Born Bad Chapter 1

My best friend, Lila, and I married brothers. A year later, we were both pregnant.

Then came the bombshell: the hospital diagnosed her unborn son with Supermale Syndrome. The internet exploded, begging her to terminate. She refused.

Her son grew up a prodigy, a sweet, brilliant boy who made a mockery of all the online hate.

My son? He was born a monster. He bled me dry, destroyed my family, and when I finally cut him off, he stabbed me eighteen times for the deed to my house.

As I lay dying, Lila smirked, thanking me for raising her perfect boy. They’d swapped our sons at birth.

Now, my eyes snap open. I’m back. Back on the day of the diagnosis.

* * *

I’ve been reborn on the day my best friend’s son was diagnosed with Supermale Syndrome.

Lila and I are in the back of my husband's car. She’s beaming, holding up her prenatal report, ready to post it online and show off.

“My son has an extra male chromosome. You know what that means? He’s going to be the manliest of men.”

She’d just finished typing out her caption when I reached over and stopped her.

Lila shot me an irritated look. “Clara, what are you doing? Are you jealous my son is special?”

I took a deep breath, keeping my voice gentle.

“Lila, are you crazy? We’re influencers now, remember? Your baby’s genetics are incredible, but what if you post this and it stirs up a storm of jealousy? People get nuts online. What if some creep gets obsessed, finds us, and tries something? We’d never see it coming.”

My words hit their mark. Lila’s expression shifted, and she grabbed my hand.

“Clara, you’re so right. Thank you for looking out for me. You’re my best friend, truly. I knew marrying into the same family meant we’d always have each other’s backs.”

I fought the urge to recoil, gently pulling my hand away. A wave of relief washed over me as she put her phone away, abandoning her plan to brag about her “supermale” baby.

Over the past year, Lila and I had built a decent following online. The gimmick of two best friends marrying two brothers was a hit. We shared snippets of our daily lives, and our channel, with its hundred-thousand-plus followers, became a source of envy for many.

In my last life, when she posted that video, she was met with a tidal wave of ridicule. The entire internet pleaded with her to abort the child.

But our mother-in-law, Martha, encouraged her, and Lila defiantly announced to the world that her son would be smarter and more devoted than any normal child. The internet waited, hungry for drama.

But the joke was on them. Lila’s son was born and he was… perfect. He was a gentle, obedient child, a straight-A student who topped his class with seemingly no effort. He became a living, breathing “I told you so” to the entire internet.

Riding the wave of this narrative—"The Genius Son with Supermale Syndrome"—Lila became a viral sensation, raking in tens of thousands a month.

And me? My son was born a monster. The lies started at five. In kindergarten, he slipped razor blades into a little girl’s lunch, nearly slicing her tongue off.

My husband, Adam, and I paid her family over twenty thousand dollars.

When he started elementary school, he became the ringleader of a vicious bullying campaign. His grades were abysmal. We bounced between six different schools in six years, paying out over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in settlements for the kids he intentionally hurt. Our savings were wiped out.

Even then, we didn’t give up on him. I quit my job, dedicating every waking moment to guiding him, trying to nurture some seed of goodness within him.

It was useless.

After a few desperate, harsh punishments, he seemed to straighten up. We allowed ourselves a sliver of hope, thinking maybe, just maybe, we were turning a corner.

Then he raped a four-year-old girl. And killed her. He came home afterward as if nothing had happened, cool and calm, until the police knocked on our door.

Adam and I felt our hair turn grey overnight. In that moment, I wanted him locked away forever. I wanted him to get the death penalty, to give that little girl’s family some semblance of justice.

We decided to sell our house to pay the damages. But before we could, the girl’s family took their own revenge. They broke into our home and killed Adam.

I was on the phone with 911 when my son, who had snuck back into the house, attacked me. Eighteen stabs.

As my life bled out onto the floor, I saw him run into Lila’s arms, crying, “Mommy.”

Lila looked down at me, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Clara,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sincerity, “for taking such good care of my son all these years.”

That’s when I understood. She had switched our babies in the hospital nursery.

And Martha, our mother-in-law, who always pretended to treat us equally, helped them cover it all up. She fed the media a story, painting Adam and me as abusive parents, claiming our cruelty had twisted the boy’s already fragile nature.

After our deaths, we were vilified online. People even started to pity the monster who killed us.

Then Lila stepped forward, the benevolent savior. She made a public statement, her voice thick with fake emotion, promising to take in the “troubled boy” and ensure he never harmed anyone again.

The internet lauded her as a saint. Her follower count skyrocketed.

I hated them. The rage was a fire in my soul, a screaming, endless inferno.

Perhaps God, or whatever force governs the universe, felt that fire. Because it sent me back.

I looked at Lila, her face aglow with smug satisfaction, and offered a faint smile.

“Exactly. So let’s just keep this quiet until the babies are born.”

I wasn’t a saint. I wasn’t going to save the world from this unborn terror. No, I was going to let Lila reap what she sowed. I was going to watch as her precious son tore her life apart, piece by bloody piece.