and "anger."

She thought she had won again.