Stealing My Life? Dream On!

The same classmates who'd been whispering about me two minutes ago now looked like they'd seen a ghost, scattering without a second glance at Brenda.

Robert snapped out of his daze and shoved me, yelling, "Are you insane? That's Miss Brenda and her mom! How could you—"

Before he could finish, I slapped him hard. "Stay in your lane, Robert. You don't get to talk here."

He stood there, frozen, clutching his cheek like I'd just shattered his worldview. His stunned silence was satisfying. Gripping Rambo's leash, I strolled into the living room like I owned the place—because, well, I did.

Front and center on the wall was a huge, tacky portrait of Brenda. My stuff? Completely gone, erased like I never existed.

The audacity.

In my last life, it was obvious Brenda and her mom had pulled out all the stops for this birthday party.

Standing on my toes, I ripped the portrait off the wall and let it crash to the floor. "Robert!" I shouted. "Burn this trash. You've got five minutes. If it's still here after that, you're all out."

A group of household staff gathered, whispering and glaring, but none of them moved.

"Miss Brenda's always treated you like a sister," one of them muttered. "How could you do this to her?"

"She just wanted to celebrate her birthday," another added. "What's your problem?"

I smirked.

In my last life, I'd been far too kind to them, and this was how they repaid me—with betrayal.

Not this time.

I loosened Rambo's leash and pointed at them. "Rambo, if anyone opens their mouth again, bite them—hard."

Rambo growled, low and threatening, its eyes sweeping the room.

Just then, a furious voice roared from the doorway. "Claire! Who do you think you are, hurting Brenda?

"You ungrateful brat—get out here, now!"

My brow twitched. Great. In all the chaos with the staff, I'd almost forgotten about him—David Sinclair—the guy who liked to pretend he was my dad. Spoiler alert: he wasn't worthy of the title.

Ignoring the smug looks from the peanut gallery, I turned and strolled to the entrance. There he was, crouched over Brenda like she was made of porcelain, practically sobbing as he inspected her arm.

Brenda and Miranda, of course, were in full drama mode, tears streaming as they clung to each other.

"Mr. Sinclair," Miranda sniffled, "all my daughter wanted was a small birthday celebration in the mansion. Is that really such a crime?

"She set her dog on us. Chased away Brenda's friends. My poor child—how is she supposed to live with this humiliation?"

Brenda's face was pale as she gently stroked Miranda's cheek through her tears. "Mom, she's already dare to beat you in front of everyone, what's next? Is she gonna kill us?" she said. "Let's just leave. I'd rather be poor than stay here."

The two of them staggered toward the door.

David grabbed Brenda's arm mid-dramatic exit.

"You're not going anywhere!" he barked, before turning to me. "Claire, apologize to them. Now."

I crouched down to scratch Rambo's ears, unfazed. "So, a maid's daughter swaps out my pictures for hers, calls me a dog trainer in my own house, and I teach her a little lesson—and I'm the bad guy?"

Brenda clung to David's arm, shaking. "Mr. Sinclair, I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I shouldn't have wanted what doesn't belong to me. I'll leave—I swear I will."

She took a wobbly step forward, then collapsed onto the floor with a loud, dramatic thud.

"Brenda!" David and Miranda screamed in unison, rushing to her.

I didn't even blink.

Pulling out my phone, I tapped the screen, starting a video call. My mom's face popped up, a glass of wine in her hand as laughter bubbled in the background.

"Hey, Mom," I said, my tone casual. "Doesn't it seem weird how obsessed Dad is with a maid's kid?"