He Found Out I Was Rich—Now He’s Imitating Me

Knowing that I had 70,000 dollars a month for living expenses, my girlfriend’s childhood friend, Ethan Cole, suddenly began imitating everything about me.

I had an American-style fringe, so he permed his black hair to match.

I liked tattoos, so he stole photos of mine and visited 20 tattoo parlors until someone could replicate them exactly.

I wore luxury brands. He skipped classes, juggled five jobs a day, and somehow scraped together enough to buy the same outfits.

At first, I thought he was just a pathetic copycat. But a month later, I was diagnosed with a terminal illness—and died within days.

On my deathbed, the people I loved most didn't even come to see me. Instead, they gently patted my roommate's head, calling him by my name.

I was devastated. Confused. What had happened?

As my soul lingered after death, I drifted toward Ethan—only to see him living in my room, hugging my girlfriend. I heard him sneer:

“Thank you, Sophie. If you hadn’t funded me, I wouldn’t have been able to mimic him, use the system, and steal his luck. Now everything that belonged to Julian is mine.”

That’s when it all became clear: the real problem was his system.

Then—suddenly—I woke up.

I had returned to the very day Ethan first tried to copy my hairstyle.

——

A camera click echoed in the room. Ethan, caught in the act of taking a secret photo, quickly hid his phone.

My friend Liam leaned over and whispered, “Julian, want me to check his phone? I’ve seen him pointing it at you lately like some kind of stalker. I can’t take it anymore.”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

In my last life, I’d gotten angry and demanded he show me the photos. But his phone had been wiped clean, and I was the one accused of bullying a classmate.

That evening, Ethan walked in—with his black hair now styled into the exact same American fringe as mine. The same curl, length, even the color—it was identical.

After that, people started mistaking him for me just from behind.

Remembering his system, I messaged my personal stylist:

“Sis, I’m done with the American fringe. Design me something hard to copy. The more unique, the better. Bonus if you nail it.”

She was fired up. A minute later, she sent a photo—seven or eight stylists all brainstorming my new look.

Smiling, I turned off my phone and said to Liam, “Come with me to get my hair done. Call Noah Grant, too. My treat.”

Liam grinned. “Sure. But Noah and I are buying dinner afterward. Fair’s fair.”

Just as I was about to respond, Ethan’s shrill voice rang out from behind us.

“Where are you guys eating? Why didn’t you invite me? We’re dormmates—why are you leaving me out? Julian, do you look down on me just because I’m poor?”

His voice was loud enough to draw the entire class’s attention. Sensing the stares, he quickly put on a hurt expression and added:

“I know you’re all from rich local families, and I’m just from a small town… but I really want to be friends. Why can’t you give me a chance?”

His version of “being friends” meant mooching off us at restaurants, always making excuses not to pay, playing the victim whenever we pushed back.

This time, I had proof—ready to expose him once and for all.

But before I could say a word, my girlfriend Sophie Lane—also our student representative—stormed over with a scowl.

“Julian! How many times have I told you? I hate overbearing guys. Can you stop picking on others just because your family has a bit of money?!”