The maid's daughter, who grew up in my home, had the nerve to act like an heiress.

On her birthday, she invited every kid from school for a full-on rager at my family's villa.

When I suggested they take it to a hotel, she lost it. "You don't get to tell me what to do! My friends can party wherever they want!"

She added, "The ten-layer cake my parents ordered for me is on the way. Why don't you park yourself by the door and wait for it, huh?"

Her crew circled up, laughing and pointing at me.

But I'd lived through this before. Nothing about her little act rattled me.

I turned to the butler and told him to lock the gate. Then, I went to Rambo's cage. "Hey, buddy," I said, opening it up. "See those trespassers?" I pointed at the crowd. "I'm counting to three. If they're still here, don't let a single one get away."

The second Rambo strutted in, the whole room froze. Not a peep from the crowd.

I flicked a look at Robert, the butler, and jerked my chin at the door. He got the hint and opened it. With a little smirk, I let the iron chain slide through my fingers. "Told you before—this isn't your playground. Scram."

Brenda Bart shrieked and stormed over. "Claire Sinclair! What are you doing! These are my friends!"

Her panicked little act only made me grin wider. "Your friends, your birthday—what's that got to do with my family?"

Brenda gasped sharply; her eyes went wide. "Didn't you hear me? Tie up that stupid dog! Everyone's here for my party. Even if you're jealous, don't ruin the vibe!"

The crowd murmured like a flock of pigeons, falling for her fake innocence. I didn't even blink, just started pacing with Rambo, steering Brenda's guests toward the exit.

"Jealous?" I scoffed. "Of you? Please. Why would I envy the maid's kid who doesn't even know who her dad is?"

Once, I'd called Brenda family. Now, seeing her cheeks flush deep red as I aired her dirty laundry? That was just justice.

"You're lying!" she screamed, voice cracking. "Claire, you... you're just a dog trainer! How dare you twist the truth like this!"

I cocked an eyebrow, amused by Brenda's desperation. "Miranda, still eavesdropping? Your kid's gutsy enough to insult me to my face. You planning to let that slide—or are you ready to pack your bags?"

The maid herself, Miranda Bart, slinked out from behind the door, her face stormy. But instead of shutting Brenda down, she grabbed my arm. "What are you trying to pull?" she hissed. "You're ruining Miss Brenda's party. Come with me. Now."

Her grip left an angry red mark, but she wasn't done. Oh no, she had a whole lecture locked and loaded.

"If it weren't for Miss Brenda's generosity, you'd still be on the streets! You should be grateful. Tie up that mutt! If it scares her friends, you'll pay for it, Claire."

The crowd didn't miss a beat, piling on with their little comments.

"So she's not the big deal she pretends to be. Just a dog trainer."

"Being around rich people doesn't make you one of them, Claire. What's wrong with you?"

"Tie up the dog already! Ruin Brenda's party, and you'll regret it!"

Regret it? Sure.

I let the leash slide free and shot Brenda a look, my smirk cutting right through her smug little act. "Let's see who's regretting things by the end of today."

Rambo didn't wait for a second invitation. It leapt, slamming Brenda flat to the ground. The room erupted into chaos—screams, scrambling feet, the whole nine yards.

While everyone else lost it, I stayed focused. Miranda was wide open, and I didn't waste the chance. I slapped her hard. Once. Twice. Thrice... By the time I was done, her face was puffing up like a balloon.

Dusting off my hands, I straightened up. "A bunch of servants, thinking they can boss around the master? Guess I'll have to remind you who's in charge."

The same classmates who'd been whispering about me two minutes ago now looked like they'd seen a ghost, scattering without a second glance at Brenda.

Robert snapped out of his daze and shoved me, yelling, "Are you insane? That's Miss Brenda and her mom! How could you—"

Before he could finish, I slapped him hard. "Stay in your lane, Robert. You don't get to talk here."

He stood there, frozen, clutching his cheek like I'd just shattered his worldview. His stunned silence was satisfying. Gripping Rambo's leash, I strolled into the living room like I owned the place—because, well, I did.

Front and center on the wall was a huge, tacky portrait of Brenda. My stuff? Completely gone, erased like I never existed.

The audacity.

In my last life, it was obvious Brenda and her mom had pulled out all the stops for this birthday party.

Standing on my toes, I ripped the portrait off the wall and let it crash to the floor. "Robert!" I shouted. "Burn this trash. You've got five minutes. If it's still here after that, you're all out."

A group of household staff gathered, whispering and glaring, but none of them moved.

"Miss Brenda's always treated you like a sister," one of them muttered. "How could you do this to her?"

"She just wanted to celebrate her birthday," another added. "What's your problem?"

I smirked.

In my last life, I'd been far too kind to them, and this was how they repaid me—with betrayal.

Not this time.

I loosened Rambo's leash and pointed at them. "Rambo, if anyone opens their mouth again, bite them—hard."

Rambo growled, low and threatening, its eyes sweeping the room.

Just then, a furious voice roared from the doorway. "Claire! Who do you think you are, hurting Brenda?

"You ungrateful brat—get out here, now!"

My brow twitched. Great. In all the chaos with the staff, I'd almost forgotten about him—David Sinclair—the guy who liked to pretend he was my dad. Spoiler alert: he wasn't worthy of the title.

Ignoring the smug looks from the peanut gallery, I turned and strolled to the entrance. There he was, crouched over Brenda like she was made of porcelain, practically sobbing as he inspected her arm.

Brenda and Miranda, of course, were in full drama mode, tears streaming as they clung to each other.

"Mr. Sinclair," Miranda sniffled, "all my daughter wanted was a small birthday celebration in the mansion. Is that really such a crime?

"She set her dog on us. Chased away Brenda's friends. My poor child—how is she supposed to live with this humiliation?"

Brenda's face was pale as she gently stroked Miranda's cheek through her tears. "Mom, she's already dare to beat you in front of everyone, what's next? Is she gonna kill us?" she said. "Let's just leave. I'd rather be poor than stay here."

The two of them staggered toward the door.

David grabbed Brenda's arm mid-dramatic exit.

"You're not going anywhere!" he barked, before turning to me. "Claire, apologize to them. Now."

I crouched down to scratch Rambo's ears, unfazed. "So, a maid's daughter swaps out my pictures for hers, calls me a dog trainer in my own house, and I teach her a little lesson—and I'm the bad guy?"

Brenda clung to David's arm, shaking. "Mr. Sinclair, I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I shouldn't have wanted what doesn't belong to me. I'll leave—I swear I will."

She took a wobbly step forward, then collapsed onto the floor with a loud, dramatic thud.

"Brenda!" David and Miranda screamed in unison, rushing to her.

I didn't even blink.

Pulling out my phone, I tapped the screen, starting a video call. My mom's face popped up, a glass of wine in her hand as laughter bubbled in the background.

"Hey, Mom," I said, my tone casual. "Doesn't it seem weird how obsessed Dad is with a maid's kid?"

David's focus was glued to Brenda, so he was unaware of what I was doing.

The second he saw her "unconscious" act, he stormed over and slapped me so hard my head snapped to the side. "You ungrateful brat! Brenda's always treated you like a sister, and this is how you repay her?

"Just wait. When I get back, you'll regret this!"

Without another word, he and Miranda scooped Brenda up, carried her to the car, and sped off in dramatic fashion.

I rubbed my stinging cheek, smiling bitterly. Turning to Robert and the gawking servants, I didn't miss a beat.

"Time's up. The trash isn't burned, so congrats—you're all fired."

Robert crossed his arms, unfazed, and shot back with a smug grin. "Maybe worry about yourself first. Who knows? You might be the first one tossed out of this house."

Snickers rippled through the group, their mocking intent obvious.

I smiled faintly, calm but sharp, and unclipped Rambo's leash. That was all it took. Rambo tore into action, barking ferociously as he charged toward Robert.

"Ahhh! She's crazy!" Robert shrieked, scrambling up the stairs. He practically flew to the third floor, pounding on a door. "Help! Claire's lost it! She's siccing the dog on me!"

The door creaked open, and out stepped my grandma, leaning heavily on her cane.

"Claire!" she snapped, "If you let that dog run wild one more time, you'll regret it!"

Rambo, ever the smart one, immediately froze. It tilted its head toward me, letting out a soft, pitiful whine.

Grandma's smirk screamed victory as Rambo froze, her wrinkled face oozing smugness. "Kill that dog! Turn it into stew and send it to Brenda as an apology. Got it?"

I shook my head, flicking a glance at Rambo. "What's this old hag even talking about?"

Right on cue, Rambo sprang into action. The house exploded into chaos—screams, frantic yelling, and his deep, furious barking echoing off the walls. Pure mayhem.

While everyone panicked, I got to work, tossing all of Brenda's and Miranda's stuff outside. Designer clothes, gold bars—seriously? These so-called victims of circumstance had been living like royalty.

Tsk, tsk. Guess this haul's heading straight to the cops.

I pulled out my phone, ready to make the call, when the front door slammed open. David.

His face went beet-red as he took in the wreckage. "Claire, you little brat!" he snarled, voice cracking. "I'll kill you today!"

Before he could even raise a hand, Rambo launched itself from the second floor, taking David down hard.

Grandma, who'd managed to escape earlier, let loose another scream. "David! Are you okay? That monster of a girl—I'll skin her alive myself!"

Gripping her cane, she half-ran, half-stumbled down the stairs, looking like she was about to combust.

No way was I about to stand there and take it. Been there, done that—never again. Clutching my head, I bolted for the door, yelling like my life depended on it.

"Help! My dad and grandma are trying to kill me—for the maid's daughter! What kind of witchcraft is this? Someone call the cops!"

Behind me, David's footsteps thundered. "Claire! Keep running your mouth, and I'll rip your tongue out!"

I didn't stop until I reached the gates of the villa complex, throwing myself into my mom's arms.

"Mom! Help! Dad and Grandma said they'd skin me alive and rip out my tongue!"

Mom steadied me, her expression shifting from shock to ice-cold fury as David stumbled toward us, panting.

"David Sinclair," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, "is this how you treat my daughter when I'm not around? Forget your CEO position. You and your mother can pack your things and head straight back to the countryside!"

David, still catching his breath, flailed to defend himself. "It's not what you think! Let me explain! Claire's completely out of control—arrogant, violent—she even sicced her dog on people!"

Mom's sharp eyes flicked from David to Grandma, who had ditched her cane in her frantic rush to catch up.

Mom smiled bitterly.

"Oh, so you two pushed my daughter so far she had to unleash her dog? Impressive.

"Claire is always gentle and kind. For her to go to such extremes? She must've been wronged beyond belief."