Turning the Tables on Cheaters

After receiving the report for an STD test, I went back to the barbeque restaurant, and there I ran into a young woman who was about three months pregnant. She asked me to let her cut in line, and, feeling sorry for her, I agreed to help her out.

I quickly made arrangements for her and made sure she had a seat.

But to my shock, after she finished her meal, she had a miscarriage.

The girl posted about the incident online, and before I knew it, I was trending on social media, facing a wave of cyberbullying.

The internet users went even further, digging up my health records and finding that everything came back positive.

[She's positive for everything—she's clearly a woman with a messy private life!]

[No wonder she caused the woman's miscarriage just by being near her—she's a biological hazard!]

The cyberbullying got so bad that it pushed me into depression. Even my fiancé turned against me, accusing me of being filthy and breaking up with me.

The emotional weight became too much, and in my pain, I drove straight into a reservoir.

Meanwhile, the girl gained millions of followers online and skyrocketed to fame as a popular influencer.

It was only after I died that I learned the shocking truth—this girl was my fiancé's first love.

To boost her own popularity, she and my fiancé had come up with this entire scheme together.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day when she asked me to let her cut in line.

"Hi, Miss. My baby is hungry. Could you please let me cut in line? I heard your barbeque is amazing. I think my baby and I are in for a treat today."

The familiar voice reached my ears.

Without thinking, I lifted my gaze and found myself looking at a sweet, innocent face.

The suffocating feeling of being submerged in icy water still seemed to linger in my nostrils, making me instinctively gasp for air.

The cold air, mixed with the scent of barbeque, rushed into my chest. That was when I realized—I had been reborn.

I had returned to the day when the young pregnant woman, Zoey Winsor, came to my barbeque restaurant and asked to cut in line.

"I'm three months pregnant, and I can't eat anything, but I've been craving your barbeque. Please let me cut in. If something happens to my baby because it's hungry, you wouldn't want to live with that guilt, would you?"

Zoey gently rubbed her slightly rounded belly, swallowing saliva as she spoke.

The other customers, noticing her hungry and anxious state, began speaking up in her defense.

"Are you really going to let her go hungry like that?"

"With a heart like that, your restaurant's going to fail one day."

"If you don't help her, and something happens to her baby, it'll be on you."

Even my fiancé, standing beside me, joined in.

"It's just letting her cut in line. Why the sour face? They say business thrives on good relationships, but with that attitude, who will ever want to come back? Seriously, can't you just smile and let her sit down?"

In my past life, Zoey had also asked to cut in line in a similarly pitiful way.

Seeing her pale face and hearing everyone's pleading made me give in and arrange a seat for her.

What I didn't expect was that, halfway through her meal, she suddenly complained of feeling unwell, and, in front of everyone, she had a miscarriage.

The other customers immediately began accusing me of serving dirty food. Even my fiancé joined in and called me a heartless business owner, accusing me of using subpar ingredients and causing the death of an innocent child for profit.

I pulled out my purchase receipts to prove I was innocent.

But that very night, my barbeque restaurant and I became the target of online outrage.

Zoey created a post online, claiming that my food had caused her miscarriage.

[I never thought my craving for barbeque would cost me my baby. They said her restaurant was clean, so I went. I'm so sorry for my baby. The doctor said I might never be able to get pregnant again. Ladies, take it from me—don't ever eat at a place like that.]

As if that wasn't enough, some people dug up my medical records from the disease control center.

[Who even does these tests for STDs? I'm sure you all know the answer]

A so-called doctor from a major hospital posted my positive STD test results online.

The red circles around my positive results were highlighted.

[Three positives—this basically makes her a biological hazard! To all of you out there, a biological hazard means that even touching her could be dangerous. No wonder someone who was perfectly fine ended up miscarrying just by eating at her restaurant.]

My social media accounts were flooded with insults, and I eventually got banned. The barbeque restaurant was destroyed by extreme online users, who stormed and set fire to it—five years of hard work gone in an instant.

I appeared on a news show to clarify things, but my fiancé publicly accused me of having a messy private life, which had caused me to become infected. In front of the entire nation, he called off our engagement.

Unable to bear the blow, I drove into a reservoir, lost in my despair.

After my death, Zoey used my tragedy to gain millions of followers and became a top influencer.

The day after my death, my fiancé collected all of my inheritance and compensation. He married Zoey and started a business, making a fortune.

It turned out that Zoey was my fiancé's first love.

And the child she was carrying had already died in her womb before she ate at my restaurant. To get famous, she and my fiancé had carefully orchestrated this entire scheme.