I had a dream about my mom and dad for the first time in a long while.
Both my parents from my past life and the ones from this life appeared. But now, both sets of parents existed only in my dreams.
I remembered the day the Sinclairs—my current mother and father—died all too clearly. It was the day I threw the worst tantrum of my life.
“Just buy a title already! I want to be a noble! A real noble!”
“Cherry, even if we bought a title, it wouldn’t make us real nobles.”
My father had tried to soothe me. I must’ve been about sixteen at the time—old enough to know better, yet still painfully immature.
“Why aren’t you and Mom nobles? I wish I’d been born to noble parents instead!”
That was the day I stabbed my parents in the heart with thoughtless, hurtful words.
It had happened right after I attended a social gathering where I’d been openly mocked by the noble girls for not being one of them.
After throwing my fit, I’d collapsed onto my bed, exhausted. My mother came into my room and sat beside me, brushing my hair back.
“My sweet girl, I’m sorry. But I want you to know that I’ve always wanted to raise you to be the best. Just know this—no noble’s daughter could ever be more precious or beautiful than you are to me.”
Back then, her words had made my eyes sting, but they hadn’t truly resonated with me.
To my childish self, the humiliation I’d endured at the hands of those noble girls had felt far more significant than my mother’s heartfelt reassurance.
That day, my parents had plans to meet some new acquaintances.
They never told me who these people were, and I hadn’t bothered to ask. I wasn’t angry enough to actually resent them, but I was upset—so upset that I refused to see them off before they left.
That was the day it happened.
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The day my parents died in a car accident.
The last thing I ever said to them wasn’t “I love you” or “Be careful.”
It was that I wished I’d been born to noble parents instead.
I remembered clinging to their tombstones after the funeral, sobbing uncontrollably, still unable to believe they were gone.
“I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. Please don’t go. Don’t abandon me. I’m sorry—I don’t want to be a noble anymore. Just come back. I’m still too young. I still need you.”
But no amount of begging could bring them back.
The only thing my father left me was a title.
He’d really gone out and bought a noble title in a single day—almost as if he’d been preparing for it all along.
It was Harrison, our family lawyer, who brought me the news. But even he mentioned that, for a family as renowned as the Sinclairs, a noble title hardly mattered.
“What should we do about the title, Miss?”
I remembered Harrison asking me that.
Ironically, by then, I didn’t care about titles anymore.
You don’t need to be a noble to control nobles.
If you’re a Sinclair, that’s more than enough.
That must have been what my father meant when he said, “The Sinclairs don’t need a title.”
And so, I became the star of the social scene—the girl all the noble ladies envied, even as they secretly admired me.