I stopped fighting.

The moment I came back, I stepped out of the family spotlight on purpose—

no arguments, no expectations, no awkward “let’s bond” moments.

And somehow… that’s when my parents lost their minds.

They made my little sister the heir?

I congratulated them and filed my transfer to the Vegas branch the same afternoon.

They threw her a massive coming-of-age gala?

I smiled, booked a flight, and left before the invitations were printed.

They bought her a limited-edition luxury car?

I claimed my “old wrist injury” made driving impossible and insisted she take it.

I thought they’d be relieved.

I thought they’d finally get their perfect family without me messing up the picture.

But instead—my cold, distant parents started calling nonstop.

Showing up at my door.

Pleading with me to come home.

Asking what they did wrong.

Why now?

Why only when I stopped trying?

Because in my last life, I spent decades clawing for their love—

only to die bitter, resented, and humiliated.

Even my grown son told me I was embarrassing.

This time, I came back different.

I refused to fight for a place in their world again.

I refused to compete with my sister.

I refused to beg.

But the moment I stepped away…

the entire family empire began to crack.

And now they’re terrified.

Not because I left—

but because they finally realized what they lost.

I watched the “Transfer Application Submitted” notification on the computer screen and calmly closed the page.

No one knew that I was living a replay of this entire, messed-up life.

In my last life, I was my parents’ perfect puppet. I took that Executive VP gig at the New York HQ and followed every single one of their orders. All of it, just to be near them and prove I was worthy of being the daughter of the capo, Domenico Carlo Elio.

Everyone had assumed I died fifteen years ago—taken out by a stray bullet and burned to ash. But now that I was back, standing at my biological father’s side, it was clear to everyone that I was nothing more than an intruder.

This life? Before they even had a chance to open their mouths and assign my sister, Elena, the coveted West Coast territory, I preemptively hit “SUBMIT”.

“Dad, Mom, I’ve applied to the Vegas subsidiary. I’m going to join the desert wind farm project.”

The laughter at the end of the long mahogany table screeched to a halt.

My father—Domenico Carlo Elio—pressed his cigar into the silver ashtray, a deep frown carving into his forehead: “Nevada? You’re going to count sand in the desert?”

My mother, Adriana, froze with her fork mid-air. Her voice was gentle but laced with unmistakable confusion: “Rhea, did you fail the HQ assessment? It’s alright. We can have your godfather write you a letter of recommendation…”

I’d been back for two years, and they still saw me as the wild child raised in the Sicilian countryside, the one with an accent who certainly couldn't be trusted with family matters.

“The assessment was an A,” I cut her off. “The transfer is my decision.”

Elena, sitting directly across from me in a custom cream-colored gown, smiled like a perfect little saint: “Sorella (Sister), the sun exposure out there is intense. Your skin is already—” She paused deliberately. “I mean, you suffered enough hardship growing up away from us. Why push yourself so hard now?”

I just looked at her.

Last life, she had the exact same ‘I’m doing this for your own good’ routine:

“Sister, don’t blame Mom and Dad. They’re just afraid you can’t adapt to the pace.”

Every word a polished dagger, yet she always remained the picture of grace. And every time I snapped back, it became living proof that I was ‘tacky and unrefined.’

This time, I simply folded my napkin, looked up, and repeated calmly: “The application is locked. HR won’t process any change requests.”

A heavy silence descended upon the table.

My father let out a cold laugh: “Suit yourself. Just don’t come back crying for me to pull you out one day.”

My mother sighed and, in a rare display, personally spooned a bit of lobster bisque into my bowl. “Eat first, we can discuss this later.”

I didn’t touch the soup.

I’m allergic to seafood, but Elena loves it, so the kitchen serves it almost every meal. Every dinner involves me taking an anti-allergy pill as an appetizer.

The rest of the meal, the three of them switched to Sicilian, laughing as they discussed Elena’s coming-of-age mass next week. Their voices sounded like they were behind a pane of glass.

I quickly finished and left the table. No more desperately hunting for topics, reciting the family tree, or rehearsing a noble accent, all for the sake of squeezing myself into their perfect picture like I did last time. Because I finally knew the truth: I was never, ever meant to be in that family portrait.

Back in my third-floor guest room, I opened my calendar.

Twenty days until the transfer takes effect.

I used a red marker to draw a small ‘X’ over the date. One day closer to finally ditching this suffocating place.

The room, decorated entirely in ‘Morandi Gray’ by some designer, was filled with staggeringly expensive objects, yet it felt cold as a museum display.

In my previous life, I poured all my passion into this mansion:

Mastering firearms, honing my fighting skills, pushing my GPA to 4.0, all just for a single word of public praise from my father at the year-end mass;

giving up my beloved renewable energy projects to accept an arranged marriage with the old-money Chicago mob; I was even negotiating a major port smuggling deal the day my son was born.

And the result?

My father shaking his head at the Christmas gala: “Rhea, can’t you just be more like Elena and stop worrying us?”

Elena giggling behind her hand: “Mom and Dad, don’t be angry. Sister just tries too hard to prove herself.”

My husband sneering in bed: “Rhea Elio, apart from the name, what part of you actually belongs to the Elio family?”

Finally, even the son I raised with my own hands frowned:

“Mom, seriously, can you please just stop the whole thing with Auntie? Why can’t you just chill? You’re straight-up embarrassing me in front of all my friends.”

Last life, I died from heart failure induced by severe depression.

This life, I quit the fight.

Your holy water, your guns, your godfather titles—

I don’t want any of it.

I only want myself.

The next morning, I went downstairs for my morning run.

The ground floor living room was brightly lit, laughter spilling out like broken glass.

Elena was clinging to my mother’s, arm, rubbing against her like a kitten, her voice sickeningly sweet:

“Mamma, please invite every ‘made man’ in the city to the coming-of-age party. I want the Rose Mass to be the most sensational event New York has seen in ten years.”

“Yes, yes, my little princess gets what she wants,” my mother said, gently tidying a stray strand of hair near Elena’s temple.

My father took the cigar from his lips and smiled with complete indulgence: “Elena is growing up. It’s good to invite the elders. Let the outsiders see the Elio family’s next rose.”

They were the picture of domestic bliss, like a Mafia-version of ‘The Holy Family.’ I was the superfluous character accidentally sketched into the corner.

I hugged the wall, heading toward the kitchen, just wanting a glass of cold water.

“Rhea, you’re awake?” My mother looked up, and immediately dropped her beaming smile, switching to the formal tone she reserved for social functions. “Elena’s coming-of-age is on the 3rd of next month at St. Cecilia Cathedral. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

The 3rd of next month—

That’s the date I’d booked my flight to Nevada to start acclimating to the desert project early.

Last life, for this “family public debut,” I ditched my summer grid-testing project at NREL (National Renewable Energy Laboratory), pulled all-nighters memorizing Sicilian Etiquette History, only to be publicly mocked by Elena on the day of the ceremony for being “so unrefined she couldn’t even pronounce the Latin right”.

That gunfight fifteen years ago, that bullet that should have killed me instantly, was like a bloody wound. The harder I tried to stitch it up, the more they tore it open.

“No,” I heard myself say, my voice like an ice cube hitting a glass. “I’ve signed up for the subsidiary’s ‘Desert Wind Power Preliminary Survey’ field internship. I leave on the 1st of next month.”

The living room went quiet enough to hear the cigar burning.

Elena was the first to react. A flash of blinding joy flickered in her eyes, but her tone was full of concern: “Sister? The desert has snakes, extreme temperature swings, and… it’s unsafe.”

My father crushed his cigar heavily, the furrow in his brow deepening: “What idiotic survey? Cancel it immediately. It’s your sister’s coming-of-age. What will the others think if you don’t show up?”

It was always like this—

My schedule, my wishes, always the footnote that could be casually sacrificed.

I gripped the glass, my knuckles white, but my voice was steady, like a mixing board slider pushed all the way down: “The project list has been submitted to the union. I can’t back out.”

“You—” My father’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His barely contained rage made the air around him feel like it was ready to burst into flames.

My mother stepped in to smooth things over: “Alright, it’s good for a child to have her own career. Rhea, just make sure you take plenty of sunscreen.”

I gave a curt “Hmm,” filled my glass, and headed back to my room.

Behind me, Elena’s low, saintly sigh drifted through the hall: “Mom, Dad, don’t be mad. Sis just… hasn’t fully accepted she’s an Elio yet.”

I gently closed the door, shutting the saint’s lamentation out.

Back in my room, I started ‘decluttering.’

My belongings were pathetically sparse:

A used MacBook I bought with saved cash, A few sweaters hand-knitted by my foster mother, An old key to the Palermo apartment—a property the family had long since ‘dealt with,’ but I’d forgotten to toss the key.

I crammed everything into a 20-inch carry-on.

My bank account held two years’ worth of my ‘good girl’ allowance and the salary I had saved—a six-figure sum, enough to survive in the desert until my project profit share kicked in. I had no intention of using the Elio family’s black card ever again.

7:00 PM. Dinner at the long table.

The silver candelabra was dazzling, but the atmosphere was as frozen like a cold winter.

My father was seething with visible anger. His knife, scraping the steak against the porcelain, let out a high, grating shriek.

My mother attempted to inject some life into the frozen air, prattling on about the gala menu: “We’ll need the truffles flown in from Alba, of course, and the main course must be the Chilean sea bass. Oh, and the patisserie will require those twenty-four karat gold flakes for the dessert tower…”

Elena played along, occasionally tossing a line my way: “Sister, the Nevada sun is fierce. Your skin is so fair. Remember to pack SPF 50.”

“Noted.”

“The food out there is quite cowboy. You have a sensitive stomach. Should I have someone mail you some nice pasta?”

“No need.”

My curt responses finally broke my mother’s composure. She put down her silverware, her voice still maintaining an aristocratic restraint: “Rhea, are you upset about something with your father and me?”

I lifted my eyes, scanning the three faces—Father, irate; Mother, helpless; Elena, performing concern.

What a familiar judgment stage. Last life, every time my lip curled, it inevitably resulted in the final verdict: “The ungrateful child.”

“No,” my tone was steady. “I just want to take a path where I hold the steering wheel.”

“Your path is running off to the desert to breathe sand?” My father scoffed. “Is the Elio family short on cash for you? Are you so desperate to leave that you think we’re going to eat you alive?”

Yes. Desperate.

I finished his sentence in my head, but on my face, I held up the shield they couldn’t argue against: “Renewable energy is a federally subsidized priority. It benefits the family’s whitewashing endeavors. I’m laying groundwork for the Elio family’s future.”

The word—‘whitewashing’—hit my father like a blow. His face went green, as if dripping with cigar ash.

My mother quickly smoothed things over: “Alright, alright, it’s good the child has foresight. Eat your dinner. The pasta is getting cold.”

I stood up first: “I’m finished. Please enjoy your meal.”

As I turned to go upstairs, my father’s suppressed roar followed me: “Look at her! Look what those heathens outside have taught her!”

My mother softly reassured him: “Don’t shout. It’s normal for her to be shortsighted after wandering outside for so many years…”

I gently closed my bedroom door, locking all their voices out of the gilded hallway.

Just as I thought. In their eyes, I will always be the one—

—who can’t wash off the scent of dirt, —who doesn’t deserve the Elio surname, —who should just quietly serve as a backdrop, “The Returned Stray Dog”.

This time, I couldn’t be bothered to even offer an explanation.

Back in my room, I locked the door, and the world finally fell silent.

I opened my laptop. First, I logged into the corporate intranet and reread the NDA for the ‘Las Vegas Desert Wind Power Project Team.’ Then, I opened Zillow and searched for a one-bedroom apartment in Henderson.

I wasn’t planning on staying in corporate housing this time—I wanted a territory entirely my own.

After saving the documents, I picked up the red marker and crossed off another day on the calendar.

Fifteen days left.

The second hand on the clock seemed to be dragged down by the desert heat, moving slower than a jammed clip.

For the next few days, I switched myself to silent mode. Mom and Dad were totally swallowed up by planning Elena’s graduation and her massive gala, which meant they were far too distracted to even notice my little act of ‘rebellion.’

The gift was personally chosen by my mother—

A customized Rolls-Royce Dawn, the body painted Elena’s favorite ivory white, the family crest meticulously traced on the roof in real rose gold thread.

I was out for my morning run the day the car was delivered to the estate and ran straight into them.

My mother, linking arms with Elena and smiling like the Virgin Mary, instantly wiped the smile off her face when she saw me, adopting a cautious expression. “This is a graduation surprise for your sister. If you like it...”

I preemptively played the part of the dutiful daughter: “Don't worry about me. That old wrist injury means I can’t handle a wheel properly. It would just sit in the garage and collect dust.”

She visibly relaxed and added: “We’ll pick out something else for you next time.”

There won’t be a next time—I knew it, and they did too. But it was exactly what I wanted. I was done taking their money. Period.

I left the house at six every morning and stayed at the municipal library until closing.

Occasionally, passing the ‘Elio Logistics’ company near Chinatown, old employees would nod and whisper: “Signorina.”

The upward inflection of the ending note carried that unique Sicilian pity—

“See? That’s the poor thing who was mistakenly declared dead in the gang war and crawled back out of the gutter.”

In this circle, Elena was the rose consecrated with holy water; I was the dried-up desert thorn. My existence was merely a family concession to the outside world:

“Look, we didn’t neglect our own flesh and blood.”

How utterly ironic.

The departure day finally arrived.

I booked a red-eye flight, taking off at 01:15 AM. I told no one.

At eleven at night, I carried my 20-inch carry-on downstairs.

Blue light flickered in the living room; the three of them were huddled on the sofa watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians—Elena’s favorite channel. Their laughter was like champagne foam, ready to pop.

The slight click-clack of the wheels on the hardwood floor brought the laughter to an abrupt halt.

“Sister, are you…?” Elena clutched a blanket to her chest, her large eyes blinking innocently.

“I’m going to the airport. Early report for the project.”

“Now?” My mother jumped up, the remote control clattering onto the rug. “Let the driver take you—”

“Uber’s at the gate.” I raised a hand, dismissing the offer.

My father crushed his cigar into the ashtray. Sparks flew out, reflecting his barely contained temper: “Are you really going?”

My mother reached out, intending to straighten my collar.

I flinched away, just barely, and her fingertips snagged on empty space. Her hand froze mid-air, and for a split second, a look of genuine hurt crossed her face.

A fleeting ripple crossed my chest, instantly subsiding into still water—the touch I yearned for in the last life, I no longer needed in this one.

“I’ll handle my own rent and living expenses,” my voice was as calm as reading a quarterly report.

“I won’t be using the family accounts anymore.”

“You little bastard!” My father slammed his hand on the coffee table; the glass cups jumped half an inch. “Has the Elio family ever wronged you? Are you trying to be an ungrateful child?”

“Carlo!” My mother tugged at his sleeve.

Elena approached, eyes red, reaching for my hand: “Sister, apologize to Dad quickly! Don’t say things you don’t mean—”

I took a half-step back, avoiding her touch.

“It’s not an emotional outburst. It’s a notification.”

I pulled up the handle of my suitcase and turned toward the foyer.

“Rhea Elio!” My father roared. “If you step out that door today, don’t you dare use the Elio name again!”

I paused for a single second. I didn’t turn around.

“Fine.”

A soft word, yet it felt like loading a bullet into the chamber.

If I knew one thing for sure, it was this: my new life, the one without the Elio name attached, was finally beginning.