Too Late to Love Me Now
My father, a rising star in a crime family, decided to leave my mother. During the divorce, he asked me to choose who to live with.
For the sake of my future, I chose him, the man who had money and power, over my penniless mother.
My choice broke her heart. "He has money, Mom. You don't. I don't want to be poor anymore," I told her, a lie that felt like swallowing glass. She looked at me with utter betrayal before collapsing in tears.
In my previous life, my love for her became the burden that destroyed her. After we were cast out, she worked herself to the bone to support me, only to die tragically trying to sell a kidney to pay for my medical bills. I followed her into death a week later.
I didn't understand. I had loved her with all my soul, but my love only led to her suffering and death. Why did choosing love mean choosing ruin?
Waking up again, I was fourteen, back at the moment of that devastating choice. This time, my love would not be a burden. It would be a weapon. I would get close to my father, dismantle his empire from the inside, and build my mother a fortress with the rubble.
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Chapter 7
Alessia "Blake" Falcone POV:
I returned to the penthouse to perform my penance.
I walked straight to my father, who was reading the paper in his leather armchair, and stood before him, my head bowed.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice soft, trembling just enough to be convincing.
It was a carefully crafted act of contrition.
I played the part of the scared, foolish daughter, telling him I'd only acted out of worry for my mother, that I was afraid she wouldn't survive on her own.
My fingers deliberately ghosted over the cut on my cheek, a silent reminder.
"I told them it was an accident at school," I whispered, letting him fill in the blanks-the questions, the rumors.
His reputation. It was his Achilles' heel.
He bought the performance. The tension visibly drained from his shoulders.
"Just stay away from her," he warned, his voice still rough, but its murderous edge had vanished.
"I'll take care of things."
He was reaching for his wallet, about to restore my allowance, when Karel glided into the room.
She stopped him with a single, cool look.
"Let her earn it," she suggested, her voice like silk-wrapped steel.
She smiled, but it was just a small, cruel curving of her lips.
I jumped in before my father could protest, my voice a mask of false eagerness.
"I can do that. My mother taught me how to clean."
The mention of my mother instantly soured the air.
My father waved a dismissive hand, suddenly desperate to change the subject.
"No, that won't be necessary."
A small victory.
But Karel wasn't finished.
That night, a broken porcelain doll was sitting on my bed.
It was one of hers, another casualty of my father's recent rages.
A note lay beside it, her elegant script forming a stark command.
"Fix it."
I stared at the doll's shattered face, its painted-on smile split into a grotesque crack.
She wanted to make me her maid. She wanted to see me kneeling on the floor, piecing together the things her monster broke.
I took the doll and the note, hiding them in the back of my closet, under the loose floorboard where I used to keep my money.
I would not be their maid.
I would not be broken.
I would endure.
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