Chapter 1

In my previous life, I rushed to the factory gate clutching proof that my husband was carrying on with the mill director's daughter, thinking I could get justice.

But they said I was a madwoman, that my morals were loose.

I was sent to a psychiatric hospital, and in the end I died on a cold hospital bed, my eyes refusing to close.

When I opened my eyes again, I had been reborn, still clutching that crumpled piece of evidence.

This time, I won't make a scene.

Bradley Whitney, Lucy James, and that vicious old woman—you owe me, and I'm going to collect it back, with interest, debt by debt.

1

I opened my eyes with a start and found myself standing at the gate of Starline Textile Mill, gripping a crumpled piece of paper in my hand.

It was a lodging registration slip from an inn, and two names were written on it plain as day: Bradley Whitney and Lucy James.

I had been reborn.

Back to the very day I went to catch them in the act.

In my previous life, I stood at the mill gate holding that registration slip, telling everyone I met that my husband was having an affair with the mill director's daughter.

And the result?

Bradley came running out of the mill, slapped me across the face in front of everyone, called me mentally unstable, and claimed I had forged the slip.

Lucy came running out too, sobbing, saying she'd only gone to the inn with Bradley to discuss work, that I was slandering her.

Mill director Graham James stepped in personally, saying I was disrupting production and that the mill should deal with me firmly.

From that day on, the name "madwoman" was branded onto me like a mark.

Later they went even further, saying my daughter Niki wasn't Bradley's child, that my morals were loose, that I was fooling around with the male workers at the mill.

I was sent to a psychiatric hospital and locked up for five years.

In the end, I died on that cold iron bed in the psychiatric hospital, not a single person beside me.

"Myrtle, what are you throwing a fit about now!" Bradley's voice rang out behind me.

He really was good-looking—thick brows, big eyes, a straight nose. In a place like a textile mill, crowded with female workers, he counted as one of the most handsome young men around.

In my past life, I was fooled by that face, believing he was a man I could entrust my whole life to.

Looking at that face now, all I feel is disgust.

Bradley walked over, frowning. "Let me tell you, don't go making a spectacle of yourself at the mill gate. If you've got something to say, say it at home."

I didn't cry and carry on the way I had in my previous life.

I took a deep breath, folded the registration slip, and tucked it into my pocket.

Bradley froze for a moment, clearly not expecting me to react this way.

I lifted my head and looked at him calmly. "Bradley, you just wait."

With that, I turned and walked away.

Bradley shouted after me, "Myrtle, you stop right there! What's that supposed to mean?"

I didn't look back—if anything, I walked faster.

Behind me came Bradley's cursing, and the whispers of a few onlookers.

I didn't care.

In my past life, I threw away every last shred of my dignity and still got no justice.

In this life, I don't want justice.

I want them to pay in blood for what they've done.

I didn't go home; instead, I went to the mill's records office.

Sarah Lawrence in the records office was an honest woman, and we got along quite well.

In my previous life, when I was being slandered, she was the only one who secretly brought me a couple of bread rolls at the psychiatric hospital.

I said softly, "Sarah, I'd like to check my delivery record from five years ago—the discharge summary from the year I gave birth to Niki."

Sarah was taken aback. "Why are you looking into that? It's been five years."

I made up a reason. "Niki's been getting sick a lot lately, and I want to see if there was anything noted when she was born."

"Sarah, please, do me this favor and help me find it!"

Sarah nodded. "All right, wait a minute, I'll look for it."

She dug through the filing cabinet for a long while before finally pulling out a yellowed kraft paper envelope.

Sarah handed me the envelope. "Look at it quickly, then put it back. Don't let anyone find out."

I took the envelope, my hands trembling slightly.

In my previous life, I had never once doubted my delivery record.

I had always believed Niki was my biological daughter, flesh of my own flesh.

It wasn't until just before I died that an old nurse came to see me and said, hesitating, "Myrtle, the baby you had back then—it seems it was a boy."

Those words were like a needle stabbing into my heart.

This life, I would verify it for myself.

I tore open the envelope and slid out the yellowed discharge summary.

The handwriting was a little blurry, but I still caught the crucial part at a glance: "Newborn's sex: Female!"

And underneath the word "Female," I could faintly make out where it had been altered.