Directing Mommy From Inside The Womb Chapter 1

In my last life, they murdered me. Now, I’ve been reincarnated as the unborn daughter of a tragic heroine.

In that past life, my mother was lured into a vicious trap by her best friend and her husband. It was a "two lives, one casket" ending.

In this life? I was a D-list actress who specialized in playing tragic extras before I died, and I’ll be damned if I let my mother and myself go up in flames again.

When that "best friend" sent the invitation to the gala again, my mother’s hand wouldn't stop shaking as she gripped her phone.

I rolled my eyes in the amniotic fluid. My thoughts crashed into her mind like a physical blow.

[Mom, stop shaking! You’re causing a damn tsunami in here!]

[Crying is the most useless thing on this planet. Suck those tears back in, now!]

My mother’s eyes widened in sheer terror. "Who... who’s speaking?!"

[Don’t go looking for a ghost. I’m the kid in your belly!]

Without mercy, I forced the memory of her previous death into her brain—the image of her "best friend" pushing her off that penthouse balcony. The sensation of falling. The snap of bone.

The phantom pain and raw terror sent her into a breakdown. She curled up on the floor, letting out a desperate, broken whimpering.

[Begging for mercy? Last time, you knelt and begged them, and they didn't even blink. It didn't save us then, and it won't save us now.]

[But it’s okay. Your kid is a professional. I might have spent my last life as a nobody playing corpses on Law & Order, but I’ve memorized every trope and screenplay in the book. If you listen to me, I promise you your revenge.]

My mother stared blankly at her stomach. I let out a mental smirk.

[Acting Rule Number One: The most profound contempt is found in the simplest actions.]

[Now, smile. And tell her yes.]

My mother hesitated, but under the sheer pressure of my mental will, she reached for the phone that had slid across the floor. She squeezed out a smile that looked more painful than a sob and accepted that "invitation to a funeral."

* * *

The moment she hung up, she collapsed, her strength spent. I didn't give her a second to breathe. I kept the lesson going.

[Acting Rule Number Two: Retreat to advance. Vulnerability is often your sharpest weapon.]

[Pick up the phone again. Call your mother-in-law, Beatrice West. You know, the one who treats you like an oven for her 'precious legacy heir.']

My mother resisted, but she loved me—or at least the idea of me. She followed my lead.

When the call connected, Beatrice’s impatient, sharp voice barked through the speaker. "What is it now? Focus on the pregnancy and stop calling me every five minutes!"

My mother flinched, the words dying in her throat.

[Cry! Now! Let it out!]

[Tell her your heart is racing, your head is spinning, and you can’t stand the smell of grease. Oh—and tell her you’re craving something sour.]

With my permission, the dam broke. My mother’s tears flowed, her voice trembling with genuine grievance as she recited my script.

"Mom... I... I’ve been feeling so dizzy lately. Every time I smell cooking oil, I feel like I'm going to be sick... and all I want to eat are green apples and lemons..."

There was a heartbeat of silence on the other end. Then, Beatrice’s tone shifted instantly. It became sharp, urgent, and almost frantic.

"Nauseous? Craving sour things?"

"Don't move! And don't you dare eat any of that trashy takeout! I’m taking you to the hospital for a check-up tomorrow. Nothing can happen to the West family heir!"

[Acting Rule Number Four: When danger is near, muddy the waters to find a way out.]

[Tell her you can’t go to the hospital because you promised Tiffany Sinclair you’d go to her party.]

My mother sobbed, her voice heavy with feigned conflict. "But... I already told Tiffany..."

[No 'buts.' Speak!]

Under my coercion, my mother spoke in a frail, tiny voice. "Mom, I promised Tiffany I’d go to her Halloween gala tomorrow night..."

"What gala?! Absolutely not!" Beatrice’s voice jumped an octave, pure fury.

My mother’s eyes welled up with a fresh layer of tears.

[Quick, say you’re afraid of making Tiffany angry. Tell her to talk to Tyler.]

My mother’s voice was timid. "Mom, maybe... maybe you should talk to Tyler? I’m just afraid Tiffany will be... upset with me."

"Upset? Who cares if that outsider is upset? Is she more important than my grandson? I’m calling that boy right now!"

The line went dead. My mother looked at her pale reflection in the mirror, blinking, lost.

I was satisfied. [Mom, remember this. A woman’s tears are never meant for a dog of a man. From today on, your tears are only for the performance.]

My mother didn't quite understand, but she nodded anyway.