After I got a second shot at life, the very first thing I did was enroll in an intensive weight-loss boot camp.

In my past life, my boyfriend was always on my case about my weight. He flat-out told me he wouldn't put a ring on it unless I got down to a hundred pounds. I tried every diet and workout plan out there—I pushed myself to the edge—but instead of losing, I packed on even more pounds.

Meanwhile, my so-called best friend ate cheeseburgers, fries, and pizza like it was her job and still dropped from 130 pounds to a hundred in less than a month. The second she hit that magic number, my boyfriend's head turned.

They started sneaking around behind my back. When I finally confronted them, they shoved me off a rooftop.

It wasn't until after I died that I discovered the truth: my "best friend" had linked herself to a weight-transfer system. Every single pound I struggled to lose went straight to her. And every ounce of fat she should have gained? It landed right back on me.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the exact day my boyfriend gave me his hundred-pound ultimatum.

With every memory of my past life intact, I couldn't help but smile. My best friend wants to be skinny, does she? Well then, let's see how she likes being nothing but skin and bones. Let's see if forty-five pounds is skinny enough for her.

"You never listen when I tell you to watch your figure. Just look at yourself in the mirror—what a mess. No shape, no curves!

"Hurry up and lose the weight. If you can't get down to a hundred pounds with some actual definition, don't even think about marrying me!"

The impatient voice cut through the air. I blinked, reality snapping back into focus, and met the disgusted sneer on my boyfriend Zach Sullivan's face.

Out of reflex, my hand went to my side, a phantom ache from broken bones flaring for a second.

When I stayed silent, my best friend, Lauren McConall—standing right beside Zach—jumped in to back him up.

"Jen, if you don't do something about that waistline, no guy is ever going to want you! Just listen to Zach and put in the work. If he calls off the engagement, even I won't be able to fix it for you."

I shifted my gaze to Lauren. The poorly hidden glee and that faint, hungry anticipation in her eyes confirmed it—what I already felt in my bones was true.

I had been reborn.

Reborn to the exact moment Zach issued his hundred-pound ultimatum.

…

In my past life, it had started one month before our wedding, during a dress fitting. Zach had been scrolling through half-naked influencers on his phone, his eyes glued to their tiny outfits, while he scoffed at me in my gown.

"Other brides make the dress look better. You just make it look worse. You're turning designer silk into a potato sack."

"Go on a diet. If you're not down to a hundred pounds by the wedding, I'll just find a new bride."

I wasn't even obese at 120 pounds—just built a little broader—but wanting to look perfect, I threw myself into losing weight with a vengeance.

I lived on salad, punished myself at the gym twice a day, and followed every brutal fitness trend.

But no matter what I did, the scale didn't budge down—it shot up. I ballooned to 165 pounds.

Meanwhile, my best friend Lauren, who ate pizza, burgers, and cheesy fries every day, slimmed down effortlessly. She dropped from 130 pounds to a toned hundred in less than a month.

Her new "hot girl summer" body immediately caught Zach's wandering eye. They started "working out" together, which quickly turned into sleeping together.

When I finally caught them, they didn't even bother to lie. He called me a pathetic, jealous cow. She said I was too pathetic to live. And then, as if tidying up the last piece of trash, they pushed me off the rooftop. My wedding became hers.

It was only after I died that I learned the truth: Lauren had linked herself to a weight-transfer system.

Every calorie I burned, every pound I struggled to lose, was transferred directly to her.

And every ounce of fat, every bit of bloat she earned from her junk food binges, was dumped onto my body.

With her new perfect figure, Lauren also siphoned off my entire life's luck. She didn't just steal my fiancé—she stole my corporate job, and later, she even won the lottery jackpot.

All by feeding on my ruin.

Thinking back on everything from my previous life, I wanted nothing more than to tear these two to pieces.

But I held myself back. It wasn't time to expose them—yet.

Instead, I smiled and agreed to Zach's demand.

"Don't worry. I'll lose the weight."

Zach looked at me, still doubtful. "Really?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

Seeing how obedient and eager I seemed, his tone softened. "That's my girl. I can't wait to see you at a hundred pounds. You're going to be a knockout bride."

He leaned in, intending to kiss me.

Just before his lips touched mine, a hostile gaze stabbed into me. I glanced sideways and caught the jealousy burning in Lauren's eyes, her hands clenched tight at her sides.

Of course, she couldn't stand seeing Zach show affection to me. She quickly stepped forward, slipping between us with a bright smile. Pressing herself close to his arm, she fluttered her lashes and pouted.

"Zach, don't be cruel! No PDA in front of your lonely single friend. If you hog Jen all to yourself, I might just have to steal her from you."

Unfortunately for her, Zach had zero interest in someone who weighed 150 pounds and stood only 1.5 meters tall. He dodged her attempt to get close without even thinking.

Lauren's expression stiffened, irritation flashing across her face. She didn't blame Zach, of course—she turned her hostility toward me instead.

Pretending to tease, she said, "Jen's such a foodie. Can she really lose weight? What if she ends up an even fatter embarrassment?"

Zach immediately shifted his suspicious gaze back to me.

Both of them stared at me, each carrying their own twisted agenda.

Under their piercing eyes, I smiled and nodded.

"Don't worry. I won't disappoint either of you. I'll slim down exactly the way you want."

As soon as I finished speaking, I pulled out my phone in front of them and signed up for a weight-loss bootcamp.

Their eyes lit up instantly, almost glowing with satisfaction.

Zach lifted his phone excitedly and began giving me "instructions."

"Jen, look. This is the ideal. I want you to get a waist like hers, and curves right… here. My future happiness is in your hands, babe."

Lauren joined in, clinging close as she nagged nonstop.

"And remember, Jen, a hundred pounds is the magic number! The perfect number. Not ninety-nine, not a hundred and one. Exactly a hundred."

The two of them basked in their own delusions.

I looked at their greedy, ugly faces and couldn't help the cold laugh rising in my chest.

I looked at them—at Zach, who saw me as a lump of clay to sculpt into his digital fantasy, and at Lauren, who saw me as nothing more than a metabolic mule to carry her own flaws.

I came from an orphanage and had treated these two as the only family I had—my boyfriend of three years, and my closest friend. Yet in the end, they schemed against me, betrayed me, and murdered me.

This time, they would both pay the price.

The very night I signed up, Zach and Lauren practically threw my bags into the car and drove me straight to the weight-loss bootcamp's campus. They called it "eliminating distractions" so I could "focus on my mission."

While I sweated through brutal workouts each day, Zach spent his evenings "unwinding" at sketchy massage parlors. He'd text me graphic details—rating the women's bodies or their "special services"—and claim it was all to "light a fire under me" to get thin.

It was repulsive. Looking back, I couldn't fathom how I'd ever been blind enough to love him.

Thankfully, a whole lifetime of hindsight had cured me of that delusion. His words rolled off me now like water off wax.

Meanwhile, Lauren dedicated her days to curating a private show just for me. She'd post story after story on Instagram—juicy burgers, loaded cheese fries, decadent milkshakes—each one carefully tagged "Close Friends" so only I could see. When mutual friends commented with concern, asking if she'd get sick, she'd reply with a winking emoji: "It's my secret weight-loss hack!"

Nobody else understood. But I did.

Her "hack" was theft.

I ignored their little performances and kept my head down, following the camp's regimen to the letter.

A week later, they showed up for a progress check.

The second Zach's eyes landed on me, his face darkened like a storm cloud.

He exploded right there in the lobby.

"Jen! What the hell is wrong with you? I told you to lose weight, not blow up like a balloon! Are you actually trying? Or are you just here to stuff your face?"

Watching me get torn down, Lauren's smile was so wide and bright it could have powered the building. She sauntered over, reached out, and pinched the roll of fat at my waist between her thumb and forefinger.

"Oh, Jen," she sighed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You really are hopeless. Look at you—getting bigger by the day. And look at me." She did a little spin. "I've been eating everything in sight and I've still lost… let's see… almost twelve pounds! Ugh, it's so annoying."

I lifted my gaze. It was true. On her petite frame, the loss was dramatic. Her cheekbones were sharper, her collarbones pronounced, giving her a gaunt, almost modelesque look.

I let my shoulders slump, painting misery across my face. "I don't get it… I've been doing everything right, but I've gained ten pounds. I feel horrible."

My display of defeat was the fuel she needed. Her preening intensified. "I guess it's just genetics! Some people are just born to be lucky, you know? Right, Zach?"

"Huh? Oh—yeah. Lauren, you look… really fit lately." His eyes had been glued to her newly-svelte waistline. It took her prompting to tear his gaze away.

He lavished her with a few more compliments before turning his scowl back on me. "Look at her, Jen. Then look in a mirror. Don't you feel ashamed? Are you even taking this seriously?"

I just shook my head, silent.

He stepped closer, his voice a low threat. "Get your act together. Lose the weight. Or I swear, I'll make you regret it in front of everyone."

Lauren piled on with her signature brand of poison, wrapped in concern. "You just have to be stricter, Jen. You don't have my metabolism. You actually have to try."

They only left after their two-part humiliation was complete.

At dinner, I received several photos from Lauren of her and Zach eating together.

Lauren: [Aww, Zach insisted on celebrating my "transformation", so he brought me out for steak. I don't want to lose weight anymore though.]

Lauren: [You're so lucky, Jen! Getting to gain weight on vacation while I have to watch my figure.]

Lauren: [You need to work harder or I'll steal the spotlight at your wedding as the prettier bridesmaid.]

…

I read each gloating message, then calmly took another bite of my drumstick.

After a long moment, I typed a reply.

Jen: [Don't worry. You're my best friend—having you as my bridesmaid is the best gift I could ask for. Even if you overshadow me, I won't blame you.]

Of course, I wouldn't blame her.

In fact, I was counting on it. The "spotlight" I had in mind for her was going to be absolutely unforgettable.