Fiorella Huerta jolted awake with a scream, the sensation of fire licking at her skin still vivid.

The room was unsettlingly familiar—the hockey jersey on the wall and the framed photo from her 16U championship win.

As her gaze fell on the date on the calendar, she widened her eyes in disbelief.

She was 17 again!

"Fiorella, your outfit is ready. Want my makeup artist to come in and help?"

The door swung open, and her younger sister walked in with a sweet smile, holding a gown.

"Jamila, what are you doing here?"

Fiorella blinked away tears, her gaze shifting from Jamila Huerta to the gown. Her expression hardened.

Jamila set the dress down and stepped closer, like she didn't sense the tension in the room.

"I've been hogging your place all these years. Now that you're finally home, I want to make it up to you... I really hope we can get along."

Jamila feigned concern, thinking to herself with a smirk, "Poor thing. You have no idea what's coming."

"Just leave the dress. I want to sit here for a bit. Honestly, I'm nervous about meeting so many people," Fiorella said, avoiding Jamila's eyes.

Jamila's smile widened. "Of course you are. You've been gone a long time. Call me when you're ready, but don't take too long. Everyone's waiting."

"I know."

Jamila walked out, still smiling.

Fiorella sat there, lost in thought.

That year, Fiorella had just started at her dream high school.

She had always loved sports, so she joined the hockey team right away.

Before long, she led the team to victory in the Under-16 Hockey National Championships.

College scouts and pro teams started reaching out. Major media covered her victory—she was everywhere, hailed as the next big star.

She was so full of hope for the future.

Her performance also caught the attention of the Huerta family, the richest in Iriebury.

A DNA test revealed: Fiorella was their long-lost daughter, switched at birth due to a nurse's mistake. The Huertas had spent years searching for her.

And they weren't just loaded—they were a powerful dynasty, with titles granted by Kesweiria's monarchy.

Knowing she was from such an influential family made Fiorella's jaw drop. After many discussions, they decided she would return to them.

Today was the welcome party they held for her.

Her foster parents, birth parents, and high society's biggest names were all there to celebrate her return.

The grandeur made it clear how much the Huerta family acknowledged her.

But unfortunately, this day would soon become the worst of her life.

Fiorella's foster parents had always cared about her health, buying her plenty of nutritional supplements.

She was tall, and with intense daily training, she wasn't as slim as other girls her age.

The dress Jamila picked was too small, the wrong color, and the wrong style.

But in her past life, Fiorella had squeezed herself into it.

The dress Jamila picked was too small, the wrong color, and the wrong style.

She also made Fiorella wear heavy makeup she had chosen for her.

It covered her acne marks but only made her look overdone and gaudy.

Fiorella showed up looking swollen, like a clown.

And worse, midway through the party, the dress burst.

Her body was exposed in front of everyone.

The disastrous party ended with Jamila in tears.

"I'm so sorry, Fiorella... Mom, Dad, I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I never should have picked that dress. I didn't even think it would fit her. I just wanted her to have the best thing I had... I was thoughtless."

"It's not your fault, Mila. Don't cry," someone said.

While Fiorella stood there, humiliated, they were showing Jamila concern.

No one blamed Jamila for her "well-meaning" mistake.

And in an instant, Fiorella became the butt of their jokes.

"She looks so awkward and messy. Is she really a Huerta?"

"Look at Jamila, then look at her. They're worlds apart."

"Jamila's not blood, but at least she looks the part—refined, well-educated."

"Fiorella grew up outside the family, you know..."

"Just give her some money and send her off."

Because of the incident, the Huerta family barely saw Fiorella as one of their own. Even her biological parents looked at her with disappointment.

Now, remembering it, she walked to the bed and picked up the dress.

It was exactly as she recalled—a pink, puff-sleeved gown.

This childish style and color were completely wrong for Fiorella.

She checked the dress, turning it inside out. Then she noticed one corner of the inner lining had been cut.

In a prestigious household like this, no one touched someone else's clothes without permission, let alone sabotaged them.

Jamila had given her this dress. Fiorella knew exactly what that meant.

"Fiorella, you ready?" Jamila urged from outside.

"You go ahead. I'll be there in a second."

"Don't take too long, okay? If you miss your chance to shine, Mom and Dad won't be happy."

"I'll be quick."

Hearing the unease in Fiorella's voice, Jamila turned and left.

Her sweet smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. "It's me or you; only one of us stays in this family. If you wanna blame someone, well, tough luck."

She lifted the hem of her gown slightly and walked ahead like she had done this a hundred times before.

The luxurious hall was packed with influential people. Dressed sharp, they were chatting over drinks.

The scene made Jamila's expression soften. She felt she belonged here.

"Jamila? Where's your sister?" Her mother's gentle voice came from behind.

Jamila turned, flashing a perfectly polished smile.

"She's just a little nervous. Needs a moment. She'll be here soon."

A sly grin tugged at her lips as she imagined what was coming next.

"Alright, we'll wait for her," replied Sandra Navarro, the woman in the dark blue dress.

But the worry in her eyes lingered.

"Bringing her home now... Is it too soon?" she murmured under her breath.

In just 72 hours, so much had happened—spotting Fiorella in the news, the DNA test, the reunion, and finally bringing her home. It didn't feel real.

She had worried about whether Fiorella could adjust, but she couldn't wait any longer.

She wanted the world to know Fiorella was hers.

No one could have guessed her daughter had been lost for so long.

Sandra thought back to when Fiorella stepped through the door. The shock hit her all over again.

Fiorella looked messy, just another kid from a poor family. But her features left no doubt.

"Mom, don't say that," Jamila said, interrupting Sandra's thoughts.

She lowered her head, her voice gentle but edged with hurt. "My sister's back. That's what matters."

Sandra glanced at her, and guilt settled in.

"Silly me. I still have you, don't I?"

"Mom, even though we're not related by blood, you've always been my mother. Even if we don't live together anymore, that won't change."

Jamila's words touched her deeply.

After today, the two girls might go back to their real families.

Sandra thought about all the years they had spent together and about how sweet Jamila had always been. She hesitated.

Just as she was about to speak, a figure stepped into the hall.

Immediately, whispers filled the place.

"Is that Fiorella? The Huertas' real daughter?"

Hearing this, Jamila assumed Fiorella had shown up in that ridiculous dress.

She turned, expecting something amusing, but stopped short.

Fiorella stood straight at the entrance in her school uniform. The fabric was wrinkled, but her face glowed with youthful confidence.

Her clothes didn't fit in here, yet something about her made up for it.

Jamila froze.

"She's not wearing the dress? And her makeup actually looks decent. What were those makeup artists even doing? That's not what I told them," she thought angrily.

A few seconds later, Jamila snapped out of it.

She hurried forward and grabbed Fiorella's hand, putting on a concerned look. "Fiorella, where's your dress? Why aren't you wearing the one I picked?"

She tried to sound genuinely worried, but Fiorella felt a slight tremor in her grip.

Fiorella gave a small smile and pulled her hand away.

"I was afraid I'd ruin it. I couldn't afford that, so I wear this instead."

Her voice was quiet, careful, almost pitiful.

"She actually knows she's fat," Jamila thought, burning with anger.

But she forced herself to stay calm, softening her tone. "Don't be silly. Those dresses were meant for you. Even if something happens, no one's gonna make you pay for it. They're high-quality and won't just fall apart."

Then, an idea hit her. "Or you just don't like that dress, huh? Oh, I see. It cost just over 3,000 dollars. Too cheap for you, right? You must want something nicer. I'll take you to my room. There's plenty to choose from. Pick whatever you want."

Just like that, Jamila twisted Fiorella's hesitation into greed.

"I don't care how much they cost. I don't want another dress," Fiorella said firmly.

"I came here to be with my parents, not for designer clothes."

"But... you think a school uniform is okay for this? There are so many guests."

Jamila wasn't giving up. If Fiorella followed her, she would let her pick any clothes she wanted.

Every gown in Jamila's closet was S size, so Fiorella wouldn't fit. Even if she squeezed into one, she would look as ridiculous.

She reached for Fiorella's hand again.

"No need." Fiorella dodged smoothly.

Jamila swallowed her frustration, keeping her smile in place.

"You're making a big deal out of nothing," she remarked.

Fiorella let out a dry laugh. "Out of nothing?"

She still remembered how that pink dress had humiliated her in her last life.

After it tore at the party, her birth family hadn't blamed her, but her foster parents had the whole night.

"Do you even know how much that dress cost? We could work our whole lives and never afford something like that!"

"You haven't moved there, and you're already acting like this? What, you think you're a princess now?"

It had already been a tough day for Fiorella. Instead of comfort, all she got was their rant.

Frustrated, she shot back, "It's just a dress! The Huerta family has money to burn. You really think they care? They already said it was fine, so why are you making a fuss?"

That was the breaking point.

Her foster parents lost it. "Oh, so you think you're too good for us now? Think we're too poor for you? Then get out, you ungrateful brat!"

From that day on, people saw Fiorella differently.

Her foster parents thought she looked down on them.

Her birth parents thought she wasn't good enough.

So she was stuck between two families, neither fully accepting her.

She had family, but she felt like an orphan, alone in a hotel, wasting time.

This time, she decided to wear what felt right. No more forcing herself into outfits just to fit in with the Huerta family.

Fiorella was young and pretty. She didn't need heavy makeup and lipstick.

A little concealer for her acne was enough.

The simpler she kept her look, the more honest it felt.

Tears welled in Sandra's eyes as she looked at Fiorella standing there.

"She should have been like Jamila, all dressed up for this. But instead, she's in a school uniform, just trying to hold herself together over there," she thought.

The Huerta family had debated whether to bring Fiorella home. Many worried she had grown up rough or was even scheming, only after their money. So they decided to wait and watch her for a while.

But now Sandra saw how unnecessary that had been. Fiorella was sensible and careful. She even refused a dress, afraid she would ruin it.

"All those fancy clothes and this life are meant for Fiorella," Sandra thought.

A wave of guilt pushed her to step over and reach for Fiorella's hand.

Fiorella looked at the face that mirrored her own. Memories flooded back. Overwhelmed, she took Sandra's hand.

Without a word, they walked toward the center of the hall.

"Everyone, this is our daughter, Fiorella. From now on, she's part of our family. Fiorella, welcome home!"

As Sandra spoke, she bent down and wrapped her arms around Fiorella. Her tears fell.

For the first time, Fiorella felt warmth like this.

"Mom," she blurted out.

When Sandra heard it, the tears came even faster.

The crowd erupted, clapping and cheering.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Huerta!"

"This girl looks just like one of you."

"Just give her time. She'll learn and grow into a proper lady."

Fiorella was surrounded by praise, but Jamila's face twisted in anger.

"She got lucky this time. Next time, she won't slip away so easily," Jamila thought bitterly.

Sandra led Fiorella through the crowd, introducing her to the guests. No one judged her clothes. They treated her with respect.

"She must be the real daughter. You can just tell," someone murmured.

For people used to deception and power plays, Fiorella stood out—innocent, direct, and clear-minded.

And with the knowledge she carried from her past life, she handled each conversation with ease.

The way she spoke earned praise and admiration. Gradually, she won them over, and they stopped paying attention to how she looked.

Just as she thought the night would end peacefully, footsteps echoed behind her. A voice broke the quiet. "Mrs. Huerta, congratulations on finding your daughter!"

Sandra turned, surprised.

"Mr. Finley? I didn't expect to see you here. Your schedule must be packed. What an honor! Fiorella, let me introduce you. This is Mr. Cameron Finley."

The name hit Fiorella like a shock.

She froze, wondering why Cameron was here.

The Finley family was legendary. Their forefathers helped build the nation, and the men of the family became soldiers or businessmen. One of Cameron's uncles was even said to be a general overseas. Their business spanned industries across the globe.

A few years ago, they came to Iriebury, ready to put down roots.

Born into power, Cameron had seen storms since childhood, learning to stay composed no matter the crisis. People respected him.

By adulthood, he followed family traditions and joined the military. With unmatched skill, he dominated battlefields, earning the title "God of War."

Even after leaving the army and joining the family business, his approach stayed the same—swift, ruthless, and unforgiving.

His name alone struck fear.

Even the Huerta family meant little to Cameron's family.

"Why? Shouldn't he still be serving?" Fiorella mused.

In her past life, Cameron had never come to this party. It was years later, after his return and Jamila's relentless pursuit, that Fiorella had heard about him.

Unease crept in.

She didn't care about the other guests. Cameron was the last person she wanted to see.

It was because, in the future, he would wipe out the Huerta family.

Then he would take their place as the richest person in the city.

Cameron's chiseled features gave nothing away. His straight nose cast a shadow over his face, and his piercing eyes held an undeniable authority.

He stood rigidly, his muscles defined beneath his perfectly tailored black suit. His build was impressive, with broad shoulders and a strong, tapered waist.

Years in the military had shaped him into something raw and untamed. He was hot and full of rizz.

The moment he walked in, every eye was on him.

Fiorella barely remembered how Cameron had crushed the Huerta family in her past life. She had been bedridden, her mind hazy. All she knew was that Jamila had upset him.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

She wasn't letting that happen again.

"I'll keep us out of his way. Nothing is gonna happen," Fiorella told herself.

She forced a smile, making sure no one noticed her unease.

"Mr. Finley, nice to meet you. I'm Fiorella."

She gave a small bow, smiling politely.

Cameron responded with just a quiet hum.

With his looks and vibe, he was the kind of guy women couldn't help but stare at.

They gravitated toward him, always making the first move.

And, naturally, he carried himself with a touch of arrogance.

Fiorella wasn't bothered.

"I heard you're playing in the 17U hockey league," Cameron said, watching her.

Fiorella stiffened slightly but kept her cool, meeting his gaze with a smile.

"Yeah. You're into hockey?"

"I like anything competitive. Watching people fight their way to a trophy—it's entertaining, don't you think?"

Fiorella wasn't surprised. Most guys his age were into sports.

"Who's coaching you?" he asked.

"No one, really. My gym teacher is a huge sports guy. He's all about extreme sports. I used to play basketball, but he thought I had potential in hockey and convinced me to give it a shot. He even signed me up for my first competition. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be here, so I owe him a lot."

Her gratitude was real.

Cameron caught the flicker of warmth in her eyes.

She was a bit uptight, but she carried herself with poise. Among regular students, she would stand out.

The school uniform couldn't hide the fact that she was born into privilege.

Standing next to Cameron, she fit right in.

Nearby, Jamila watched them, jealousy burning in her eyes.

"If Fiorella hadn't shown up, Cameron would have met me first," she muttered.

Everyone knew about the Finley family's influence. Any woman would kill for a chance to be with him.

And now, Fiorella was going to be the lucky one.

Jamila couldn't take it anymore. Even if it meant taking a risk, she had to act.

Jamila lifted the hem of her pink gown and strode toward Fiorella.

Suddenly, she threw herself into Fiorella's arms like they were the closest. Then she linked arms with her, giggling. "Fiorella, what are you guys talking about?"

Jamila bent just enough to show a bit of her cleavage.

With her sweet smile, she acted like she was casually joining the conversation.

But Cameron frowned at it.

Jamila acted like she had just noticed and turned to Fiorella with a pout. "Oh no! I didn't interrupt, did I? You don't mind, right?"

Her wide, innocent eyes made it look like she was asking for a favor.

Judging by how careful Fiorella had been earlier, Jamila knew she wouldn't refuse.

Jamila was set on stealing the moment. Fiorella saw right through her.

Fiorella might have helped if it were someone else, but Cameron was dangerous. She couldn't risk letting Jamila upset him.

"I don't mind."

Jamila's eyes lit up until Fiorella kept going.

"But Jamila, you're supposed to act like a lady. Jumping into a conversation like this? That's not polite. You've had way more training in manners than I have. No way you'd forget something that basic."

Jamila was fuming at her words.

"Who the hell does this ugly bitch think she is, lecturing her on manners?" she cursed inwardly.

She wanted to snap, but with Cameron standing right there, she had to keep her cool.

Then she stuck out her tongue playfully.

"Oh, I know my manners. I'm just excited you're finally home. I got a little carried away. Didn't think you'd be so strict about this. Since when did you become the etiquette police?"

Jamila's sarcasm was clear—Fiorella was putting on an act.

Fiorella sighed but stayed composed. "I know I don't get to lecture you, but Mr. Finley is an important guest." Then she turned to Cameron and said, "Apologies, Mr. Finley. My sister can be a bit forward sometimes."

She lowered her head, looking genuinely sorry.

She had meant to teach Jamila a lesson, but more than that, she needed to make sure Cameron wasn't upset. The last thing she wanted was to give him any reason to resent her family and crush them like last time.

"It's okay. Let's talk over there," he said.

Cameron moved, gesturing toward the exhibit stand.

Fiorella hesitated, thinking, "We just met. Do we have more to talk about?"

But refusing wasn't an option. She pushed Jamila's hand off and followed Cameron.

Jamila watched, anger burning in her eyes.

"Damn Fiorella. She's barely part of the family, and she's already trying to one-up me over a guy.

"And worse? She's winning," she muttered, biting her lip.

She swore she would get rid of Fiorella no matter what it took.

"Miss, your drink." A waiter approached, balancing a tray of glasses.

Jamila's gaze flicked to them. She thought back to nights out with her friends and the bottle she had been handed before.

Without hesitation, she picked up a cocktail and casually tipped in a small dose.

"Give this to my sister. Tell her it's from our mother."

"Yes," the waiter replied.

Jamila didn't know exactly what the drug would do. But as long as Fiorella drank it, she would embarrass herself in front of Cameron.

And by the time the party was over, Fiorella would regret it.