Melina Solberg sits alone in a hospital, secretly waiting for her test results. The brain tumor has returned and grown. Surgery is no longer possible. She may only have three months left to live.
She tells no one. She doesn't want to burden her fiancé, Adrian Falk. She has spent her whole life trying not to be a burden.
When she was a child, her mother Elise died in a fire while saving her. After that, Melina's father Henrik blamed her for the tragedy. He remarried Vivian, his former secretary
Reborn: No Longer Your Fool - Cold Father, Double Trap
Morning light slipped through a break in the thick clouds, just barely. Melina Solberg stood by the window of her third-floor room in the new Solberg estate. Her platinum-blonde ponytail, tied low, swayed in the faint draft from the heating. Her deep brown-hazel eyes gazed quietly down at the old town of Frosthaun spreading below.
(Nothing has changed.)
Not the view outside the window. Not the barrenness of this room. And not the oppressive air that filled this house.
In her first life, at twenty-five, she had fled from this house. She had lived here, worn thin, as someone no one loved—someone merely used.
Now, she was twelve. But inside, she was a woman with the memories of twenty-five years.
(Starting today, things will be different.)
Melina drew a quiet breath. Cold air filled her lungs to their depths. Before leaving the room, she picked up a small notebook from her desk. An ordinary school notebook. Inside, fragments of her plan were written in tiny letters.
(I must not be swept away by emotion.)
The battle in this house was entirely a war of information. Her opponents believed she was "a twelve-year-old child who knows nothing." She would exploit that assumption to its fullest.
She tucked the notebook into the back of the desk and opened the door. The hallway was utterly silent.
---
As she descended the stairs to the first floor, the sweet scent of jam drifted from the living room. Vivian and Lisa were having breakfast. Melina's stomach made a faint sound.
(I have an appetite. Proof that I'm healthy.)
She shook her head lightly, as if to dispel the image of her twenty-five-year-old self that surfaced in her mind, then stepped into the living room.
"Well now, good morning, Melina."
Vivian Solberg greeted her with a soft smile. A perfectly curled bob of silver-tinged blonde. Cold, pale-blue eyes. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes did not smile at all. The heavy scent of rose perfume subtly altered the air.
(This woman is watching my every move.)
Melina cursed inwardly while maintaining a demure smile on the surface.
"Good morning, Stepmother."
She kept her tone bright, appropriate for her age. Even though cold anger churned deep in her stomach.
"Oh, how many times must I say it? You may call me Mother."
Vivian spoke in a gentle voice. Her eyes were scanning Melina's clothes, her hairstyle, her expression—quickly, minutely.
"I'm sorry. I'm still not quite used to it."
Melina lowered her head apologetically.
"That's quite all right. Take your time."
Lisa Kraft, who had been listening to the exchange, suddenly spoke in a coaxing voice.
"Sister, where did you go yesterday?"
Vivid red hair in large, loose curls. Big green eyes gazing up at Melina. Her lips were perpetually, slightly parted. An innocent, puppy-like expression. But beneath it lurked clear curiosity—and malice.
"I heard you slipped out of the hospital. I was so worried."
(Worried, is it? You're just probing.)
Melina carefully moved her hand, spreading jam on bread, making sure it did not tremble in the slightest. The tip of the silver knife made a faint sound against the rim of the glass dish.
"I was just walking around town a little."
She lifted her lowered face and smiled softly at Lisa.
"Mother died, and I was feeling down. I thought I might visit her grave. But then I looked at the shops, and before I knew it, it was evening."
"Hmm. Which shops?"
Lisa tore at her bread, her eyes never leaving Melina.
"Strand Street. I just had tea at a small café."
"By yourself, Sister?"
"Yes, by myself."
Melina met Lisa's gaze directly. When hiding the truth, one must never avert one's eyes. Lisa's mouth twisted for an instant, but she quickly returned to an innocent smile.
"I see. Take me with you next time, Sister."
"Yes, of course."
(I'd sooner fall into hell than take you anywhere.)
Vivian set her cup down on its saucer. A small, hard sound.
"Melina, how are you feeling today? Do you plan to go out again?"
"No. I think I'll spend today quietly at home. I'm still a little tired."
"I see. That's for the best. You mustn't push yourself."
Vivian smiled as she said it. But that smile was a clear warning: Do not leave the house.
(She wants to keep me locked up in this house.)
Melina silently brought bread to her mouth. Hot tea burned its way down her throat.
---
After breakfast ended and Vivian and Lisa had each left the table for their own affairs, Melina quietly climbed to the second floor. Her destination was the study of her father, Henrik Solberg.
(I have to see him.)
The memory of being rejected by her father again and again in her first life ached deep in her chest. Back then, she had still wanted his love. She had wanted to be acknowledged.
(Now, it's different.)
Melina walked down the cold hallway and stood before the study. A heavy wooden door. She steadied her breathing and knocked twice.
Knock, knock.
No answer. She listened carefully, but not a single sound came from beyond the door.
"Father, it's Melina."
She called out. Still, no response. She knocked again, harder this time.
"Father, I'd like to speak with you, just for a moment."
Silence. Cold, overwhelming silence.
Then, from downstairs, the servant Marta approached without a sound.
"Miss Melina."
Marta lowered her brows in distress and spoke in a hushed voice.
"The master has been shut in his study since early this morning. He is not seeing anyone."
"...I see."
Melina nodded slightly. She stood before the door for a long moment. In her first life, this rejection had been painful enough to bring tears.
(Now, it's different.)
She sank cold anger deep into her chest. Her father's indifference was no longer a weapon that could wound her. It was simply an irrelevant fact—one that only strengthened her resolve.
She slowly walked away.
---
Back in her room, Melina picked up a small, old telephone. Her fingertips trembled slightly. She took one deep breath. Then she switched her mind to that of a twenty-five-year-old businesswoman.
(The real battle begins now.)
She dialed a number. It connected to the office of Emil Strand, the Solberg family's legal counsel—a number her late mother had prepared for the family.
After several rings, a man's voice came through the receiver.
"Hello, Strand Law Office."
"Yes, hello. My name is Melina, of the Solberg family. I would like to speak with Mr. Emil Strand."
She made her voice sound slightly younger than her age, tinged with nervousness.
"One moment, please."
Hold music played. Her heart pounded like a racing bell. After about forty seconds, another man's voice came through. Soft, yet somehow sharp.
"Thank you for waiting. This is Emil."
"I'm sorry for calling so suddenly when you must be busy. This is Melina Solberg."
She spoke politely, but clearly.
"Ah, it has been a long time. I was truly sorry to hear about your mother."
Emil Strand's voice sounded warm, as if he were genuinely sympathetic. But in her twenty-five-year-old memories, Melina knew that this man had ultimately sided with Vivian—and that he may have had a hand in the falsification of the will.
(How much of this man is enemy, and where does ally begin?)
She chose her words carefully, as if trying to read the face of the man on the other end of the line.
"Thank you. Actually... there is something I wanted to ask of you today."
"What is it? If it's something that would help you, I'll do anything."
"...It's about my mother's will."
At Melina's words, the air on the other end of the line tensed for an instant. A faint, brief silence.
"The will, is it?"
"Yes. I want to properly know what my mother left behind. Would it be possible for me to see a copy?"
She asked, maintaining the guise of innocent, childish curiosity.
"Of course. You have every right to know."
Emil readily agreed. But the next moment, he deliberately trailed off.
"It's just... I apologize, but this week is packed with court appearances. Let's see—around the middle of next week, I can certainly make time for you."
"...Next week?"
She murmured quietly, sounding disappointed.
"Yes. I truly am sorry. I consider your matter a top priority, but at this time of year, I'm in and out of court constantly."
"No, please don't apologize. I'm the one who made a sudden request. Whenever it suits your schedule is fine."
She played the part of the brave, understanding girl perfectly.
"Thank you. I will contact you again next week, then."
"Yes. Thank you very much."
After hanging up, Melina's expression turned cold in an instant.
(Stalling. Clearly buying time.)
Emil Strand had agreed readily. But the moment it came to setting a concrete meeting date, he had deflected, using his court schedule as a shield.
(He intends to gauge my state, report to Vivian, and await instructions.)
She stared at the receiver, quietly turning thoughts over in her mind.
---
That afternoon, Melina sat in her room writing a letter. The addressee: the Student Newspaper Editorial Department, Faculty of Business, Frosthaun University. To her former best friend, Sofia Nilsen.
In her first life, Sofia had been one of the few allies she could speak to honestly. Right now, she was twelve. She had not yet even met Sofia.
(But I know.)
Sofia Nilsen. A dark-brown bob cut, nearly black, with straight bangs. Large brown eyes that shone with curiosity. A fourth-year university student aspiring to journalism. As editor-in-chief of the student newspaper, she tracked power structures within the university and the movements of local businesses.
(I need her sense of justice, her drive, and her information network.)
Melina set her pen to paper. The content was simple.
'Dear Ms. Sofia Nilsen, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Melina Solberg, and I attend the middle school affiliated with Frosthaun University. I apologize for this sudden letter.
I am investigating recent events at Elise Natural, the company of my late mother, Elise Solberg. I have a feeling that the company my mother left behind is being slowly steered in a strange direction by someone's hand.
I have heard that, as editor-in-chief of the student newspaper, you are knowledgeable about corporate misconduct. If—if it is not too much trouble—would you be willing to investigate with me what is happening at my mother's company?
I understand you are busy. Even so, I would be grateful if you would meet with me once and hear what I have to say.'
What a direct letter. It bordered on stalker-like.
(But this is the fastest way.)
Sofia would reply within twenty-four hours. She did not act on simple curiosity. It was her sense of justice, her ravenous investigative spirit. And the eeriness of this letter would ignite her journalist's soul.
(I'm counting on you, Sofia.)
Melina affixed a stamp to the envelope and quietly descended the stairs from her room to the old back entrance.
---
As the sun set and the house was wrapped in the darkness of night, Melina waited in her room for the servants to fall asleep.
(Tonight, I sneak into the attic.)
Her chest felt crushed by quiet tension. Her mother Elise's belongings should have been stored in the attic. After the fire, the servants had carried what remained there—or so she had heard from the gardener.
(Photographs, letters, a diary... something must remain.)
At midnight, after confirming the house had fallen completely silent, she slipped out of her room with a small flashlight in hand.
Cold floorboards. She shifted her weight slowly, from the outside edges of her feet, so they would not creak.
The entrance to the attic was at the end of the third-floor hallway, where a small ladder descended from the ceiling. She stretched up, grasped the metal handle, and slowly pulled it down, careful not to make a sound.
The smell of old wood. And a faint, lingering scent of something burnt.
Her twelve-year-old body was lighter and more agile than she had expected. Melina climbed t
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