In my previous life, it all started with a broken comb. My roommate, Paris Clarkson, snapped mine and then tried to make up for it by giving me a replacement—a wooden one, delicately carved with patterns.

That same night, our dorm caught fire. The flames started right at my bed.

I was the one who got blamed. The school gave me a formal warning, a black mark on my record.

By the fifth day, my world started to crumble. My mom called, her voice shaking as she told me the news: our family was bankrupt.

I sold everything I could—jewelry, bags, clothes—but no matter how hard I tried, it wasn't enough to stop the bleeding.

On the tenth day, I woke up barely able to breathe. My body was ravaged by a sudden illness that left me on the edge of death.

As I lay there, gasping for air, Paris stood over me, her eyes full of contempt. "Why did you get to be born rich?"

She held up a black card, smirking. "But now, it's all mine."

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to that day—the day Paris broke my comb.

Paris was standing in front of me, carefully holding the broken pieces in her hands, her face twisted with worry.

"I'm so sorry, Belinda. I didn't mean to break it," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"I'll buy you a new one."

A cold realization washed over me. I snatched the comb from her hands before she could say another word.

"No need. It's just a comb," I said sharply.

She blinked, startled by my sudden reaction, and took a few hesitant steps back.

"I really didn't mean it, Belinda. I'll get you a new one tonight," she insisted, her voice small and pleading.

Our eyes met, and I saw the flicker of confusion in her gaze.

"I said no. I'll buy my own," I replied, my tone cold.

I had never spoken to her like that before, and Paris froze, her expression growing tense.

She bit her lip nervously. "Are you mad at me? I swear, I'll replace it," she mumbled.

Her persistence grated on me, and my patience snapped. My voice came out louder than I intended.

"I said no! Don't you understand?"

Then, I pushed past her. "Move. I'm going out."

Our other roommates, sensing the tension, sat up and watched the scene unfold.

"Belinda, Paris didn't mean to break your comb. Why are you so mad?"

Amelia Brooks chimed in, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she cast a glance our way.

I caught the sly look in her eyes as she added, "Well, she is the spoiled rich girl. Of course, she'd be upset over something like this."

I glanced at Paris out of the corner of my eye, and sure enough, there it was—the simmering jealousy in her gaze.

I let out an amused laugh. "Yeah, I've got a temper. So what?"

Without waiting for a reply, I slammed the door behind me.

The moment it clicked shut, I could hear Paris start to cry, and Amelia's sharp, bitter words cut through the air.

"What's so great about being filthy rich? It doesn't make you special."

I walked slowly through the gate, still clutching the broken comb in my hand.

My other hand moved unconsciously to my chest as I breathed in deeply, trying to steady myself.

The warmth of the sun on my face was the final confirmation—this wasn't a dream. I had been reborn.

The memory of that day played out in my mind like a movie reel. Back then, I didn't want Paris to feel bad, so I accepted her offer of a replacement comb.

She had handed me a beautifully carved wooden comb with a smile.

"Belinda, I got this for you. I hope you like it," she had said.

I had taken it, not knowing that by doing so, I was inviting disaster into my life.

Brushing my hair before bed had always been part of my nightly routine.

Everyone in the dorm knew that about me.

That night, after using the new comb, I fell asleep without a second thought.

In the dead of night, I woke up choking on thick, suffocating smoke. The fire had already spread.

Everyone was in a panic, too terrified to think straight. Half of my hair had burned away by the time I escaped.

Later, the firemen told me, "The fire started in your bed."

One of the younger firemen looked puzzled, scratching his head. "But we couldn't figure out how it started. There was no source, no cause."

His words barely registered as I tried to make sense of it all. A fire at my bed, but with no explanation. There had been nothing in the dorm that could've caused it.

When the dorm supervisor arrived, her face was a mask of fury.

She didn't ask for my side of the story. Instead, she simply issued a warning and filed a formal record against me.

That was when my bad luck began.

From that day on, it was like I was cursed. I sometimes tripped over flat ground, and my food often fell on the ground before I could start eating. Every little thing went wrong.

Then, five days later, my mom's call shattered what was left of my world.

"We've lost everything. Your father's company was set up and torn apart!" she screamed.

I had never experienced anything like it—the feeling of free-falling from a life of luxury into utter despair.

In a desperate attempt to make things right, I sold off my clothes, my bags, my jewelry—everything I owned.

But it was like pouring water into a sieve. Nothing helped.

My mother cried every day until her tears turned to blood. My father's hair went completely grey overnight. He collapsed, bedridden.

Five days after that, my body began to fail me.

I couldn't move. Even opening my mouth was a struggle.

By the end, I could barely breathe.

Paris was the only one in the dorm that day. I used every bit of strength I had left to beg her to call for help.

But instead, she stood over me, a twisted smile on her face. "Help? Don't make me laugh."

In just a few days, Paris had transformed into someone I didn't recognize.

She had always been quiet, her clothes shabby, her demeanor meek.

But now, there was a gold chain around her neck, glinting under the light.

She scoffed. "The world isn't fair. Why should you get to have everything while I'm left with nothing?"

She paused for a moment, then reached out and cruelly pinched my face.

"But maybe the world is fair after all. Because now, everything you had... is mine."

The memory sent a wave of chill through me, sweat breaking out across my skin.