Reborn I Exposed My Stepsister’s Lies

As her awareness snapped back with a suffocating, bone-deep chill, Laylani Morgan had the fleeting, sick thought that she was still trapped in that grim, hopeless hellhole of a rehab center. The sharp bite of antiseptic, the grime-crusted sheets clinging to her skin, the scornful glares that cut like glass, her parents’ distant, uncaring shadows—and Zechariah Boyd’s careless, sneering line as he sided with Kayla Morgan: “She’s cleaner than you.”

Every agonizing memory stabbed into her consciousness like jagged shards.

Laylani was the real Morgan heiress, the name synonymous with wealth and beauty in Southampton. Yet somehow she had become the city’s biggest punchline.

Her father had moved his mistress and his illegitimate daughter, Kayla, right into the family mansion, doting on them like they were his real family. Her mother was forever lost in her own world of young male models and downtown clubs, treating Laylani as nothing more than a glorified inconvenience. Her brother Tate looked at her with pure disgust, always accusing her of being spiteful and selfish, while he showered adoration on Kayla. And Zechariah—her childhood fiancé, the heartthrob every girl drooled over—ended up picking Kayla, sneering at Laylani, “I never liked you. You just make me sick.”

The worst, most unforgivable moment happened on her eighteenth birthday. That was the night she got lured to a nightclub by so-called “friends,” only to be tricked into booze and drugs—the start of her long, brutal downward spiral.

From then on, her grades tanked, her temper got worse and worse, and she was abandoned by her family, despised by Zechariah, and systematically stripped of everything by Kayla. In the end, she lost her home, was isolated from everyone she’d ever known, and died alone and forgotten in some cold, forgotten corner.

“Yo, Laylani, why the hell are you zoning out? Drink up!”

Deafening music and a dizzying blaze of neon lights yanked Laylani back into the present. She glanced down at her hands—pale and delicate, without a single needle mark. She wasn’t in that nightmare state yet.

Somebody was shoving a cocktail into her line of sight, the liquid glowing an unnatural pink with a little lemon slice perched on the rim. Around her huddled several people from her past life she’d been dumb enough to think of as “friends.” Their smiles were plastered on, nerves and deception darting behind their eyes.

Jerking her head up, Laylani zeroed in on the banner stretched across the wall. The date glared back at her in bold letters—her eighteenth birthday night, the first week of freshman year.

Her breath stuttered out of her chest.

This wasn’t a dream.

Everything could still be changed.

Her heart jackhammered against her ribs. Cold sweat slicked her back. In her previous life, on this exact day, she’d been so laughably naive—all because of a single text from Kayla that sounded so innocent: [Sis, Zechariah said he’s swinging by with a surprise. Wait in the room.]

Laylani had clung to that stupid, desperate hope, planted herself in this sketchy nightclub, and eagerly waited for Zechariah to show. She’d taken the drinks with half-hearted protests, thinking, *Just five more minutes. I’ll leave when Zechariah gets here.*

That one weak-ass moment of hesitation made her knock back the spiked cocktail—and sent her spiraling into an abyss she never crawled out of.

When she’d woken up, her mind was frosted over, her body humming with a sick, buzzing euphoria, and the seed of a bone-deep addiction had already taken root.

“Come on, Laylani, you gotta enjoy your birthday,” the girl next to her urged, pressing the glass closer.

Laylani locked eyes with the girl’s insincere expression. Her own stare was cold and razor-sharp.

These people weren’t friends. They were just cheap pawns Kayla had paid to drag her straight into hell.

Slowly, Laylani let her lips curve into a smile that never touched her eyes. Instead of taking the glass, she nudged it away with the back of her fingers—light, almost dismissive.

*Crash—*

The drink erupted all over the girl. It drenched her hair, streamed down her face, and smeared her makeup into a garish mess.

The whole room went dead silent. Everyone just froze.

The Laylani they knew was soft, compliant, pathetically love-struck—a girl who tiptoed around everyone, and even when she was wronged and miserable, she’d swallow it down in silence.

What the actual hell was happening tonight?

“Wh-what the hell are you doing?” The girl sputtered, a sloppy cocktail of anger and shock on her face.

Laylani rose from the armrest of the sofa, straightening up slowly. She was in a pink dress tonight, her delicate collarbone and sleek waist making her look like a fierce, untouchable kind of beautiful. Before, she’d always dressed down, buttoned-up and modest for Zechariah. But now she realized that being a doormat didn’t earn respect—it just invited more people to wipe their feet on you.

“What am I doing?” Laylani let out a soft, humorless laugh.

Her gaze swept across the group, cutting as a blade. “Why aren’t you drinking what you just tried to hand me?”

At her words, their faces drained of color.

What was she getting at?

The girl’s expression faltered into panic. “Laylani, don’t be such a brat! We’re just trying to celebrate your birthday—”

“Celebrate?” Laylani cut in, her voice pure frost. “Slipping something nasty into my drink—that’s your idea of celebrating?”

“How much did Kayla pay you to set me up?”

Exposed point-blank, the girl went into full-blown panic mode. Someone lunged to grab Laylani’s arm, trying to pull her away.

“Don’t you dare talk crap, I didn’t—”

Laylani shook off the hand like it was contaminated. “Don’t touch me.”

Her face twisted with disgust, as though something filthy had just brushed her skin.

A searing rage burned inside her chest, anger flooding her veins, the little clean alcohol she’d had earlier still making her head buzz.

Without so much as a glance at their stunned faces, she turned and walked out.

Her heels clicked against the floor, crisp and cutting.

Stepping out into the bitter night air, the icy wind smacked into her, making her dizzy. Inside, she’d had a few clean drinks, so her head was fuzzy but her mind was brutally sharp.

Sharp enough to remember every single wound from her old life.

Laylani pulled out her phone and dialed. “Hello, is this the police? I’d like to report illegal activity in Suite 15 at The Oasis nightclub…”

That suite had been booked under the excuse of celebrating her birthday—all orchestrated by Kayla.

Kayla loved putting on that precious sister act, didn’t she? She’d set the trap, hired the players, and paved the whole damn road.

Now that her little game was ruined, it was only fair that Kayla be left to deal with the aftermath.

Hanging up, Laylani didn’t bother hailing a cab. She wasn’t ready to go back to that suffocating house.

She walked alone under the streetlights, fragments of memory flickering through her head, playing on an endless, cruel loop.

Before she knew it, she’d wandered into a narrow, shadow-drenched alley.

The space was cramped, the streetlights weak and buzzing. On either side, the walls were cracked and weather-beaten.

Ahead, the ugly sounds of a brutal fight reached her ears.

Wet thuds of fists, rough shouts, groans of pain.

The coppery stench of blood laced the cold wind.

Laylani froze. She’d seen too many scenes like this in her past life. Dealers, bruisers, debt collectors—all with the same dead, sinister eyes.

She wanted zero part of it.

Almost on instinct, Laylani melted back into the shadows, holding her breath, already calculating how to slip away unnoticed.

But as soon as she settled into her hiding spot, the fighting just… stopped.

The only thing left was ragged, heavy breathing.

Carefully, Laylani peeked around the corner for a quick look.

Beneath the dim, flickering light stood a tall, lean silhouette.

He was in a black hoodie, the hood pulled low so all she could see was a sharp-cut jawline.

One hand was shoved casually in his pocket. The other flicked downward, knuckles gleaming with fresh blood.

Scattered on the ground at his feet, several figures lay groaning, unable to get up.

He’d taken down a whole crew—all by himself.

Laylani’s heart lurched.

That posture, that brutal skill…

Before she could figure out who he was, the guy—attuned like a damn predator—turned his head slightly and locked his gaze dead on her hiding place.

“Had your fill yet?”

His voice was low and rough from the fight, scratchy yet weirdly magnetic, all raw power.

Laylani’s heart skipped a beat.

*Hell. Caught?*

She didn’t move. It was dark as hell. No way he had cat eyes that could see her in the shadows.

But within seconds, the guy stepped forward, approaching with lazy, swaggering strides that spilled confidence everywhere.

His presence was heavy, commanding.

Laylani went rigid.

He didn’t stop until he was right in front of her. Bending slightly, he pushed back his hood.

Under the dim glow, an absurdly striking face was revealed.

Sharp brow bones, slightly deep-set eyes, pupils dark as coal that delivered a fierce, icy stare practically dripping with rebellion.

A strong nose and lips that were thin, slightly downturned, giving off a vibe of someone who was impossible to deal with.

It was Elio Bradley.

Laylani recognized him in a heartbeat.

Morgan University’s infamous hellion. Smoking, drinking, skipping class, brawling, underground street racing—the guy did it all. A walking nightmare for teachers, and a delirious mix of terror and fascination for students.

But Laylani knew the truth: all of that was just a front.

His real identity was the heir to a top-tier empire, a genuine prince of the elite, with colossal wealth and power at his fingertips.

And he was also Zechariah’s half-brother.

What hit Laylani harder was the memory from her past life—when she was at rock bottom, he’d been the only person who’d ever reached out a hand.

Elio looked down at her, his gaze almost mocking.

The girl was backed against the wall, face pale and wide-eyed, drunk but staring up at him with those glossy eyes, a hazy cloud of alcohol wrapping around her.

He frowned briefly, his voice a rough blade. “What? You stunned or something? How long have you been standing here watching me?”