Perfect Bastard

Our bridal room was set on fire, and my husband, a firefighter, was grievously wounded while trying to save me. I sent him to be saved at the hospital where Winnie Sloan, his childhood friend worked, but the surgery ended up being a failure, and my husband passed away. After the announcement that my husband was deceased, Winnie told me that his dying wish was that he wanted a child. Hearing that, I powered through my grief and used the sperm he had previously frozen to conceive a child through IVF, raising my son to be enrolled in the most prestigious university in the area. On the day of the celebration party, my son kicked me out and invited my husband and Winnie onto the stage as his 'biological parents', and that's when I found out that my husband had faked his death. All those years ago, he and Winnie had swapped out the embryo I'd conceived in secret. The son I had painstakingly given birth to and raised turned out to have no blood relation to me whatsoever. Meanwhile, my husband had been enjoying a luxurious life overseas with Winnie while waiting for a chance to reconnect with his son. In my rage, I confronted them and demanded an explanation, but ended up dying because they pushed me down the stairs. When I came to, I was back to the day of the fire.

My boyfriend has always doted on me. However, after learning that I can't go to work at the bank after falling and injuring myself, he snaps at me. "Why didn't you tell me you switched shifts with someone else? That was a cheap move!" I don't refute him. Instead, I pull out a hospitalization record as I watch the bank descend into chaos. In my past life, I attended to a couple who wanted to deposit five million dollars into their account. Their child had been diagnosed with a rare illness. They'd gotten the money by selling their organs and mortgaging the home—it was to save their child's life and pay for the surgery the following day. However, the money was stolen the following day. I helped them check where the money was withdrawn, but the surveillance footage showed I was the one who did it. My best friend wept when the couple questioned me. "You shouldn't have stolen the money someone needed to save a life, no matter how materialistic and covetous you are!" My boyfriend hurried over and said, "I wondered why you suddenly had money to buy a car—you stole it! You're heartless!" The child died after failing to receive treatment in time, and the couple stabbed me to death on the streets out of devastation. When I open my eyes again, I think injuring myself will help me escape this. To my surprise, the surveillance cameras once again capture me stealing the money.

When my mother falls gravely ill, my husband, who has asthenospermia, promises to help me think of something. So, I give him all my savings. Despite being pregnant, I get a part-time job doing DoorDash deliveries. However, I see my husband when I pass by a realtor's office. He's supposed to be hard at work like me, but he's buying a place for his childhood friend. He even has his arm around her. "That old hag thinks I only earn that little each month. Don't worry, Yvette. I only give her 10% of what I earn. The rest goes to you!" I hold back my tears and grab the hem of his shirt, wanting to borrow some money for my mother's treatment. However, he shoves me away irritably. "I give you 2000 dollars a month! Isn't that enough? Have you spent it all on useless things?" He leaves without another look back, ignoring my cries and pleas. He also kicks me, effectively murdering the child he's always dreamed of having. Later, he grovels at my feet and begs for forgiveness. It's too bad I've already given up on him. I don't want him anymore.

When the college admission notice arrived, I suddenly developed a high fever and was bedridden. My sister encountered a kidnapping on her way to help me collect the notice, and her life was uncertain. My parents hated me deeply. After tearing up my admission notice, they forced me to give up my studies and work in a factory. Later, I experienced a kidnapping as well. After narrowly escaping, I hid in an abandoned factory and sent them a message for help. My dad called me and shouted at me without restraint, “Lena, are you even human? How could you play such a joke on us on Jessica's memorial day!” “Do you have any idea how much your mom and I wished it had been you who died back then?” In my last moments before death, their insults echoed in my ears. I was tortured and killed, turned into a monster, and my body was thrown into a stinking ditch for three full days. Even my father, the most experienced forensic expert, couldn’t recognize me. When my sister returned home with the guy she eloped with years ago, my dad had just restored my appearance through technology. They knelt before my decaying corpse and cried until they fainted.

On the day of my son's one-month celebration, my notoriously stingy sister-in-law surprised me with a branded baby bottle. But instead of accepting it, I turned away and gave it to the neighbor's cruel son who had XYY syndrome. In my previous life, I had accepted that bottle with genuine gratitude, using it day and night to feed my son. I never imagined that a month later, in the dead of night, my son would suddenly suffer a heart attack and die in my arms. Strangely enough, the very next day after my son passed, my sister-in-law's sickly child—who had been confined to the neonatal intensive care unit since birth—was miraculously discharged in perfect health. Losing my son shattered me completely. I spent my days drowning in tears. My husband called me a cursed woman, claimed I brought nothing but disaster, and demanded a divorce. Not only that, but he insisted I leave with nothing. When I refused, he and my sister-in-law joined forces and accidentally beat me to death. It wasn't until after I died that I learned the truth. The woman I had thought was my husband's younger sister wasn't his blood relative at all. She had been adopted by his mother years ago to be raised as his future wife. Together, they had plotted to destroy me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day my sister-in-law handed me that baby bottle.

My daughter-in-law cheated on my son behind his back, and I caught her. When I confronted her, she turned the tables on me, accusing me instead. I told my son everything exactly as it happened, but she broke down crying and accused me of bullying her. "Ever since I married into the Simmons family, you've never been happy with me," she sobbed. "If I’d known you’d slander me like this, I would’ve been better off dead!" She attempted to hurt herself to prove her innocence, but my son stopped her. "Mom, how could you accuse my wife like that? You're my own mother, but this is too much!" he shouted. Furious, he moved out with her. Later, I fell gravely ill and begged my son to come see me one last time. When he finally arrived, he brought her with him. To my horror, they removed my oxygen tube. As I struggled to breathe, I heard her smug voice whisper in my ear: "Old hag, if it weren't for you accusing me of cheating, Herman and I wouldn’t have gotten your inheritance so quickly!" She laughed coldly. "Oh, and next time you accuse someone, make sure you have evidence. Did you really think your word alone could ruin me?" I died choking on my final breath. Afterward, they lived happily, spending my money without a care in the world. But then, I woke up. It was the day I caught her cheating again. This time, I went straight to work. I replaced the lubricant at home with industrial-strength glue. She wanted proof? Fine. I’d give her proof.

My husband's beloved lover suffered from menstruation complications. A traveling doctor claimed that a fresh placenta was needed to cure her. His gaze fixated on my seven-months-pregnant baby bump. And thus, I was pinned down on the bed as they ripped the placenta from my body. My son was carelessly tossed aside. He didn't even get the chance to cry before his tiny body fell silent forever. My husband pinched his nose in disgust, frowning as he looked at me—bleeding out, feebly reaching for my child. “It’s just a premature baby. He'll be fine after a few days of care. Why are you making such a fuss? Sandra is waiting for her medicine." He left and locked the door behind him without looking back. He claimed it was a lesson I needed to learn. By the time he finally remembered us, my son and I had long since bled dry, our bodies cold and stiff.

I suffer from a hereditary form of amnesia. By the time I found out, I had only seven days left. On the first day, I found my boyfriend had fallen for my younger twin sister. With a bitter smile, I suggested we break up. On the second day, my most treasured Lego set was smashed by my sister. Everyone laughed at me, saying I was disgraceful, unworthy of being a daughter of the Fleming family. On the fourth day, I forgot that my sister was allergic to mangoes. She ended up in the hospital, and my parents glared at me with resentment. Even my ex-boyfriend accused me of being heartless. On the seventh day, I woke up in a hospital bed to see my father walking in with a stern expression. He demanded that I quit my job and devote myself entirely to taking care of the family, as nothing more than a housekeeper. But I only looked at them in confusion and asked softly, “Who are you?” When they realized I had truly lost my memory, they lost their minds.

I am having a heart attack when Scott Lakin locks me inside the car. It's because my pain is frightening his childhood sweetheart. In response to my desperate pleas for help, he merely utters coldly, "I'll let you out when you apologize." I go into shock and have to be rushed to the hospital. I call Scott a dozen times, but he just blocks me. Finally, after I get discharged, I see him carefully feeding his childhood sweetheart chicken soup. "Have some food, darling. What if the baby in your belly is hungry?" After that, I return to my hometown without saying a word and stay there for half a month. After blocking me everywhere except the music streaming platform, Scott suddenly starts frantically searching for me. "Jennie, why didn't you add me back on Facebook this time?"

On her first day at work, a new colleague uploaded a 500-million-dollar property purchase agreement to the company group chat. The message was accompanied by the caption: “Thanks for the gift for my first day at work, Dad!” She quickly deleted it, following up with, “Sorry, wrong chat!” I frowned, recognizing the contract immediately. It was the same property my father gifted me for my birthday a month ago. Some sharp-eyed colleagues noticed the contract number and chimed in. “I have a relative in real estate. I remember this property. Our chairman bought it recently!” “So, the heiress has joined us to experience life. Forgive your humble servant for not recognizing you!” The chat was soon filled with flattering remarks. Even my stingy and miserly husband joined in. I felt a coldness in my heart and couldn’t help but respond in the group chat, “I recall the president always opposing ostentatious displays of wealth and advocating humility. This heiress seems to veer away from his usual philosophy.” Instead of support, I faced attacks from my husband and others. “Look at you being so poor and petty. How could you ever compare to Grace? Why did I ever marry someone so shortsighted?” “As if you know the president that well! I think you’re just jealous that Grace was born with a silver spoon!” I sneered coldly and, without hesitation, dialed the president’s number right in front of everyone. “Dad, I heard we’re not that close, hmm?”