The day I died, my roommate was wearing a five-carat engagement ring at my graveside. My death was the culmination of her perfect lie: She’d used my name—Juliet Abbott, heiress to Abbott Pharmaceuticals—to scam an East Coast scion online. She’d sent him her own pictures, all of her perfectly slim, perfectly pretty self. When the scion, Prescott Harrington, discovered the real me was a woman nearly one hundred pounds overweight, his fury was absolute. He didn’t just break up with me; he used the full, destructive weight of the Harrington empire to crush my family’s company. My parents, broken by the shame and ruin, took the leap first. I followed them. Stella Davies stood over my fresh grave, her eyes wide and innocent, a diamond so large it looked like a frozen teardrop flashing on her finger. “Jules, Prescott proposed!” she whispered, her voice laced with the sickening sweetness of fake sympathy. “It’s a shame you jumped so soon. That two hundred pounds of yours would have made me look absolutely breathtaking as your maid of honor.” She leaned closer, a satisfied smirk cracking through her false woe. “I only used your name because I felt sorry for you. You were so huge, I figured you were too pathetic to ever land a man like Prescott. Who knew he would be so disgusted when he finally saw you that he’d dismantle the Abbott empire?” “Well, here’s hoping you’re reborn skinny, sweetie.” God must have heard her last spiteful wish, because I was reborn. Now, I have three months. Three months until Prescott Harrington steps off the plane and walks into the life Stella stole. This time, she will learn that stealing a name will cost her everything, including her life. 1 “NO WAY!!!” A shriek, sharp and completely grating, sliced through the evening quiet of our dorm room. The two other girls looked up from their phones, instantly alert. Stella Davies had sprung up on her bed, her face contorted with unbridled joy and a hunger for attention. “Scott, you’re not messing with me, are you?” She threw a deliberately casual glance my way, then hit the speaker button on her phone. The soft, low chuckle of Prescott Harrington—the golden, blue-blood heir to the Harrington fortune—echoed clearly in the tiny space. “Baby, it’s just a car. Why would I tease you?” His voice was rich, effortless, dripping with the kind of money that buys discretion and silence. “I saw it in Monaco and just thought the red was perfect for you.” “I’ll be home in three months. The paperwork will be finalized by then. I’ll drive it right up to your dorm myself.” He hung up. A beat of silence, then the other two roommates erupted in envious squeals. “Stella! Is that really a limited-edition Ferrari?” “Oh my God… you are living the dream!” Stella slid off her bed, weaving through the clutter and coming straight for me. She grabbed my arm and gave it a saccharine shake. “Jules, you have to come with me to meet Scott when he gets here, okay?” she pleaded, batting her eyelashes. “It’s my first time meeting an online boyfriend. I’m so scared of being scammed!” I looked up, my eyes locking on the mask of manufactured innocence on her face. Last life, that exact look had fooled me. My heart had softened. I’d nodded. The price for that single, kind gesture was paid with three coffins. 2 Stella had been transferred into our room at the start of junior year. That was when she was diagnosed with a particularly nasty, rare autoimmune condition. The treatment required long-term, high-dose steroids and supplements. Not only was the medication astronomically expensive, but the side effects were horrific: massive, uncontrolled weight gain, a ballooning face, and a condition known as a “buffalo hump.” Stella’s family couldn't even afford her next month’s rent, let alone the medicine. When the pain flared up, she would hide in the corner and weep, a fragile, pitiful mess. I felt sorry for her. I went home and begged my parents. Abbott Pharmaceuticals didn't just cover her tuition and living expenses; we put her on our experimental new drug trial. The drug was potent, effective, and crucially, had virtually zero side effects—no weight gain, no swelling. It hadn't been officially released yet, but at my insistence, my parents signed off on the ‘compassionate use’ waiver. It was my drug, my access, and my family’s money that saved her life and preserved the one thing Stella truly prized: her beautiful, slender body. 3 My good intentions, however, were food for a viper. Senior year, she secretly used my name to lure Prescott Harrington. She claimed to be Juliet Abbott, the Abbott heiress, while sending him her own flawlessly edited photos. It was exactly today, in my previous life, that she got that call about the car, and it was exactly today that she asked me to meet him with her. I said yes. Three months later. Prescott actually showed up at the campus gates in the red Ferrari. Stella was clutching my arm, quivering with excitement as we walked up. But when Prescott smiled and called her name—"Jules"—she played the scared rabbit. She backed away, feigning total confusion, pointing her trembling finger directly at the two-hundred-pound me. “Y-you must have the wrong person? She is Juliet Abbott.” Prescott’s face had instantly gone black. He had assumed I had stolen her photos, that I was the scammer, the liar. In a rage, he’d brought down the full weight of his family’s influence on the Abbott name. After my family’s final, desperate act, Stella had appeared before a devastated Prescott, tears streaming down her perfect face, ready to deliver her ‘truth.’ “Scott, the one you were talking to was me,” she’d sobbed. “I was so insecure. Your family is everything, and I’m just a poor student with nothing. I was terrified you would never look at me, so I did a wicked thing and used Juliet’s name…” “And that day at the gate? I pretended not to know you because I needed to know if you loved me, or if you just loved the Abbott name…” Prescott, heartbroken and moved by her apparent sacrifice, had pulled her into his arms, instantly proposing. “From this day forward, you won’t need to borrow anyone’s name,” he’d vowed. “Because there is no title in this world more revered than Mrs. Prescott Harrington.” It was a beautiful love story. Unfortunately, it was built on the bones of my entire family. 4 “Jules? You’re not saying anything. You don’t want to go with me?” Stella’s voice yanked me back to the present. I pulled my arm free from her grasp, distancing myself from her touch. “No. I don’t.” Her expression immediately curdled. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, silken-soft whisper only I could hear. The knife-twist of her malice was unmistakable. “Jealous?” She smiled with a vicious sweetness. “Jealous that I snagged Prescott Harrington? Jealous that he casually buys me a Ferrari, while you, the great Abbott heiress, can’t even get a date?” “You must have loved throwing money at me and watching me grovel, right?” Her eyes were cold, spiteful. “Well, look who’s on top now. Juliet Abbott, I hope that pathetic little superiority complex of yours is completely shattered.” “Are you finished?” I asked. My tone was so flat it stopped her mid-sentence. Before she could form a reply, I pulled out my phone and dialed the house number. “Mr. Harris,” I said calmly when my family’s butler answered. “Immediately cease all funding and all aid to Stella Davies.” “Including her monthly medication supply.” Mr. Harris’s even voice came through the speaker. “Miss Abbott, is that effective immediately? Miss Davies’s next supply was scheduled for tomorrow.” “Immediately,” I confirmed, watching the blood drain from Stella’s face. My voice was ice. “From this moment forward, the Abbott family will not spend a single cent on her. She will not receive a single pill.” 5 A dead silence descended upon the room. The other two roommates shifted uncomfortably, glancing between a placid me and a ghost-white Stella. Stella managed to tear a brittle, scoffing laugh from her throat. “Fine! Stop the funding! Who cares?” she chirped, though her hands were shaking. “Your family’s experimental crap? Who knows what’s in it! Maybe you were just using me as a guinea pig! I was going to stop taking it anyway!” She tossed her head back in defiance. “Wait until my fiancé gets back. I’ll be able to afford the best medicine in the world!” I put my phone away. My expression remained impassive. “Go ahead. You wait for him.” Stella had no idea what awaited her once she was forced onto the generic, commercial-grade steroids—the drugs that would replace the bespoke medication the Abbott family had been providing. Moon face, buffalo hump, central obesity, dark purple striae across the skin… The beautiful face and slender body she had mortgaged her soul to protect. It would all disintegrate. Bloat. Corrupt. I was waiting, too. Waiting for three months to pass. Waiting to see the expression on Prescott Harrington’s face when he saw the woman who claimed to be his “perfect vision”—transformed into a desperate, monstrous thing. The scene would be delicious. 6 I didn’t spare Stella’s trembling, defiant mask a second look. I simply turned and began packing my bags. “You’re moving out?” one of the other girls whispered. “Yes,” I replied, stuffing heavy books on Integrative Medicine into my suitcase. “I need space to focus.” I needed an environment free of distraction. I had a plan to execute—the one Stella’s malice had cut short in the last life. My major was in holistic and integrative medicine, specializing in metabolism and weight management. Many people found it hilarious. A two-hundred-pound woman studying weight loss? What they didn't know was that this weight was self-inflicted. Early in freshman year, combining an ancient family formula with modern pharmacology, I had successfully refined a pure herbal weight-loss remedy. It was effective, fast, and virtually side-effect free. My father was thrilled, wanting to launch an entirely new product line under Abbott. But the old guard on the board had sneered. “A cocktail put together by a green kid? And you claim ‘no side effects’?” “Miss Abbott, you have no credentials. Who would believe you?” “Want to prove it? Fine. Take it yourself first!” Their arrogance had accidentally given me the perfect idea. With my father’s quiet support, I began a long-term ‘self-experiment.’ Over two years, using specific diets and drug assistance, I had intentionally gained a hundred pounds. Last life, I was just days away from starting a live-streamed regimen—a public record of my entire weight-loss process—when Stella had pulled me toward Prescott Harrington. The whole plan, along with my life, had been reduced to ashes. Not this time. I couldn't wait. I zipped up my suitcase. The girl reflected in the mirror was still large and swollen, but the smoldering fire that had been dormant for two lifetimes was finally alight in my eyes. More than one person had told me, before I gained the weight, that I had the kind of face that could stop a man’s heart. This time, I will claim that dazzling life that was supposed to be mine, and I will take back everything they owe me. 7 The afternoon I moved out of the dorm, I registered a new social media account: “Jules’s 90-Day Miracle.” The three-month timeline—one month of internship and two months of summer break—perfectly aligned with my plan. I never showed my face. The camera focused only on my body below the neck, the scale’s readout, and my daily meals. On Day One, the screen displayed a two-hundred-pound, soft, and shapeless body. My voice was calm. “Hello. Starting today, for the next three months, I will lose exactly one hundred pounds using only a proprietary herbal formula and a sensible diet.” The comments section exploded with mockery. “Trying to go viral, are we? Hundred pounds in three months? Unless you get liposuction, no way.” “I’ll believe that when I believe I’m the Queen of England.” “Another scammer trying to sell supplements.” I ignored the noise, sipping my first cup of the herbal infusion. Day Two. Day Three… Over the ninety days that spanned my internship and the entire summer, I live-streamed twice daily—taking my medicine, revealing my weight, and showing my exact caloric intake. Everything was transparent, open to scrutiny. My weight dropped at a stunning, visible rate. The bloated jawline sharpened, my collarbones emerged from the thick layer of fat, and my waistline appeared clearer every day. My body transformed daily right before the camera. The initial mockery turned into full-blown internet shock. “Holy sh*t! She lost another 1.2 pounds today! What kind of witchcraft is this?” “I’m begging for the formula! I’d sell my ex-boyfriend’s soul for this!” The skeptical old board members at Abbott, who had initially dismissed my idea, started showing up in the live chat, sending huge virtual gifts and calling my father with fawning deference. “Chairman! Miss Abbott’s formula is a miracle drug! We must push it into production now!” The herbal formula's production line was approved by a unanimous vote. Just before the end of summer, I stepped on the scale for the final time. The digital display showed a number exactly one hundred pounds less than when I started. I posted a short, dramatic before-and-after video. The comments section went insane. “Queen! You are my only Queen! Show us your face, please!” “That transformation… what does her face even look like?” “I’m betting a year’s salary she’s a drop-dead goddess!” 8 On the first day of the new semester, I slipped into a sleek, black spaghetti-strap dress. In the mirror, my hair was pinned up, revealing a face that was clean, unadorned, and arrestingly beautiful. The most impactful feature was my eyes—clear, stark black-and-white, shimmering like cold stars. I put on a disposable surgical mask and walked toward the campus. The September sun was harsh. The campus entrance was packed with returning students and parents. A bright red Ferrari sat glaringly at the curb. Its scissor door was open. Prescott Harrington leaned against the side, sunglasses covering his eyes, his posture radiating casual, untouchable arrogance, commanding every eye. As I was about to navigate the crowd, my phone buzzed. It was Stella. “Jules, where are you?” Her voice was breathless with a nervous, desperate excitement. “At the gate.” “Perfect! Can you just meet Scott for me? I’m going to be half an hour late.” She paused, and the venomous satisfaction in her tone almost spilled out. “I told him you were my roommate. All you have to do is walk up and tell him—" “Tell him your name is Juliet Abbott. That’s it.” I sneered internally. My gaze scanned the agitated crowd, finally settling on a discreet corner of the plaza. A bulky figure in an oversized, dark track suit, wearing a hat and a mask, was hunched over, clutching a phone. There she was. Stella. “No,” I replied, my voice cool and final. In the corner, Stella flew into a silent, desperate panic. “Fine, Juliet Abbott! If you want to play dirty, let’s play dirty!” She furiously dialed another number, her voice shaking with pure malice. “Hello? Are you at the radio station? Good! Now! Broadcast it immediately!” Almost on cue, the high-power campus loudspeaker crackled to life. 9 “ATTENTION! Prescott Harrington at the campus gate, listen up!” “The Juliet Abbott you’re talking to online is a two-hundred-pound FAT PIG! She’s an UGLY, WICKED CREATURE!” “All the photos she sent you are STOLEN from her beautiful roommate! The real girl is a fat, ugly, psycho liar who scams men online!” “Prescott Harrington, you IDIOT! You’ve been fooled by a pig! The whole campus knows what she is!” The crowd instantly erupted. Discussion exploded in a shocked, chaotic wave of noise. Prescott’s expression, previously one of bored hauteur, froze. He ripped off his sunglasses, his eyes—cold, dark, and utterly lethal—sweeping toward the broadcast booth. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched. The next second, he pulled out his phone. He didn’t raise his voice, but every word he spoke into the mic cut through the chaos, clear and distinct. “Juliet Abbott.” “I’m giving you one chance.” “Now. Get out here.” 10 The phone clicked off. The entire area went dead silent. No one dared to move. Every set of eyes was nervously searching, waiting for Juliet Abbott to emerge. That was my cue. I started walking. I walked directly toward Stella. The crowd instinctively parted, creating a path for me. Prescott’s dark, furious gaze followed me, settling on the hunched, bulky figure in the track suit. His brow furrowed in confusion and disgust. I stopped right in front of Stella. She tried to shrink into the anonymity of the crowd, but I was too fast. I grabbed her wrist. Before she could react, my other hand reached for the black surgical mask covering her face. With a swift, downward motion, I ripped it off— “N-no…!” The moment the mask fell, the air became thick and heavy. A face that was utterly and tragically ruined was exposed to the sunlight. It was bloated like unkneaded dough, squeezing her features into distorted slits. Her skin, a sickening shade of mottled gray and purple from the hormonal damage, was slick with a sweaty, diseased sheen. A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the onlookers. “Dear God… who is that? She’s so swollen…” “She… she looks sick.” “I think that’s Stella Davies from the Integrated Med program…” Stella let out a high-pitched, desperate shriek, trying to cover her face, but my hand easily blocked her attempt. As raw terror flooded her eyes, I reached up with my free hand, hooking my finger around the pristine white mask covering my own features. I gently, delicately, removed it. The midday sun poured down, illuminating my face. Extreme ugliness and profound, devastating beauty were displayed side-by-side in the same, cruel frame. Silence. More absolute than before. I turned my head and looked straight at Prescott Harrington. “Mr. Harrington.” “Which Juliet Abbott were you looking for?”
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