Chapter 1

Dad led the golden retriever into the house and said it was a present for Mom.

I immediately flung myself at her, clinging to her legs.

“Mommy, I’m scared of dogs.”

Dad’s smile froze.

“Niannian, stop that.”

He held the leash of a beautiful golden retriever. Its coat was fluffy, a pink bow tied around its neck, and its bright, round eyes were fixed on me.

Anyone would have thought it was sweet.

Only I knew Wen Mingwei was hiding beneath that skin.

Mom’s best friend. The woman who had killed her.

My mother, Qiao Zhixia, crouched and gathered me into her arms.

“Are you really scared, Niannian?”

I buried my face against her neck and nodded hard.

“Yes. It glared at me.”

Dad’s face darkened.

“Dogs don’t glare at people. I picked this companion dog especially for your mother. It has the steadiest temperament.”

As if it understood, the retriever immediately lay down, rolled onto its back, and made soft little whimpers in its throat.

It was so good at pretending.

That was exactly how it had fooled Mom in my last life.

She had reached out and patted its head.

It had taken the chance to lick the back of her hand.

That night, Mom had said she felt a little cold.

The next day, she had slept all morning.

On the third day, her face had begun to turn pale.

I had been too young then. I had only thought Mom was sick.

It wasn’t until many years later that I heard the truth during an argument between Dad and Wen Mingwei.

“If I hadn’t used the retriever to take Zhixia’s life for you, you’d have died in that hospital bed long ago.”

“Jiang Yanchuan, are you tired of me now?”

I had rushed out and confronted them.

Dad had looked at me as if I were something broken.

He had said,

“You’re just like your mother. Always in the way.”

Then I had tumbled down the stairs.

At the memory, I held Mom even tighter.

“Don’t touch it, Mommy. It bites.”

Her hand stopped halfway out.

A flash of cold malice crossed the retriever’s eyes.

Then, just as quickly, it looked pitiful again.

Dad rubbed between his eyebrows impatiently.

“Qiaoqiao, you can’t spoil her like this.”

“We have such a big house. What’s wrong with keeping a dog? Aren’t you always saying it’s too quiet when you paint?”

Our nanny, Auntie Sun, came out of the kitchen and backed him up with a smile.

“Ma’am, it’s normal for little children to be afraid of dogs. She’ll get used to it in a couple of days.”

“You’re cooped up in your studio all day. A dog really would be good company.”

Auntie Sun had always known how to read Dad’s mood.

In my last life, the moment Mom died, she had started calling Wen Mingwei “ma’am.”

When I was sent to a boarding kindergarten, she had even put sleeping pills in my milk, saying I was a problem child who needed to behave.

I wouldn’t forget a single one of them.

Mom looked down at me.

Her hands were warm.

“If Niannian’s scared, we won’t bring it inside yet.”

Dad’s expression changed.

“It’s windy outside. It’s just had a bath. We can’t let it get cold.”

I immediately began to cry.

A five-year-old’s crying was the best weapon there was.

I screamed at the top of my lungs,

“No dog! No dog! It’ll eat children!”

Mom was distraught. She hurried to pat my back.

“All right, all right. It won’t come inside.”

Dad struggled to control his temper.

“Qiaoqiao, it’s just a dog.”

Mom looked up at him, her voice gentle but firm.

“Niannian’s this frightened. Let it stay in the garden for now.”

“We can talk about it once she’s used to it.”

Dad started to speak again.

But the retriever suddenly edged forward, its nose going straight for Mom’s bare ankle above her slipper.

I seized my chance, grabbed the orange juice off the table, and dumped it over the dog’s head.

Its golden fur instantly clumped into a sticky mess.

The living room went silent.

The retriever jerked its head up, its eyes so vicious it looked ready to tear me apart.

Dad blurted,

“Don’t be scared, Mingwei!”

Mom froze.

“What did you call it?”

Dad’s face stiffened for a moment.

He quickly managed a smile.

“I said, don’t be scared, Mingming.”

“I was going to call the dog Mingming. Ming means bright. I hoped it would brighten your mood.”

Still sobbing, I looked at Mom.

“Daddy’s lying.”

The retriever stood there soaking wet, its claws digging fiercely into the carpet.

I knew it was getting desperate.

Because today, it hadn’t touched so much as one of Mom’s fingers.