Yao Chen remembered dying.
She remembered the smell of antiseptic, the sound of celebration music drifting in from the banquet hall, and the way her body felt unbearably light, as if it had already begun to disappear. It was her father’s birthday that day. Guests were laughing, glasses clinking, a chandelier glowing like nothing in the world was wrong.
She had given him her bone marrow.
And no one had asked her how much it hurt.
When Yao Chen opened her eyes again, the ceiling was unfamiliar—but her pain was not.
Her chest felt tight. Her limbs were thin, weak. She lifted her hands and saw small fingers, pale and fragile. A child’s hands.
She froze.
Memories surged back violently, like a tide crashing through a broken dam.
The Lou family mansion.
Her father’s cold eyes.
Her grandmother’s punishments.
Her sister’s tears—always perfectly timed.
And finally, her own death.
Yao Chen sat up abruptly.
“This isn’t a hospital,” she whispered.
The room was small. A narrow bed. A wooden desk. The faint smell of old books and ink. On the wall hung a child’s calendar.
The date made her heart stop.
Eight years ago.
She had been reborn.
In this life, Yao Chen was still unwanted.
She lived in the Lou family house, but her room was a converted storage space at the end of the hallway. The farthest room. The quietest. The coldest.
Her father, Lou Haiyou, rarely looked at her.
When he did, his gaze carried impatience—like she was a problem he had never wanted to solve.
Her younger sister, Lou Rui, was different.
Beautiful. Talented. Beloved.
She had been sick once, long ago. Leukemia, they said. And when she recovered, she became the Lou family’s miracle. The treasured child star. Millions of fans. Commercials. Praise.
Everyone loved Lou Rui.
Everyone except Yao Chen.
Not because Yao Chen hated her—but because Yao Chen knew the truth.
In her previous life, she had donated bone marrow to save their father. Lou Rui had cried and promised, but when the needle came close, she collapsed in fear.
In the end, Yao Chen had stepped forward.
And died.
This time, she would not repeat that mistake.
On Lou Haiyou’s birthday, the family gathered in the main hall.
Yao Chen stood quietly at the edge, holding a painting she had drawn herself. It was of a man standing under a tree, sunlight breaking through leaves. Simple. Honest.
She had worked on it for months.
She stepped forward.
“Happy birthday, Dad.”
The room fell silent.
Lou Haiyou frowned.
“Your surname is not Lou,” he said coldly. “What right do you have to call me Dad?”
Her fingers tightened around the painting.
Lou Rui walked over gently, smiling.
“Sister, don’t upset Dad today.”
She turned to Lou Haiyou.
“Dad, today is my first birthday after recovery. We should celebrate.”
Applause followed immediately.
Someone laughed.
Yao Chen lowered her head.
She had already expected this.
But when her aunt suddenly grabbed her schoolbag and shook it, papers fell to the floor.
A medical notice.
Critical illness diagnosis.
The room exploded.
“What is this?” Lou Haiyou demanded.
Yao Chen reached out instinctively.
“Dad, please don’t look—”
“Lies again,” her grandmother snapped. “She’s perfectly healthy. Always acting.”
They tore off her hat.
Her shaved head was revealed.
Gasps. Laughter.
“A bald little monster,” someone joked.
Yao Chen stood trembling.
“I donated bone marrow,” she said quietly. “My body hasn’t recovered.”
Lou Rui gasped dramatically.
“What are you saying? I was the one who donated!”
Lou Haiyou’s face darkened.
“Enough,” he said. “You’re full of lies.”
He pointed toward the door.
“Get out. I don’t have a daughter like you.”
The painting slipped from Yao Chen’s hands.
As she walked out, she whispered:
“If there is an afterlife… I will never recognize you as my father again.”
Yao Chen did not cry when she left the Lou family.
She cried when she found her mother’s diary.
Page after page, written in neat, gentle handwriting.
Memories of childhood.
Paper cranes folded for a sick boy nicknamed “Pudding.”
Promises whispered under summer skies.
Her mother was the real Xiao Ying.
Not Lou Rui’s mother.
Yao Chen closed the diary.
In her previous life, she had never lived long enough to see this truth revealed.
This time, she would live.
And she would rise.
The audition hall was crowded.
The movie was called You Are My Little Princess.
In her last life, Lou Rui had starred in it and skyrocketed to fame.
This time, Yao Chen stood on the stage instead.
Her clothes were plain. Her face pale.
Lou Rui laughed softly.
“Sister, don’t embarrass yourself.”
Yao Chen ignored her.
When the director asked her to begin, she didn’t perform.
She lived.
She cried like a child who had begged for love and been denied.
She smiled like someone who had already learned how to let go.
Her eyes held pain that no training could teach.
The room was silent.
When she finished, the director stood up.
“The role is yours.”
Lou Rui screamed.
The internet exploded overnight.
The little girl the entire nation was looking for.
When Lou Haiyou came to find her again, it wasn’t for love.
It was for bone marrow.
His leukemia had returned.
Doctors confirmed: only Yao Chen matched.
He stood before her, suddenly humble.
“Come home,” he said. “You’re still my daughter.”
Yao Chen looked at him calmly.
“If there’s a parent-teacher meeting tomorrow,” she asked, “will you attend it for Lou Rui—or for me?”
He didn’t answer.
She smiled faintly.
“That silence is enough.”
Later, when Lou Rui was tested and begged to escape the donation, everyone finally saw the truth.
Yao Chen watched quietly.
She did not gloat.
She simply turned away.
In the end, she still donated bone marrow.
Not for forgiveness.
Not for family.
But to close a chapter.
She left a necklace behind with a note:
“This life is yours. My future is mine.”
Years passed.
Yao Chen became a superstar.
Awards. Films. Respect.
She married a man who loved her without conditions.
On her wedding day, Lou Haiyou stood far away, hidden among the crowd.
He never approached.
He didn’t deserve to.
Yao Chen smiled beneath the sunlight.
She had died once.
And been reborn—not to seek revenge, but to reclaim herself.
And that was the cruelest punishment of all.
