She quickly lowered her eyes, silent. Callum turned his attention back to Clarissa. “What’s your name?”

  “Clarissa Lancaster.”

  His face darkened. “Lancaster?” He shifted his gaze to Clementine, his voice turning cold. “The bastard who got you pregnant—was his last name Lancaster?”

  Clementine paled. “No… No, it’s not like that—”

  BANG!

  Callum slammed his hand against the table, making the teacups rattle.

  “What the hell did you do this time? Speak!”

  Clementine flinched, her fingers twisting in her lap.

  Clarissa watched her mother trembling under Callum’s sharp gaze, her face pale and stricken with fear.

  She had no choice but to step in, giving him a brief rundown of what had happened.

  Callum’s face darkened as she spoke, the veins on his temples bulging. His fingers shook as he pointed at Clementine, his voice thick with fury. "You—! You sinful, foolish girl! Why didn’t you come to me when the child was sick?!"

  Clementine swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I was alone back then. I had no one to turn to. And when I found out I was pregnant, I— I was too ashamed to come back… Then, when she got sick, I panicked… I didn’t know what to do.”

  Callum’s nostrils flared. His hand shot up like he was about to slap her—

  But just as quickly, it dropped. The anger drained from his body, leaving him looking smaller, older, as if the weight of everything had suddenly crushed him. "Forget it." His voice came out hoarse. "In the end, it was my failure as a father that led you here.” He pressed a hand to his forehead and let out a long, exhausted sigh.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks as she sat on the bed, her body shaking with quiet sobs.

  Callum’s expression twisted with irritation. "Crying again? That’s all you ever do! If tears could fix things, you’d be the richest damn woman alive! Enough already!"

  Clementine immediately swallowed back her sobs, lowering her gaze like a scolded child.

  His exasperated glare turned to Clarissa. "You're already eighteen years old, aren’t you?"

  Clarissa hesitated. “Grandpa—”

  "Don't call me that."

  She blinked. “...Mr. Callum?”

  The old man rolled his eyes.

  Clarissa bit her lip. So calling him ‘Grandpa’ was wrong, but so was ‘Mr. Callum’? This old man was impossible to please.

  She decided to try something else—a simple, sweet smile. Before she could even fully form it, a towel was shoved in her face.

  "Wipe that mess off your face. You look ridiculous."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Clarissa instinctively reached up and touched her cheek. She realized her makeup had smudged.

  Honestly, she wasn’t someone who cared much for heavy makeup, but her natural eyebrows had been shaved thin by the original owner of this body. Without filling them in, she looked a little strange. Until they grew back, she had no choice but to keep applying it.

  She wiped her face half-heartedly, and before she could finish, Callum spoke again.

  "The bathhouse is next door. Take your mother, clean up, and then come back."

  Clarissa's body practically sighed in relief at the thought of a warm bath. “Thank you, Mr. Callum!” She quickly helped Clementine up and led her to the bathhouse.

  The hot water worked wonders. After washing off the grime of the day and changing into dry clothes, Clarissa felt like she could finally breathe again.

  But Clementine was still visibly weak. When they returned, Clarissa supported her mother inside. "Mr. Callum, my mother—"

  "Here. Drink this." Callum didn’t even look at her as he handed over a bowl.

  Clarissa took a sniff, and a strong wave of ginger hit her nose. Ginger soup. A warmth spread in her chest. She smiled as she took the bowl. "Thank you, Grand— I mean, Mr. Callum." She moved to the side and sipped it slowly, the heat chasing away the last of the cold in her bones.

  Meanwhile, Callum handed another bowl—this one filled with pitch-black liquid—to Clementine. "Drink."

  Clementine didn’t dare refuse. She lifted the bowl with trembling hands and downed it in a few gulps, her face scrunching at the bitterness. Clarissa, anticipating her reaction, immediately picked up a piece of rock sugar and pressed it into her mother’s palm.

  Callum, who had been watching the exchange from the side, let out a sharp huff. He said nothing—just turned on his heel and walked away.

  Left alone, Clementine sighed, her brows knitting together. "Clarissa, you—"

  Clarissa set down her bowl, flashing a reassuring smile. "It’s okay, Mom. I think Grandpa’s actually a good person.”

  Clementine let out a breath. “He just… doesn’t know how to talk to people. Don’t take his words to heart, alright?”

  "I know." Clarissa nodded, still smiling.

  Just then, the door creaked open again. Callum stepped inside, carrying a thick quilt. Without a word, he tossed it in Clarissa’s direction. "Take it. I only have one guest room, so you two will have to squeeze in for the night."

  Clarissa caught it, beaming. "Thank you, Mr. Callum."

  Callum’s face darkened. But he didn’t say anything—just turned sharply and stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

  Clarissa had no idea what she’d done to piss off Callum this time, but according to Clementine, his temper was as fickle as the wind.

  That night, the two of them lay on the bed, squeezed together under the same quilt. Clementine’s hands and feet were still like ice, even after a warm bath and a hot meal.

  Clarissa reached for them, rubbing her mother’s fingers between her palms, then massaging her feet until some warmth finally returned.

  Clementine watched her, eyes soft with emotion. "Clarissa, meeting you again in this lifetime… even if I only had one more second left to live, I’d still—"

  Before she could finish, Clarissa pressed a finger against her lips. "Don't say things like that," she chided gently. "You're not going anywhere. I’ll take care of you, and you’ll live a hundred years, whether you like it or not.”

  She rubbed her mother’s hands again, her touch firm and reassuring. “Mom, you need to stop dwelling on the past. The more you think about it, the heavier it feels. Let it go.”

  Clementine let out a bitter smile. "You’re younger than me, yet you see things more clearly… I’ve lived so many years in vain."

  Clarissa smiled helplessly. Lived in vain? If only she could tell her mother the truth—that she had lived two lives. Death had a way of giving people clarity. And in her case, she had something even better—foresight.

  Whatever it was—Clarissa’s words, Callum’s medicine, or just pure luck—Clementine’s health showed a clear improvement by the next morning.

  The day was hotter than expected, the sun beating down with an unforgiving heat. Clarissa rifled through the closet and pulled out a tank top, a short skirt, and a pair of strappy sandals.

  The original owner of this body had always worn bold outfits—skin-baring, high-fashion pieces that screamed confidence.

  Before, Clarissa never would have dared. She had a little extra softness at her waist, thighs that didn’t fit the mold of a perfect hourglass. But now… her new body was effortlessly slender and curvy, hugging the clothes in all the right places.

  She might as well take advantage of it. As soon as she stepped outside, she spotted Callum hunched over in the garden, picking vegetables with a focused frown.

  She walked over with a bright smile. "Let me help you."