Hearing Their Lies

I returned to the family estate in a faded t-shirt and worn-out jeans.

Inside the grand foyer, my long-lost biological parents, the Ashfords, stood waiting. Beside them was Chloe, the daughter they had raised, the girl who had lived my life. And I could hear the thought in her head, as clear as a whisper in my ear.

She knows Mom and Dad’s foundation donates millions to rural poverty programs. And yet she shows up dressed like that to squeeze out every last drop of sympathy. Should I say something?

The reunion, which should have been a scene of tearful redemption, curdled. The air grew thick with a strange tension. My mother, who had been clutching my hand, let it go. Her touch had been warm, but now her fingers felt like ice.

I was carsick from the long drive, and a wave of nausea forced me to bend over, dry-heaving.

Chloe shook her head, a mask of gentle concern on her face. Her thoughts, however, were venomous.

Oh god, she’s pregnant. Total train wreck. Probably knocked up by some townie back wherever she came from.

My parents’ gazes snapped to me, instantly transformed. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, appraising disgust, as if I were something unclean they’d accidentally tracked into their pristine home.

Though they allowed me to stay, it wasn’t in one of the sun-drenched guest suites. I was given a room in the staff quarters, next to the housekeeper. My meals were leftovers from the kitchen, eaten alone.

But I refused to be broken.

I threw myself into my studies with a ferocity I hadn't known I possessed, clinging to the hope that my achievements might chip away at their stone-cold disapproval. I excelled, consistently scoring at the top of my class in every practice exam.

Then, Chloe’s thoughts sliced through the quiet of an otherwise peaceful evening.

Wow, she’s actually smart. I’ll give her that. But she’s ruthless.

The moment she gets a foothold in the company, she’ll sell our trade secrets to the competition. Dad’s entire empire will crumble. We’ll lose everything, end up on the street.

That was the final blow. My parents threw me out.

The next day, I was killed in a hit-and-run, my body broken on the pavement.

Then, I opened my eyes.

I was back. Back on the day I first returned to the Ashford estate.

And this time, I could hear her thoughts, too.

1

The sedan glided up the long, winding driveway toward the sprawling mansion.

My biological parents, the Ashfords, were already waiting by the grand entrance. Chloe stood beside them, perched on the balls of her feet, peering into the distance.

The moment the car stopped, my mother rushed forward and pulled me into a hug, her voice thick with emotion. “Our daughter. We finally found you. You must have had such a hard life.”

My father stood by, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.

It was in that exact moment that Chloe’s voice echoed in my mind.

Her foster family isn’t even poor. I checked. But she shows up in rags to play the victim. God, it’s so manipulative. Should I tell them?

My mother’s embrace stiffened. She pulled back slightly, her eyes scanning my outfit. A washed-out t-shirt and the plainest pair of jeans imaginable.

My father’s brow furrowed. He asked, his voice laced with suspicion, “Your foster mother… she didn’t buy you any new clothes for this?”

I met their probing, condescending gazes without flinching. “This is the newest outfit I own.”

It was the truth. It was the most presentable thing I had.

My foster mother was a farmer, scraping by on exhausted land. Sixteen years ago, she’d found me abandoned by the side of a road. Her own health was poor, and our life had always been a tightrope walk over a chasm of debt.

But the Ashfords, in their magnificent wealth, were arrogant. They couldn’t be bothered to investigate the reality of the life I’d been forced to live.

Returning to this family, in this life as in the last, was never about finding love.

To be blunt, I was here for the money. For a better education. For the funds to save the woman who had actually raised me, the only mother I had ever known…

My father was still processing my answer when Chloe’s inner monologue started up again.

Ugh, I did a full background check. Her foster parents were skilled laborers with a steady income, a house, a car. They supposedly doted on her. But people from that background have no class, no vision. She’s their real daughter; they would have given her everything anyway. This whole poverty act is just so… extra.

I looked up just in time to see the displeasure hardening in my parents’ eyes. A chill crept over me.

Of course. This is how it happened before.

In my last life, I couldn’t hear Chloe’s thoughts. I had no idea why the parents who had been weeping for their lost child one second could turn on me the next.

I lowered my gaze, hiding the hatred that burned there.

My mother looked me up and down, her nose wrinkling slightly. “That’s enough. We don’t have room for manipulative people in this house.”

“Dressing like that,” my father added with a cold scoff, “are you trying to embarrass us?” He turned to walk away, dismissing me completely.

My hands clenched into fists. “Mom, Dad, I don’t know what you think you know, but I swear I’m not…”

Chloe immediately cut me off, her voice a syrupy performance of kindness. She took my hand. “Claire, let’s get you inside. It’s windy out here, and Mother’s health is so delicate.”

My parents beamed at Chloe, their faces softening with pride for their thoughtful, caring daughter.

I followed them into the cavernous great hall, dragging a single duffel bag behind me. It was a hand-me-down, and the zipper had broken on the way here, so I’d pinned it shut. I could hear the maids whispering behind their hands, stifling their laughter.

“So pathetic. Who doesn’t own a real suitcase in this day and age? She has to be faking it.”

“Obviously. It’s all an act to make Mr. and Mrs. Ashford feel guiltier.”

I said nothing.

Just as my father turned, his mouth open to deliver another reprimand, I let my knees buckle and pitched forward.

I have hypoglycemia. Low blood sugar.

In my past life, I was always prepared, a few pieces of hard candy tucked in my pocket for emergencies.

This time, I had deliberately skipped breakfast. I had no candy.

The mansion erupted into chaos.

“Oh my god, she fainted!”

My father stood back, his arms crossed, convinced it was another performance. My mother, however, strode over and nudged me with the toe of her expensive shoe.

“Get up. Stop this ridiculous act right now, or I’ll—”

Her words died in her throat.

When I fell, my forehead had struck the corner of the marble entryway table. Blood was now trickling down my temple. A thin line of white foam appeared at the corner of my mouth.

This was no act. This was real.

As my consciousness faded to black, the last thing I saw was the look of pure panic on my parents’ faces as they finally rushed toward me.

2

The family doctor was summoned. After a brief examination, he delivered his verdict.

“She’s suffering from chronic malnutrition and exhaustion. Her body is completely depleted. It’s resulted in a severe case of hypoglycemia.” The doctor’s gaze was heavy with pity as he looked at me, then back at my parents. “Her physical condition is… alarming. It’s as if she hasn’t had a proper, full meal in a very long time.”

The raw, undeniable truth of my physical state was the best evidence I could have offered.

The color drained from my parents’ faces. They instinctively glanced at Chloe, a silent plea for an explanation, for the real story they’d been fed.

Chloe’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. Then, her thoughts rang out again.

Are you kidding me? Her foster mom loved her, gave her everything she ever asked for. How could she have possibly starved? Oh. I get it. She was dieting. Probably has an eating disorder.

My parents’ brows furrowed again, a new suspicion taking root. But the doctor’s words had planted a seed of doubt. The foundation of Chloe’s narrative was cracking.

I pushed myself up, letting a tear slip down my cheek as I spoke, my voice trembling. “Mom… Dad… We’re a family now. I want you to know the real me.”

With that, I pulled up a news story on my phone. It was a national news feature from several years ago about poverty in rural Appalachia. And there, on the screen, was my foster mother, clutching a younger version of me to her chest, her face etched with worry and hardship.

What more needed to be said? They finally understood. My life had been hard.

Chloe shot me a look of pure hatred.

My father’s tightly clenched jaw finally relaxed, his eyes filling with a shame that was almost painful to watch. “Claire… I’m so sorry. I misjudged you.”

My mother’s eyes welled with tears. She reached for my hand, then hesitated and pulled back, not out of disgust this time, but as if she feared I would reject her touch.

Chloe was panicking. Her face, however, was a perfect portrait of concern. “Claire, I’m so glad you’re okay. You’re home now. No one can ever hurt you again.”

But her inner voice, sharp and clear, betrayed her.

Damn it! She’s so calculating. Of all the thousands of news reports out there, she just happened to have that one ready? This had to be planned!

My mother’s eyelashes fluttered. This time, she didn’t lash out. She was caught, suspended between her faith in the daughter she raised and the evidence before her eyes.

My father, his face a mask of composure, began discussing a nutrition plan with the doctor.

I kept my eyes downcast, hiding the icy satisfaction that was blooming in my chest.

It was just as I’d predicted. I couldn't dismantle sixteen years of affection for Chloe in a single day. But trust is a fragile thing.

And the first crack had appeared.

Your payback, Chloe, I thought, has just begun.

After lunch, my parents decided to take me shopping. It was clear my current wardrobe was an embarrassment to the Ashford name.

Just as before, the four of us climbed into the spacious luxury SUV.

We had barely pulled out of the driveway when a cold sweat broke out across my skin and my stomach began to churn violently. My motion sickness was severe.

And right on cue, Chloe’s thoughts began to broadcast.

Oh god, here we go again. She’s pregnant. It’s morning sickness. That family doctor is a quack. He didn’t use any real equipment. She’s probably not far enough along for it to show up on a simple test.

My parents’ heads whipped around to stare at me.

Here it is, I thought, a tremor of adrenaline shooting through me. This was the accusation that had sealed my fate last time, the one that had convinced the Ashfords I was damaged goods.

I steadied my breathing, forcing the words out. “Is there any Dramamine? My motion sickness is really bad.”

My father’s eyes narrowed. “Motion sickness? Does it usually make you this ill?”

My mother’s gaze was fixed on my pale, sweating face, and I could see the conclusion forming in her mind. Pregnant. She imagined me, her biological daughter, sleeping around with delinquents, bringing shame and disease into her perfect life. The thought was so repulsive to her that she physically recoiled.

Whatever guilt she’d felt earlier vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated disgust.

I had no chance to explain. The moment the car pulled over, I scrambled out and retched into a trash can on the sidewalk. From the corner of my eye, I could see my parents’ grim, stony faces.

And Chloe, looking on with feigned worry.

Her real thoughts were a different story.

She is so pathetic. But what if she brings some disgusting disease back to the house? Mom’s immune system is so weak. She could never handle something like that.

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