I Abandoned My Clout Chasing Mother

When I opened my eyes again, I was right back on the day the wealthiest man in the city stood with red-rimmed eyes, begging my mother to come home.

This time, I was not going to let history repeat itself.

My mother was just about to deliver her signature line from my past lifesomething tragically poetic about how an apology this late is worth less than dirtwhen I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around the billionaires leg like a vise.

"Daddy! Take me back to the mansion! I want to sleep in a giant bed, and I want to eat Maine lobster!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

The billionaire froze, utterly stunned. My mothers face instantly drained of color, turning a sickly shade of gray.

In my previous life, she had played the role of the proud, wounded heroine to perfection. To "punish" the male lead, she refused every cent of his help, going so far as to force me to steal and scavenge for food, which ultimately led to my miserable death on a freezing street corner.

And then, she used my ashes to bring the billionaire to his knees. She traded my dead body for a tearful public apology and the wedding of the century.

The internet worshipped her as the fiercely independent single mother who had survived against all odds. But I was the only one who knew the truth: she was clinically unhinged.

She had slapped a billionaire across the face on a live stream, dragged her "illegitimate" daughter away into the slums, and rocketed to viral fame.

But here was the thing: she might not have wanted the life of a billionaires heiress, but I did.

I smiled against the fabric of his tailored suit. In this life, I was going to hold onto everything that belonged to me with a death grip.

01

My name is Mia.

I am five years old.

And I have already died once.

In my last life, I died on a sidewalk in the dead of winter. I had been starving for three days and burning with a fever for two. I took my last breath huddled next to a frozen dumpster.

My mother, Caroline Frost, stood in front of my grave and wept until her voice gave out. Her makeup didn't run at all.

Because she had set it with setting spray right before the cameras arrived.

That performance of grief shot straight to the number one trending topic online.

Heartbroken Single Mother Suffers Unimaginable Loss. Billionaire Father Leaves Five-Year-Old to Die on the Streets.

The comment sections were a bloodbath.

Jonathan Garrison was harassed until he stepped down from his company's board of directors. He was publicly shamed until he dropped to his knees right there on the pavement in front of my urn.

The moment his knees hit the concrete, my mother smiled. Just a tiny twitch of her lips, hidden behind the crowd.

But I saw it clearly.

Because my soul hadnt dissipated yet.

I watched with my own ghost eyes as she traded my ashes for a thirty-million-dollar post-nuptial agreement, a fairy-tale wedding, and the internets collective blessing for the "tragic heroine who finally got her happy ending."

I died, and she won.

That was my past life.

So, when I opened my eyes again and found myself holding my mothers hand, standing at the intersection of a high-end shopping districtI knew exactly what was happening.

Across the street, Jonathan Garrison stood with bloodshot eyes in front of three black Maybachs, flanked by a dozen bodyguards in dark suits.

The wind was howling, snapping the hem of his wool overcoat.

He looked at me with eyes hollowed out by guilt. His voice was gravelly and low. "Caroline, come back with me. Mia needs a home."

My mothers chin instantly tilted upward.

I knew this angle by heart.

A perfect forty-five-degree tilt, eyes glistening but not spilling over, bottom lip trembling just enough. Backlit by the streetlamp, she looked devastatingly beautiful.

She took a deep breathno, she elegantly curated her emotionsand opened her mouth:

"Jonathan, your money can't buy my forgiveness. An apology this late is worth"

She had practiced this line in the mirror no less than a hundred times in my past life. I remembered the follow-up line, too: "Keep your billions. Caroline Frost doesn't need your charity."

Then, she would yank me by the arm, turn on her heel, and walk right into the pouring rain, giving the paparazzi hiding in the bushes the perfect, cinematic shot of her tragic departure.

And then we would go back to that mold-infested, basement apartment in the worst part of town.

No heat.

No hot water.

Dinner would be half a packet of expired instant noodles.

In my last life, I was a good girl. I followed her into the rain.

This life?

She was only halfway through her monologue.

I moved.

I ripped my hand out of hers, pumped my tiny little legs, and sprinted straight across the pavement.

With a heavy thud, I threw my entire body weight onto Jonathan Garrisons leg.

The fabric of his suit trousers was slick, and I almost slid off, so I scrambled up a few inches and clamped my arms and legs around his thigh like a koala.

"Daddy!!"

I pushed the volume of my vocal cords to the absolute maximum.

The entire street heard it.

Jonathan looked down, his entire body going rigid.

He probably hadnt expected a five-year-old to possess the lung capacity of a siren.

"Daddy, I want to go home! Take me to the mansion! I want a big bed! The kind you can jump on! And I want Maine lobster! Ten of them!"

I stood there and demanded every single thing I had been denied in my previous life in one breathless rush.

Behind me, my mothers voice stuttered. Her monologue had completely derailed.

"Mia... what... what are you doing?"

I twisted my neck to look back at her.

Under the glow of the streetlamps, the meticulously crafted mask of the 'beautiful, suffering martyr' was cracking. Beneath it was a very specific shade of green.

It was the look of an actress who had just gathered her tears for the climax of the play, only to have the stage crew accidentally drop a sandbag on the set.

I smiled.

A bright, gap-toothed, genuinely sweet smile.

"Mommy, this is my daddy."

I turned my face back up toward Jonathan.

He slowly knelt down on the damp pavement, his eyes still red.

But I noticed something shift in his gaze.

In my last life, his eyes had held nothing but guilt and desperation.

This time, mixed into the guilt, was shock.

And... a fragile, terrified kind of joy.

His voice was hoarse. "Mia... you want to come home with Daddy?"

"Yes! More than anything!"

I reached out my two short arms and wrapped them around his neck.

He smelled like expensive pine and cedarwood.

I had never smelled that in my past life.

I buried my face into the crook of his shoulder and whispered something so softly that only he could hear:

"Daddy, can I stay with you forever?"

His shoulders jerked, muscles locking tight.

Then, a large, warm hand cupped the back of my head. The touch was incredibly gentle, but his fingers were trembling.

"Yes."

Just one word. But the restraint in his voice was breaking.

I rested my chin on his shoulder and looked past him. Five yards away, Caroline stood frozen.

The wind whipped her skirt around her legs as her expression cycled through shock, fury, calculation, and finally settled into a tight, jaw-clenching mask of endurance.

She forced a smile.

She was smiling directly at a bystander diagonally behind her who was secretly filming on a phone.

"The poor dear... she's just missed her father so much..."

Her voice was dripping with sickening sweetness.

But I knew the truth.

She was going to be staring at the ceiling all night tonight.

Because I had just ripped the first page right out of her script.

02

Jonathans estate was located in The Palisades.

It was an ultra-exclusive enclave with only twelve properties, each sitting on acres of private land.

As the convoy of SUVs rolled through the gates, I pressed my face against the tinted glass.

Perfectly manicured sycamore trees lined the driveway, and a massive stone fountain was lit up with a warm, golden glow in the dark.

At the end of the drive, a sprawling, modern white estate came into view.

Two lines of uniformed staff were waiting by the grand entrance.

The car glided to a stop, and a butler opened the door.

"Mr. Garrison. The house is prepared."

Jonathan stepped out first, then turned around and lifted me out of the seat.

He was incredibly awkward at holding a child. One hand hovered tentatively under my bottom, while the other seemed to have no idea where to go. He finally settled for placing it flat against my back.

I played along, keeping my arms looped around his neck while I took in the house.

Italian marble steps. A sweeping spiral staircase. A chandelier that looked like frozen rain.

In my last life, I gnawed on stale, moldy bread in a damp basement.

In this life, I was the little princess of a multi-million-dollar estate.

The disparity between human lives was wider than the gap between a human and a dog.

"Are you hungry, Mia?"

Jonathan set me down on an oversized velvet sofa and crouched down to my eye level.

He really had no idea how to talk to kids. His face was as deadly serious as if he were negotiating a corporate merger.

"Starving."

I was being brutally honest.

In my last life, I was hungry every single day.

When you get used to starving, you eventually stop feeling the hunger.

And then you die.

"What do you want to eat?"

"Lobster." I held up my little hand, fingers splayed. "Five of them."

I had downgraded from ten to five. I was learning to be a reasonable heiress.

Ten minutes later, the private chef didnt bring out five lobsters.

He brought out a feast that covered the entire dining table.

Whole Maine lobsters, Alaskan king crab legs, Wagyu beef sashimi, and truffle shavings over foie gras.

I sat in a dining chair that swallowed me whole, staring at the mountain of food.

The silverware was too heavy; my little hands couldn't grip the fork properly.

Jonathan sat across from me. He watched me struggle for exactly three seconds before he stood up and walked over.

He picked up a small silver fork and began clumsily extracting the lobster meat from the shell, placing it piece by piece into my bowl.

He moved slowly.

His hands were elegant, with long, distinct knuckleshands meant for signing billion-dollar contracts.

And right now, they were meticulously dissecting a crustacean for a five-year-old.

"Is it good?" he asked.

My mouth was so full of butter-soaked lobster that my cheeks bulged out. I nodded violently.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

It wasn't me being dramatic.

It was the phantom memory of how badly it hurt to starve to death.

I swallowed hard and looked up at him.

He was intensely focused on shelling the second lobster tail for me.

This man. In my last life, my mother tortured him until he broke. He ended up on his knees in the freezing rain, clutching my ashes.

It wasn't that he hadn't tried to save me.

It was that my mother wouldn't let him.

Every time he sent people with money, food, or winter coats, my mother would shove it back into their hands while the cameras rolled.

"I don't need your pity, Jonathan Garrison!"

Then she would slam the door in their faces, turn around, and hand me a cup of tap water and a piece of stale bread.

It wasn't pride.

She was cultivating a tragedy.

She needed me to suffer. She needed me to die to complete her masterpiece.

"Mia."

Jonathan's voice pulled me out of my dark thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Eat slower. You'll choke."

He slid a glass of warm milk toward me.

I took it with both hands and took a sip.

It was sweetened.

"When you're done, I'll show you your room."

"Okay."

I shoved another piece of crab meat into my mouth.

Right at that moment, his phone buzzed on the table.

The screen lit up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the caller ID: "Caroline".

Jonathan glanced at it. He didn't answer.

The phone kept vibrating against the wood.

He reached over, switched it to silent, and flipped it face down.

I paused my chewing for half a second, then went right back to my crab.

She was starting.

According to the script of my past life, this unanswered call would be followed by twenty-seven massive text messages, every word dripping with manufactured blood and tears.

The core message would be: You stole my child. You are a monster.

And tomorrow, screenshots of those texts would conveniently leak to the press.

But it was fine.

I was the one writing the script for this life.

After dinner, Jonathan carried me up to the third floor.

He pushed open a heavy white door.

The room was absurdly large.

Soft blush-pink walls, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, and a four-poster canopy bed that was larger than the entire apartment I had lived in last year.

The walk-in closet was already lined with rows of expensive little dresses, the designer tags still dangling from the sleeves.

A massive, pristine stuffed rabbit sat propped against the pillows.

I stopped in my tracks.

"When... when did you get all this?"

Jonathan stood in the doorway, suddenly looking very unsure of himself.

"I had it prepared a while ago."

"A while ago?"

"It's always been ready."

I knew what he meant.

He meant he had been waiting for me to come home.

This room hadn't been thrown together this afternoon by an interior designer on a panic deadline.

He had prepared it the day he found out I existed.

A sharp ache hit the bridge of my nose.

In my last life, this room sat empty for five years, waiting for a little girl who never came.

In the end, all it held was a wooden box of ashes.

I walked over to the bed, clambered up the mattress, and let myself sink into the absurdly soft duvet.

It smelled like lavender and clean cotton. It was so warm.

I rolled over, wrapping myself up like a burrito.

"Daddy."

"Yes?"

"Goodnight."

When he reached out to turn off the light, his movements were incredibly gentle.

Just before the door clicked shut, I heard his phone buzz again out in the hallway.

His voice was a low, dangerous rumble, but my ears were sharp.

"She is staying here. This is not up for debate."

Then the line went dead.

I squeezed the stuffed rabbit against my chest, lying in the center of the massive canopy bed, and fell asleep with a smile on my face.

03

When I woke up the next morning, sunlight was pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I laid in the cloud-like bedding for a full ten minutes, just letting myself exist.

In my last life, the thing that woke me up every morning was the gnawing pain in my stomach.

In this life, I was woken by a maid carrying in a silver breakfast tray.

French toast, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a bowl of perfectly tempered oatmeal.

Next to the plate was a heavy cardstock note with jagged, messy handwriting: "Good morning, Mia. Daddy had to go to the office. I will be back to have lunch with you."

The pen strokes were heavy, indenting the paper. Some letters had been crossed out and rewritten.

It was hilarious that a billionaire CEO wrote like a third grader.

No, it wasn't that. He just wasn't used to writing something so soft and emotional.

I folded the card carefully and tucked it under my pillow.

After breakfast, I started wandering around the mansion.

There was a heated indoor pool on the first floor.

A private home theater on the second.

On the third floor, down the hall from my bedroom, was an art studio and an indoor playroom.

The toys in the playroom were immaculate. A wooden slide, a sprawling block set, a rocking horsenone of the safety seals had even been broken.

Mr. Carson, the butler, shadowed me silently, offering polite explanations when I paused.

"Miss Mia, Mr. Garrison had his assistants purchase all of these last year. Please let me know which ones you prefer, and we can have anything you don't like replaced."

Last year.

Last year I was digging through the trash behind a convenience store.

I bit my lower lip and didn't say a word.

Just then, a commotion echoed from the grand entrance downstairs.

The crunch of tires on gravel, the heavy thud of car doors, and the frantic, hushed footsteps of the staff.

"The Dowager Mrs. Garrison has arrived!"

Mr. Carsons face instantly paled.

I knew exactly who this was.

Evelyn Garrison. Jonathans mother, and the iron-fisted matriarch who still pulled the strings of the Garrison empire behind the scenes.

In my last life, she was the loudest voice opposing Jonathan bringing me home.

Her reasoning was brutally pragmatic: Caroline Frost was a manipulative social climber from the gutter, and there was no guarantee the child was even Garrison blood.

Later, after I died and the internet tore the family apart, she had sat in front of the news cameras and squeezed out two tears.

Whether those tears were for me or for the plunging stock prices, only God knew.

From downstairs came the sharp, rapid clicking of high heels against marble. It was the rhythm of a woman marching in to declare war.

I peeked over the mahogany banister.

A woman in her late fifties swept into the foyer, wearing a structured, deep emerald dress. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, flawless chignon, and her diamond earrings caught the cold morning light. She radiated an aura of terrifying authority.

Trailing half a step behind her was a younger woman.

Early twenties, wearing a soft, pastel-colored day dress. Her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and she had a perfectly practiced, demure smile.

My eyes lingered on the younger woman.

She hadn't been in my previous life.

But my gut told me she wasn't here to play nice.

"Where is she?"

Evelyns voice carried up the stairs, sharp and commanding.

"Where is the child? Bring her down here so I can look at her."

Mr. Carson glanced up at me, panic in his eyes.

I didn't wait for him to fetch me. I put my hand on the banister and started walking down the sweeping staircase.

I didn't walk fast.

Short legs require careful balance.

But every step I took was deliberate and heavy.

When Evelyn Garrison saw me, her eyes narrowed to slits.

She was assessing me.

I was assessing her right back.

We locked eyes for three full seconds in absolute silence.

"So. You are Mia."

"I am Mia Garrison."

I made sure to emphasize the last name.

One of her perfectly arched eyebrows twitched upward.

"You certainly have his features."

Coming from her, it wasn't a grandmotherly compliment. It was a forensic observation.

"However," she continued, moving to sit on the central sofa and accepting a teacup from a trembling maid, "looking like him proves nothing. We will be doing a DNA test."

"Okay."

I agreed instantly, without missing a beat.

Evelyn clearly didn't expect that.

She probably anticipated a five-year-old to burst into tears, run away, or stare blankly, not knowing what DNA was.

But I had already died once.

Did she think I was scared of a needle?

"I'll cooperate. You can draw blood, or you can pull my hair."

My voice was deadpan. Calm.

Evelyns hand paused halfway to her mouth. The teacup hovered in the air as she gave me a second, much harder look.

Standing behind her, the younger woman was watching me, too.

The smile on her face was magazine-cover perfect. The look in her eyes was ice-cold.

"Mrs. Garrison, I can handle the arrangements for the clinic," the younger woman offered, her voice light and musical.

"Go ahead, Camilla."

Camilla Dupont.

I filed that name away in the back of my mind.

04

The DNA results came back in three days.

Probability of Paternity: 99.99%.

There was zero suspense.

I was Jonathan Garrisons biological daughter.

Evelyn Garrison stared at the medical report in absolute silence for a long time.

She sat in the armchair by the window, her thumb slowly rubbing the edge of the thick paper.

The butler, the maids, the security detailthe entire room was holding its breath.

Jonathan stood nearby. His face was blank, but I caught the subtle, rapid tapping of his ring finger against his thigh.

He was anxious.

This piece of paper was the only thing that gave him the absolute, legal right to keep me in this house.

"Mother. You have the results," he finally said.

Evelyn lifted her eyes. She looked at him, and then she looked over at me, curled up in the corner of the velvet sofa, quietly eating a bowl of green grapes.

"That child cannot go back to that woman."

Her tone was still sharp and unyielding, but the sentence itself was a massive shift. It was a decree of protection.

Half of the heavy weight in my chest finally dissipated.

The other half, however, stayed right where it was.

Because Camilla Dupont was currently walking toward me, holding a glass of juice.

"Mia, are you thirsty? I had the chef squeeze some fresh oranges for you."

She knelt down in front of me, her smile dripping with maternal warmth.

I took the glass. I sniffed it subtly.

It smelled like regular orange juice. No poison.

I took a sip.

"Thank you, Miss Camilla."

"Call her Auntie," Evelyn suddenly corrected from across the room.

I looked at Camilla, then over at Evelyn.

The older womans intentions were glaringly obvious.

Camilla Dupont wasn't just a friendly guest. She was the woman Evelyn had handpicked to be Jonathans wife.

"Auntie Camilla is perfectly fine," Camilla laughed, trying to smooth over the tension. She reached out and placed a hand on my back.

It wasn't a heavy touch, but her manicured fingers pressed just slightly into my spine.

It felt like a territorial claim. Like she was establishing ownership.

I didn't say a word. I just quietly finished my juice.

When Camilla stood up and walked back to Evelyns side, I tugged on the butlers sleeve.

"Mr. Carson," I whispered. "Who is that lady?"

Mr. Carson leaned down, lowering his voice. "She is the heiress to the Dupont family. They are old family friends of the Garrisons. The Dowager Mrs. Garrison has been trying to arrange a match between her and your father for some time."

Ah. It all made sense now.

No wonder she wasn't in my past life.

In my past life, I died in the slums. I never crossed the threshold of the Garrison estate, so I never became a factor in Jonathans personal life.

But her presence here now was a massive red flag.

In the cutthroat world of the ultra-rich, she had all the right cards: family pedigree, the matriarchs approval, the gentle, accommodating persona. Any of those individually was fine.

Put them together, and she was a direct threat to my survival.

I didn't care if she married Jonathan.

I cared if she tried to mess with my safety.

Jonathan came home for lunch that afternoon.

The table was set for four: Jonathan, me, Evelyn, and Camilla.

Camilla naturally took the seat directly to Jonathans right. She seamlessly anticipated his needs, sliding the salt shaker toward him, offering him a linen napkin before he asked.

It was practiced. Routine. Intimate.

I sat across from them, eating my food in silence.

"Mia." Camilla smiled across the table at me. "How about Auntie takes you shopping at the mall this afternoon? We can buy you some pretty new dresses."

"I would love that."

I gave her my brightest, most innocent smile.

That afternoon, Camilla took me to the most exclusive luxury department store in the city.

She picked out six dresses, three pairs of shoes, and two designer backpacks.

When we were standing at the register, I noticed something. She positioned herself at a very specific angle.

Just beyond the perfume counter, a man in a baseball cap was holding a camera with a telephoto lens, firing off rapid shots.

I saw him.

And Camilla knew that I saw him.

She just smiled down at me. "Which color do you like best, sweetie?"

She wasn't buying me clothes because she cared.

She was managing her PR.

She was feeding the press a narrative: The graceful socialite stepping in to lovingly care for the billionaire's newly discovered, traumatized daughter.

It was a brilliant chess move.

If her engagement to Jonathan went through, she would already be branded as the perfect, angelic stepmother.

The media, the public, and Evelyn Garrison would all be entirely on her side.

I took the pastel pink dress from her hands and looked up with wide eyes. "Thank you so much, Auntie Camilla."

On the ride back to the estate, I slumped against the leather seats and pretended to fall asleep.

Camilla's phone buzzed. She answered it.

She kept her voice low, but the interior of the Maybach was only so big.

"...Don't worry, the kid is easy to manage. She's five. A few designer dresses and she thinks I'm her best friend.

Once I have the ring on my finger, I'll be the one deciding which wing of the house she sleeps in."

She let out a soft, mocking laugh.

"Ignore Caroline Frost. That trashy woman from the gutter isn't going to make a dent.

Honestly, I hope she keeps making a scene. The crazier she acts, the more Jonathan will realize he needs a stable woman like me."

She hung up.

I kept my eyes shut tight, but the corners of my mouth curled up into a cold little smirk in the dark.

Well played, Camilla.

You really think because I'm in a five-year-old's body, I have a five-year-old's brain?

Don't worry.

I took your dresses.

And I just took note of exactly how to destroy you.