My Stepmother Is My New Maid

In my past life, my piano teacher clawed her way into our family by playing the part of the doting caregiver, eventually becoming my stepmother.

I never saw it coming. Once she married my father and fell pregnant, her true colors bled through. To ensure her unborn child would be the sole heir to the Whitman fortune, she orchestrated a nightmare. She conspired with kidnappers to have me poisoned, and then she watched as they dumped my body in the wilderness like trash.

But then, I opened my eyes.

Ive been reborn.

This time, I wont be the stepping stone she uses to reach the top. Im going to make her wish she had stayed in the gutter where she belongs.

My mother died bringing me into this world, but my father, Arthur, never entertained the idea of remarrying.

It wasnt out of some grand, eternal devotion. Theirs had been a strategic mergera business arrangement between two powerful dynasties. There was no passion, and certainly no reason for him to remain a monk in her memory. He simply felt that since he already had an heirmea wife was an unnecessary complication.

At my christening, in front of the crme de la crme of Manhattan high society, my father declared me the sole successor to the Whitman empire. He doted on me, giving me the world on a silver platter; my grandmother, the formidable Diana Whitman, treated me like the crown jewel of the family.

But even a child who has everything still craves a mothers touch.

When I was five, they hired a piano teacher named Lydia. She was soft-spoken, attentive, and always seemed to know exactly when I needed a hug or a kind word. To my five-year-old self, she felt like the warmth Id been missing.

I didn't realize it was a performance. She was using me as a Trojan horse to get to my father, desperate to trade her sheet music for the title of Mrs. Whitman.

She eventually escalated her game, drugging my fathers drink one night and orchestrating a "scandalous" encounter. She thought a night in his bed would force his hand. She was wrong.

My father was a man of the world. Hed seen every trick, every social climber, and every honey trap in the book. He saw through Lydias clumsy power play immediately. He didn't even get angry; he just intended to write her a severance check and show her the door.

But Lydia wasn't going to let the golden goose go that easily. She came to me, weeping, telling me she was being forced to leave. By then, she had woven herself into the fabric of my daily life. I was addicted to her "love."

I refused to let her go. She seized the moment, whispering in my ear that if I begged my father to marry her, she could stay with me forever.

My five-year-old brain, fueled by a desperate need for a mother, fell for it. I staged a hunger strike, screaming that I wanted her to be my new mom. My father had no desire to marry her, but he couldn't stand to see me suffer. He relented. Lydia got her ring, though it was a quiet, private affair with no public announcement.

For ten years, she played the part of the perfect wife. She was diligent, kind, and unfailingly "loving." I truly looked at her as my mother.

Then, she got pregnant.

To clear the path for her own child, she "accidentally" fed me something laced with almonds. My anaphylactic shock was violent. While I was gasping for air, she coordinated with outsiders to kidnap me, intending to leave my corpse in the woods.

As they threw me into the trunk of a car, I drifted back into a moment of agonizing clarity. I heard her hushed voice, cold and sharp, conspiring with the men. That was the moment the mask fell. But it was too late. Without an EpiPen, I was a dead girl walking.

Even knowing my father would eventually avenge me, the unfairness of it burned.

Fortunately, the universe decided to give me a second chance.

Just before the darkness took me, a blinding white light swallowed the world.

I woke to a voicedeep, cold, and achingly familiar.

I opened my eyes to find myself curled in my fathers lap. He was idly playing with my small, chubby hand, his gaze icy as he looked down at Lydia, who was kneeling on the floor, trembling.

"I don't know what kind of spell you've cast on Celine to make her insist on having you as a mother," my father said, his voice dripping with boredom. "But since my daughter has asked, I will grant her wish."

Lydias face was a mask of flustered humility. "Mr. Whitman, youre joking. I truly love Celine, and I... I have feelings for you, too. Its not a spell; its genuine."

My fathers patience snapped. "I dont care about your 'genuine' feelings. If you want to be Mrs. Whitman so badly, fine. But remember this: your only currency in this house is Celine. You say you love her? Then you will spend every waking breath pleasing her."

"If you fail," he added, his voice dropping an octave, "I will personally drop you back into the dirt you crawled out of."

Lydia went pale and whispered her assent.

I chose that moment to rub my eyes and let out a soft, sleepy mumble. "Daddy?"

The second he saw I was awake, the predatory hardness in his eyes vanished. He turned into the doting father I knew. "I'm here, sweetie. Youre awake. Are you hungry?"

I nodded slowly.

He patted my back, stood up, and began carrying me toward the dining room. Lydia scrambled to her feet, trying to follow.

"Celine, are you hungry? Do you want me to feed you, sweetie?" she called out, her voice pitching up in that fake, sugary tone.

Before she could take three steps, Barnaby, the butler, stepped in her path.

I didn't look at her. I just buried my face in my fathers shoulder, clinging to him. He paused, glancing back at the butler with a silent, sharp look.

Barnaby understood immediately. He signaled to the nearby security staff. They stepped forward, clamped their hands over Lydias mouth, and dragged her toward the foyer.

Lydias eyes went wide with terror, her muffled screams echoing as she struggled against them. It was useless. Our staff were professionalsthey knew exactly how to handle a nuisance.

Soon, the faint, rhythmic sound of slaps and Lydias stifled cries drifted through the hall. Barnabys voice followed, cold and instructional.

"You common little thing," he hissed. "You think because you crawled into a bed you can speak without permission? Today, were going to teach you the rules of this house. Again. Harder!"

My father had agreed to let her stay, but she was a "Mrs. Whitman" in name only. In reality, she was a glorified, live-in nanny. My father knew she had manipulated me, and he was going to make her pay for that audacity while using the punishment to establish my absolute authority over her.

In my last life, Lydia had also been "disciplined" by the staff early on. That brutality had kept her in line for a decadeuntil her pregnancy gave her the delusion of leverage.

I sat in my high chair, slowly sipping my organic oatmeal while my father cut up fresh fruit for me. I looked up at him and gave him a bright, innocent smile.

"Thank you, Daddy!"

He beamed, ruffling my hair.

Lydia, I thought, watching the door. Lets see if you can survive this life without me protecting you.

The next morning, I woke up in my sprawling bedrooma sanctuary of blush silks, designer plushies, and custom-built dollhouses. I stood in front of the full-length mirror. The girl looking back was porcelain-perfect, but her eyes held a depth of cold calculation that no five-year-old should possess.

Lydia wanted the life of a socialite. I was going to let her see the gold, let her smell the luxury, but I would make sure she could never truly touch it. She would be a ghost in a silk cage.

Voices drifted up from downstairs.

"Where is she?"

It was Grandmother. Diana was here.

"Shes still sleeping, ma'am," Barnaby replied respectfully.

"Let her sleep. Children need their rest. Now, bring that little social climber to me. I want to see exactly what kind of trash my son has let into this house."

To my grandmother, I was the perfect angelthe "Good Whitman." I was the child who always asked for her advice, who never threw tantrums in public, and who was the envy of every other matriarch in the Hamptons. My grandmother lived for that prestige.

My mothers death had been a blow to her, especially since the Whitman-Price prenuptial agreement stated there would be only one heir, regardless of gender. My grandmother might have preferred a grandson, but since I was her only link to the future and brought her nothing but social credit, she adored me.

Lydia, however, was about to become her favorite punching bag.

I crept to the top of the stairs to watch. Lydia was standing in the center of the marble foyer, wearing a simple white sundress. Her face was haggard, her eyes bloodshot, and her cheeks were still swollen from the "lesson" shed received the day before.

Grandmother sat on the Louis XIV sofa, took a slow sip of her Earl Grey, and set the porcelain cup down with a deliberate clink. Only then did she look up.

"So, youre the girl? Lydia?" Grandmothers voice was like a razor. "Youve got that desperate, hungry look. You thought you could fly high, didn't you? But you didn't check if you had the wings for it."

She stood up and walked over to Lydia, plucking at the hem of her white dress. She spotted the designer tag and scoffed.

"Wearing labels you couldn't afford in three lifetimes. You must be feeling very smug right now, thinking youve made it."

Lydia shook her head frantically, eyes glued to the floor.

"Celine is a Whitman," Grandmother continued, her voice dropping. "To use a childs innocence to secure your position... you have more nerve than I gave you credit for. Youll stay in this house, but you wont be enjoying any of its comforts. You will be paying for them in sweat."

She turned back to the sofa. "Martha, come in."

A sturdy, middle-aged woman walked in. Martha had been my grandmothers personal maid for thirty years. She was as loyal as a wolf and twice as sharp.

"Lydia, you said you love Celine, right? You wanted to be her 'mother'? Fine. From now on, you are responsible for her every need. Martha will be your shadow, teaching you how to serve properly. If you so much as look at my granddaughter the wrong way, youre out."

Lydia looked up, her bruised face twisted in shock. "But... there are housekeepers. Why do I have to do it? Im Arthurs wife now. Weve signed the papers."

Grandmother let out a short, bark-like laugh. "Wife? Youre a legal technicality, darling. You aren't a member of this family. Youre a domestic worker with a ring. If you want to stay, you serve. If not, Ill throw you out and let Celine cry for a few days. Shell forget you by next Christmas."

Lydia collapsed inward, her spirit breaking. She whispered her agreement.

Grandmother then picked up a phone from the side tableit was Lydias. She scrolled through a social media page where Lydia had already begun posting coy, subtle hints about her "new life in luxury."

"Is this yours?" Grandmother asked, her brow furrowing. "This house is not a backdrop for your vanity. If you show this much lack of discretion again, Ill have Barnaby remind you of the rules. Im sure hed love to leave a few more marks on that pretty face."

Lydia flinched, backing away and nodding frantically.

Grandmother huffed and turned toward the stairs. I scrambled back to my room and dove under the covers, pretending to be fast asleep.

Downstairs, the silence was broken only by Lydias quiet, pathetic sobbing.