Chapter 1

Three days after our engagement, my family’s group chat exploded.

An anonymous account leaked "explicit photos" and hotel check-in records of me, claiming I had a wild, messy sex life.

My fiancé called off the wedding on the spot. My mother sent three screaming voice memos, calling me a disgrace, and kicked me out of the group.

In my past life, the cyberbullying drove me into a deep depression, and I eventually died in a tragic accident in my rented apartment, completely alone.

It was only later that I found out—

Those photos were AI-deepfakes. The records were completely forged.

And the IP address of that anonymous sender? It came directly from my fiancé’s private study.

Reborn into this life, I looked at the screen full of "friends and family" waiting for me to lose my mind. I slowly and calmly screenshotted every single piece of evidence.

This time, no one is getting away with it.

Three days after our engagement, my family's Snapchat group lit up with three notifications.

The first was a photo of me, completely naked. My face had been AI-swapped onto a disgusting, suggestive body.

The second was a detailed "hotel log," packed with dates and room numbers. The last was a text from an anonymous account: "Chloe, you really played the innocent act well, didn't you?"

My phone started vibrating violently.

People were already screenshotting and sharing it in the neighborhood Facebook group, my college alumni chat, and even my work Slack channels. The notifications flooded in like a relentless drumbeat, making my scalp go numb.

I opened the family chat just in time to see my mom, Helen, sending a barrage of voice memos.

"Chloe! Look at what you’ve done!"

"You’ve completely ruined our family reputation! I am utterly humiliated!"

"Don’t you dare call me Mom ever again. I don't have a daughter like you!"

The rapid-fire messages felt like she was reading a final will.

A second later, a notification popped up: "You have been removed from the group."

I stared at the red exclamation mark for about ten seconds before my phone buzzed again.

It was a text from Ethan.

"Chloe, we're over. The engagement is off."

I scrolled up and saw the long paragraph he had posted in his own family chat. He used words like "deeply humiliated," "unacceptable," and "ending the relationship effective immediately." It was so well-worded, it looked like a press release from a PR firm.

I placed my phone face down on the desk, listening to my racing heart.

And then, I burst into laughter.

Not because I wasn't hurt.

But because I had already lived through this nightmare once.

In my past life, also on the third day of our engagement, these exact photos and logs were leaked.

I had tried so hard to explain. I made calls, sent voice notes, and wrote long essays, begging everyone to believe me.

I screenshotted my actual chats, made a spreadsheet of my whereabouts for the past three months, and even went to those hotels one by one to verify their records. But no one looked. No one listened. People only believe what they want to believe.

My mom screamed at me on the phone for forty minutes before throwing out her final words: "Why don't you just go die?"

And Ethan never answered a single one of my calls.

Later, I found out the photos were AI-deepfakes, and the hotel records were completely forged.

And the anonymous sender's IP address? It came directly from the MacBook in Ethan's private study.

He and his new mistress had spent three months planning this setup. They didn't just want to break off the engagement; they wanted to destroy my reputation, to make me disappear entirely, so he could seamlessly move on with her while playing the "heartbroken victim" of betrayal.

In my past life, they succeeded. I vanished.

I was fired from my job, evicted by my landlord, and people on the street would recognize me and take photos of my face with their phones.

I moved through three different cities, eventually taking a handful of sleeping pills in a cheap rented apartment in a tiny town. By the time they found me, three days had passed.

But this time is different.

This time, I turned on my screen recorder and saved every single message, share, and voice note from every group chat.

Then, I opened my contacts and searched for Ethan’s "new girl"—Melanie.

I hadn't found out about her until it was too late in my previous life.

Her Instagram account was public. Her latest post was from three days ago, geo-tagged at a luxury hotel, captioned with just one word: "Worthwhile."

In the comments, when someone asked what she was celebrating, she had replied with a blushing emoji.

I screenshotted that post too.

Once I finished, my heart rate finally slowed down. This time, not a single one of them is going to escape.