Romans & histoires Semi Perfect Cell Vs Vegeta

When my parents got old, they needed someone to take care of them. Katerina—my younger sister—was off to Amiraka with her smug husband Chris. Meanwhile, I was crammed into a two-bedroom in Bellavaro with my husband Pavel, who drove a taxi. Mom had no retirement savings, so guess who she dumped herself on? Yep—me. Dad took the cash and ran straight to Katerina. Our place was tiny, but we still gave Mom the master bedroom. She hated it. Constant complaints, constant drama. According to her, life with me was pure misery. Every night, she'd hop on video call with Katerina, gushing about Amiraka like it was heaven, while throwing shade at me for not "taking care of her properly." Meanwhile, I was drowning—trying to hold it together for Mom, help my daughter prep for exams, support a husband with spine problems, and check in on aging in-laws. Mom didn't care. She wanted a plane ticket to Amiraka to party for Katerina's birthday. I snapped. We had a blowout fight, and she collapsed—brain hemorrhage. Even in her hospital bed, she stared me down, whining Katerina's name like a broken record. Then she spat out, "I should've never picked a useless daughter like you!" My chest cracked in half. I blacked out. When I woke up—I was ten years younger. Back to the day they decided who'd get stuck taking care of them. This time, Mom didn't wait. "I want Katerina to take care of me. It's my turn to enjoy life!"

My dad’s crush came back, and my mom decided to fake her death. “Jane, I’m the main character of a tragic story. If I don’t fake my death now, I’ll end up miserable. “Go tell your dad that Quiana killed me.” In my past life, I had done exactly as she said. My dad had flown into a rage and destroyed the Sullivan family. After that, my mom returned to the land of the living. I thought our family would finally be whole again. Instead, she clung to Dad and cried. “I gave Jane my contact information. How could she say I was dead?” To punish me, my dad locked me in a cold storage room. My mom shot me a cold look. “That’s what you get for calling that woman pretty.” In the cold storage room, at −58°F, I froze to death. When I opened my eyes again, my mom had already faked her death and ran off with her devoted admirer. I looked at my dad and asked with an innocent expression, “Dad, what does eloping mean?”

On the day that I returned to the country, Lola Lawson, the one who was once the love of my life for ten years, sent me a picture of a baby. She told me to think of a name and meet her at the city hall to register the baby, as she had prepared a welcome-home gift for me. So, I rushed over with bags full of baby supplies. But when I arrived, she and her girlfriends were bent over with ridicule and laughter. "I told you! Even though he was gone for a year, he's still a loyal lapdog! Just a wave of my hand and he'd even be willing to raise someone else's kid for me!" She sized me up with mocking amusement. "Kevin Sheraton. How could you still be this naive? Just one joke and you come running?" They laughed without any restraint, calling me names and hurling insults, saying I'd do anything for Lola. But when I walked past them and took a number to register my own child's birth, and later wrapped my arm around my wife as the three of us took a family portrait, Lola's eyes were completely reddened with tears.

After following my grandfather abroad for five years of training, he finally entrusted me with the family authority—something he had given me with complete satisfaction. But my stepmother and my three younger stepbrothers were anything but pleased. Ever since I returned home, they had been blasting those ridiculous "real heiress versus fake heiress" dramas throughout the house, day after day. Sometimes openly, sometimes in veiled remarks, they hinted that I didn't resemble my father at all. On the day of my twentieth birthday—my official debut before the public—they even brought in a complete stranger and tried to brand me as the impostor. My stepmother looked at me, the corner of her lips curling in disdain. "Where did this counterfeit come from? Even if you're wearing a stolen gown, you can't hide that cheap, shabby air about you." My three younger stepbrothers shoved me to the ground, shielding the girl beside them—the one wearing my family's heirloom necklace. "We only have one sister, and that's Camellia! Wherever you came from, go back there!" In an instant, the guests' mocking gazes all converged on me. And in the very next second, I stepped forward and slapped my stepmother across the face. "If anyone should be leaving, it's you. Take a good look at what this is!" Then, the moment they saw what I was holding in my hand, the entire room fell into stunned silence.

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 send my sister, Lola Graham, to my couture boutique to pick out a wedding dress. As she is leaving, a trainee clerk, Kayla Larson, demands three million for the gown. Helpless, Lola says my name. "I'm the owner's sister. I don't have to pay." Kayla rolls her eyes. "You're pranking the wrong store. Our boss doesn't have a sister. You're just broke and trying to scam us!" she snapped, blocking my sister's way. "This is your last warning—either pay up, or I'll rip that dress off you and throw you out!" Stunned, Lola calls me. When I rush over, I hear my long-time store manager standing deferentially behind Kayla, warning Lola, "You'd better behave. The woman in front of you is our boss' wife. Cross her, and you'll regret it." "Trying to fake your way in here? You've got some nerve," Kayla sneers, adding to my sister's humiliation. My hand freezes on the door. Without hesitation, I cut off my husband's secondary credit card and call him. "Have I been too generous with you? Or did giving you too much money make you think you could afford another woman behind my back?"

On my thirtieth birthday, Gideon Salton told me to meet him at city hall. He made sure I wore a wedding dress and brought my papers, hyping it up as a huge birthday surprise. But when I showed up, all dressed up, he turned to his trashy crew and laughed. "No way—she actually did it. Dress, docs, the whole thing. Pay up, fifty bucks each." Then he looked at me. "Come on, Madison. You didn't seriously fall for that?" I didn't answer. He smirked. "If you're that thirsty to get hitched, go inside and grab some rando to register with." His friends cracked up. They called me Gideon's loyal simp, his forever backup plan. Said I'd never end up with anyone else. But when I came out with my husband and a legit marriage certificate, Gideon just froze—pale, silent, wrecked.

On the day before New Year's Eve, I didn't shut the window all the way, and my little sister sneezed. My parents kicked me out and ordered me to collect firewood in the dark. Inside, the family crowded around her, laughing as they handed her presents. I didn't cry or make a scene. Instead, I slung the basket onto my back before heading into the mountains through the wind and snow. I didn't find any firewood. I found a man instead. His leg was wedged in a crack between rocks, bloody enough to scare me. When he saw me, he said in a hoarse voice, "Get me out of here, girl. I can give you whatever you want." I looked up at him, my eyes finally focusing. "Really? Then I want you to be my dad."

I knew perfectly well that people from the Emirates do not eat pork. Yet this time, I watched in silence as my husband's childhood sweetheart insisted on placing a pork dish on the table. In fact, I even supported her decision. In my past life, when our company hosted a welcome banquet for powerful investors from the Emirates, she had been desperate to flaunt her cooking. Against all reason, she forced a pork dish onto the menu. I stopped her then. I explained that pork was forbidden by religious belief, and that offending the investors could cost us everything. If they withdrew their funding, the company's finances would collapse overnight. She took my warning as jealousy. In a fit of rage, she ran out of the banquet hall and was struck by a car, leaving her in a permanent vegetative state. I thought my husband would break down. Instead, he remained calm, stayed through the dinner, and secured the investment in surprisingly calmness. The truth revealed itself later. After the company went public, he brought me abroad under the guise of business, only to drag me onto a medical ship in international waters. As my kidney was cut from my body, I cried and asked him why. His answer came with a slap. "If you hadn't been jealous back then... If you hadn't tried to sabotage her, she wouldn't have ended up like that." I died in agony on the operating table. After my death, he used the money from selling my organs to cure his beloved childhood sweetheart, and the two of them went on to live rich, comfortable lives together. And then I opened my eyes again, back to the very day she decided to serve pork to the clients.

My sister's best friend borrowed 20 thousand from me, saying it was for her mother's medical bills. As a cop, I lent it to her. I figured if I could help, I should. When it was time to pay me back, she didn't return a cent. Instead, she showed up at my precinct holding a baby and accused me of indecent assaults. After a paternity test, the baby turned out to be mine. She went on livestreams, crying about how I broke the law despite being a police officer. She used the scandal to make herself famous. The force treated me like a disgrace and fired me. I tried to explain, but no one believed me. I went from a model officer to a criminal overnight. My parents were cyberbullied; with nowhere left to turn, they both drowned themselves. My wife was also beaten in the street. She suffered a miscarriage from the attack and died from massive blood loss. As for my sister, guilt drove her insane; she was hospitalized before vanishing from the public eye. After my family fell apart, I hanged myself one night. Then I opened my eyes again. I'd been reborn. Facing my sister's evil friend, I vowed to fight back.