The year I was dubbed "the kid no one wanted," I was returned to The St. Jude’s Home for Children three times in a row. My file said I was "unsuitable for adoption." Because I’m not just oppositional; I’m aggressively mouthy. It wasn't until the tenth couple walked in, dragging a little boy with them, that things got interesting. Suddenly, the world went fuzzy, and the familiar, invisible subtitles began to scroll across my vision: [ALERT: Villain Protagonist is spoiled rotten from years of fawning. He is a little tyrant, and any dissent will immediately lead to your family's financial ruin.] [The parents are out of options. They want to adopt a compliant, quiet girl to subtly fix their son.] A compliant child? Yeah, that ship sailed a long time ago. I was mid-yawn, bored out of my mind, when a loud, entitled voice cut through the silence. “Mom, look,” the boy declared, pointing a pudgy finger. “The girl yawning over there is kind of fat.” My brow instinctively furrowed. My automatic response—my inherent genetic flaw—kicked in instantly. “Fat? You need to wipe the sleep-gunk out of your eyes, genius.” 1 The Villain Protagonist froze, staring at me. Ten seconds of pure, dead silence stretched out. Then, he let out a dramatic, soul-shattering wail. His face turned scarlet, but even through the tears, he managed to issue a command: “Mom! She dared to talk back! I want her family ruined!” I had to admit, he was gorgeous. Even blotchy and scarlet-faced from crying, his features were perfect. The other kids in the room, however, were too terrified to appreciate his aesthetics. They stood frozen, heads bowed, waiting for the ceiling to collapse. More subtitles began to cascade: [Wow, she looks cute, but her attack power is through the roof!] [She has no idea how terrifying he'll be later. He's just entitled now, but later, he's unhinged.] [Because he can't have the Heroine, he'll lock her up and break the Hero's legs, literally chaining him like a dog.] [Good thing this girl doesn’t fit their adoption criteria, or she'd be toast.] I felt a surge of calm relief. Toast? Not me. I was as far from compliant as you could get. As long as they didn’t adopt me, the Villain Protagonist could be someone else's problem. The elegant woman, his mother, offered Ms. Evans, the director of the Home, a weary smile. “I’m afraid my mother-in-law coddled him, I’m helpless.” Ms. Evans, God bless her, was equally apologetic. “Honestly, Mrs. Harrington, Frankie is… well, Frankie. I’m helpless too.” Only I remained standing alone. I straightened my back and shook my head at the boy. “You can’t ruin my family, kid,” I said, my voice serious. “I don’t have one.” The crying stopped abruptly. He stared at me, hiccuping once. His little face flushed again, and he yelled, “That’s impossible! Don’t you have a mom and dad?” I tilted my head, genuinely baffled. “What’s wrong with your neck? Did you forget where we are, genius?” He looked around, realizing he was, in fact, in an orphanage. He huffed and puffed, completely speechless. His greatest weapon—threats—had proven totally useless against me. He was starting to panic. He spun around, grabbed his mother’s leg, and began pummeling her thigh with his tiny fists. Snot and tears mingled on his face. “Mom! Make her go away! I don’t like her! I don’t want to look at her!” His mother, Eleanor Harrington, let out a sigh of pure exhaustion. Ms. Evans immediately pulled me back. “Mrs. Harrington, I am so sorry. I’ll take Frankie back to her room immediately.” Eleanor started to object, but Ms. Evans gave me a stern look. “Frankie, you need to apologize to the young man. Then we’ll go.” Ms. Evans had always been kind to me, never blaming me for the three times I was returned. I didn’t want to get her into trouble. So, reluctantly, I walked back toward the little boy. He was clinging to his mother’s leg, eyes wide and wary. I stood straight, smoothed the fabric of my faded dress, and spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Rhys.” He lifted his chin, sniffing disdainfully, his arrogant expression returning. But my argumentative genes, deep in my bones, wouldn't allow it. I tried to suppress it, I really did. I couldn't. So I added, perfectly composed: “I’d like to know exactly which part of that upset you… so I can be sure to repeat it.” Rhys’s eyes widened, looking at me with total disbelief. The look on his face shifted immediately to pure, wounded betrayal. The next second, his eyebrows crumpled, his nose turned red, and he buried his head in his mother’s thigh, wailing louder than before. “Mom, she’s bullying me! Your little boy is being bullied!” I sighed, completely fed up. “I’m not bullying you. I’m just not being particularly nice.” He wailed even louder. The sound was so irritating, I clapped my hands over my ears and turned away. Ms. Evans grabbed my shoulder and pulled me aside, her eyes flashing with disappointment. “Can’t you just keep quiet for two seconds? Go to your room!” I shrugged and started to walk off. Suddenly, the father, who had been silent this whole time, stepped into my path. “Your name is Frankie, right? Hold on a moment.” He exchanged a look with Eleanor, then smiled at Ms. Evans. “Ms. Evans, we’ve decided. We’ll take her.” Rhys stopped crying mid-sob. He lifted his head, eyes wide with shock as he stared at his parents. Even Ms. Evans tried to dissuade them. “Are you sure you want to reconsider? Rhys doesn’t seem to care for Frankie…” Charles Harrington cut her off. “Given the circumstances, we think we need to try a wild card.” He crouched down in front of me and spoke quietly, conspiratorially. “Frankie, would you like to come live with us?” I absolutely did not want to live with a future psycho villain, and I was about to refuse. But then, the subtitles flashed again: [Wait, the Villain’s family was supposed to adopt the sweet Heroine?] [This girl, though cute, is not the Heroine! Rhys will get rid of her quickly!] [The Heroine is over there, scared speechless, among that group of children.] I glanced at the huddle of timid kids. Several girls younger than me were standing there, too frightened to make a sound. I didn't know which one the subtitles meant, or I would have shoved her forward. The subtitles continued to scroll: [Although the Villain’s family has nothing but money, living near him means you get the cash, but you won't live to spend it!] [Exactly! The Harrington’s family gives the adopted child a Billion-Dollar Trust Fund when they turn eighteen! But the kid has to survive until then!] Wait. That detail was important. Why hadn't they mentioned it earlier? I immediately grabbed Charles Harrington's hand with my soft, small one and nodded emphatically. “Yes, Dad. I'd love to.” Rhys shrieked, pointing at me. “Shut up! He’s my dad, not yours!” I didn’t care. Whoever coughed up the billion dollars was my dad. The sharp retort was already on my tongue, but I swallowed it, hard. Charles noticed my visible struggle and frowned slightly. “Frankie, we’re adopting you because we want you to be yourself, without worrying.” He gave me a gentle, encouraging look. Suddenly, I understood. Charles wanted me to fight fire with fire—to act as a counter-agent against Rhys. That was easy. Whoever paid the billion got to set the rules. I turned back to Rhys and stated, completely deadpan, “Not true, big brother. Your dad adopted me, so he is now, definitively, my dad.” Rhys’s face turned red again. He plopped onto the floor and began rolling, kicking, and screaming. “I don’t care what you say! I don’t want you in my house!” I stared at him with complete incomprehension. “Brother,” I asked, “are you sure you’re not the long-lost, less-evolved cousin of Socrates?” Rhys immediately went silent. He looked up at me with an expression of such crystal-clear confusion that I knew I had completely eclipsed him in terms of cultural literacy. I shook my head, genuinely disappointed. “It’s like God was handing out IQ points, and you brought an umbrella.” Rhys finally understood. His face went crimson. His lip wobbled, and he burst into another torrent of tears. “You… what do you mean by that?!” he choked out. I tugged on Charles’s sleeve. “Dad, maybe have him read a few books? We can’t have a functionally illiterate person in the family.” This, he also understood. His small face was the color of a tomato, and he wailed louder still. Charles Harrington sighed, the sound heavy with parental frustration. The subtitles zipped past: [Rhys is finally getting his comeuppance! It’s delicious!] [Wait until she licks her own lips and realizes she just poisoned herself.] [But if the Villain’s family didn’t adopt the Heroine, how will he fall in love with her later?] [This is better! No Villain interference! Daisy Bloom and the Hero can sail straight into their sweet ending!] Daisy Bloom? An image of a big-eyed, quiet girl from the huddle flashed through my mind. So she was the Heroine. But I was already sitting in the car, speeding away from the Home. My new parents ignored Rhys’s nonstop crying and took me that same day. Eleanor and I rode in a separate car to avoid immediate conflict. On the drive home, I learned the boy’s full name: Rhys Harrington. He was six, just a few months older than me, but his capacity for chaos was epic. He was the emperor of the house. Any servant or manager who dared to cross him or cause him the slightest displeasure would be fired and banished that very night. The entire staff lived in fear of offending him. The car pulled into a sprawling estate—lush greenery, water features—in an exclusive suburb. It looked exactly like a princess’s palace from a storybook. I pressed my face against the window, fascinated by the scenery. The car stopped in front of a golden-hued mansion. I followed Eleanor into the house, my jaw slack as I took in the palatial living room. Rhys had arrived before me. He saw me, gave a high-pitched snort of contempt, and turned his back. He then loudly demanded that the housekeeper prepare his horse. I stood there, eyes wide, waiting for an actual horse to appear. Instead, Adam, the tall, perfectly pressed household manager, scurried out, dropped to his hands and knees with a thump, and announced, “Master Rhys, your pony is ready.” Eleanor’s face hardened. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Rhys Harrington! You are too old for this! Stop making Adam play the pony!” Rhys immediately started his usual fit. “I don’t care! I want to play! I want to ride the pony up the main staircase!” Eleanor’s lips twitched, but she managed to maintain her composure. I could sense her rage boiling just beneath the surface. Adam, still on all fours, chuckled nervously. “It’s quite alright, ma’am. Master Rhys is just playing. I don’t mind a bit.” Eleanor sighed. “Adam, you’re spoiling him. You’re doing him a disservice.” Before Adam could reply, Rhys had climbed onto his back. “Run! Faster! Giddy-up!” Adam, forcing a bright smile, began crawling across the grand living room floor. As he passed me, Rhys looked down his nose and sneered. “Look at you, a charity case. I bet you’ve never ridden a pony. It’s so much fun!” My lips curled. My brain, the ultimate machine gun of insults, fired back automatically. “Doesn’t look that fun,” I declared. “The last time I saw a grown man on all fours like that was on that Game of Thrones prequel, and most of the people being ridden ended up dead.” Rhys immediately scrambled off Adam’s back. His face was a burning crimson, and he pointed a trembling finger at me.
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