Alya has not picked on me yet. Neither have her minions. But I know it's only a matter of time before she makes the same decision as in the past. That incident is going to happen very soon. In the past, it left me with a major limp on my left ankle — the greatest disadvantage in every single misfortune that came after. Soon, the director will call me, and it will set that incident into motion. I need to stop it.
For now, I'm glad to have this time to myself to plan things through. But no matter how many times I go over my plans, there's a major limitation: a commoner, a woman, and an orphan at that, has almost no decision‑making power in this empire. I need power — enough to overthrow that monster. I need the perfect stage to stand on. I already have knowledge, and knowledge is power — but I must use it effectively. No mistakes can be made. Mistakes won't be forgiven. I won't… I can't go through all that again. No mistakes…
Three weeks after the play, talk about the new actress on stage spreads among the public. But that's the least of my worries. Because of the popularity, the director finally calls me to his office.
The director is someone I have always feared — a fear rooted deep in my bones. As I make my way to his office, the walk is as painful as the memories of beatings and solitary confinement in the pigsty. The huge thorn‑whip scar that runs from one shoulder to the base of my hip begins to ache the moment the door comes into view. With ragged breath, I stop just a few steps away.
There was once a time I hoped for love or even sympathy from the man who adopted me from the streets at the age of four. But with time, that hope faded into fear, anguish, and self‑hatred. After all, I was nothing but a tool. Maybe, at the beginning, there was some sympathy — but it vanished when Alya, his daughter, was born. After that, everything was my fault. Alya ruined the lead dress? My fault. Alya misbehaved with another actress? My fault. Alya broke the treasured pen? Of course, my fault. Yes… perhaps it was my fault for expecting anything in the first place.
Knock Knock
"Come in."
With heavy steps, I enter the office.
"Ah, Selena, my beautiful daughter."
Just like in the past — same words, same tone — the director welcomes me with open arms. My naïve past self believed, that perhaps my sudden popularity had changed his heart, that he had begun to love me as a daughter, just like Alya. How wrong I was.
"Your talent is being spoken of widely in the streets. Oh, how proud you have made me, my lovely daughter. Why don't you sit down? I'll bring your favourite cookies and milk tea."
Soon, the director's assistant — the old bard — brings in a tray full of peach‑flavoured cookies and hot tea. I can't help but sneer inwardly. My favourite? More like Alya's favourite. I can't even eat peaches because of my allergy. I remember how, in the past, the director, trying to show over‑enthusiasm, forcefully fed me one. Afterwards, I broke out in a severe rash and spent three whole days unconscious with a raging fever — without medicine — because Alya threw it all away.
This time, before he can even touch the plate, I push it away quickly.
"You ungrateful w***h!" the director flares.
I thought I was the "beautiful daughter"? I sneer inwardly. Typical.
For my future plans, I can't afford to anger him now. I need him to get to the main point — the reason he called me here.
"I apologise, Sir. I once choked on peaches as a child. Please excuse my fear, even at the smell or sight of them. Please forgive me. I am always grateful for your kindness in bringing in a street child like me. I only desire to be helpful to you, fa‑father."
Shivers run through me. I have never called him "father" since my rebirth. That word holds no place in my heart. But I know if I don't flatter his ego to that extent, his anger won't subside. I know him all too well now.
"Ah, th‑that happened? You should have come straight to me. Oh, my poor child." The director glances at the old bard with embarrassment, as if to say, How dare you not tell me this beforehand?
The old bard only slouches his shoulders awkwardly. He really doesn't know.
Of course he doesn't — it never happened. They were never interested enough in me to know I'm lying. Oh well.
"Could I help you with something, Sir? Since you called me today, I was very happy and eager to be of any use to you. Perhaps another play?" I show my eagerness, and it puffs up his ego even further.
"Ah yes, there is a very important guest coming to the theatre in two weeks' time. He has shown great interest in you to… ahem… mentor you for some time. On the day, I will hand you some signed papers. You are not to look at them. You will just take them to the esteemed guest to sign and will go with him for a very short time."
"For how long?" I ask.
Of course, he doesn't answer. The so‑called papers are guardianship transfer papers. And I won't be going away for a short time — I'll be gone forever, until I die. The esteemed guest is the very monster who will drive me to hell. The only reason he's sending me is because he can't send his dear Alya. All of this, my naïve past self never knew. Pitiful me. You deserved it. I taste bile rising as I think of my past self.
"Ah, and I will give you some rewards for the excellent work you have done so far — and will do. I will assign you a helping nurse. She will look after you with popular nutrition and beauty products. After all, my daughter has such a pretty face that people love. And don't go running around working too much. I want you to prepare for this mentorship. Okay, now off you go and rest."
"Thank you, Director. I will not disappoint you."
I leave the office slowly… only to find, as expected, Alya eavesdropping.
I gloat inside. Thanks, Alya, for not changing — for being the same old wicked you. I will let you be jealous. So jealous that it consumes you, and you do exactly what you did in the past life. Your actions will be my salvation… and the director's beckoning. I will certainly escape this place.