In the scorching summer heat, inside a military compound in old‑era Jingdu.

“I agreed to let your dad bring you back, but if you dare make Crystal upset, you can pack up and go join that counter‑revolutionary mother of yours in the cowshed.”

Tara Cavanaugh had barely absorbed the original girl’s memories when an impatient voice snapped right by her ear.

She lifted her head. A woman in her early forties stood by the bed, wearing a light‑blue dress, looking down at her. Pretty face, sure—but her expression was icy, and her eyes were full of barely contained irritation.

Tara: What?

The memories she’d just taken in were still swirling in her mind, and they left her feeling prickly. Her lips curled on their own, and her tone came out sharper than sandpaper.

“You okay, ma’am? My dad bringing me home is what a father’s supposed to do. I’m his kid—he’s supposed to take care of me. If you’re not happy about it, find him and argue with him. Don’t dump it on me.”

She turned away after saying it, not even sparing the woman another glance.

Holly Hartwell almost jumped out of her skin from anger. Staring at Tara’s little street‑punk attitude, she snapped, “No wonder you turned out like this—you’re exactly what that counter‑revolutionary mother of yours raised.”

If Jonathan Cavanaugh hadn’t begged and begged her to bring his daughter back, she wouldn’t have taken in this wild, unruly girl for anything.

This was a crucial time for Jonathan’s career. One wrong move and this kid might ruin everything he’d worked for.

If not for the fear of the neighbors gossiping, she really wouldn’t have brought the girl home.

Being a stepmother was pure suffering.

Tara didn’t even lift her head. She just flicked her hand lazily and said, “If my dad hadn’t insisted, I wouldn’t have stepped foot back in this dump. If I bother you that much, tell him. I won’t blame you for kicking me out.”

Holly’s chest rose and fell in fury. Seeing Tara so indifferent made her even angrier. She gritted her teeth and barked, “Tara Cavanaugh, don’t come crying to me later.”

Tara felt no regret whatsoever. After all, she wasn’t the same girl who used to whine and throw tantrums.

Ten minutes ago she’d still been inspecting her massive eco‑farm, minding her own business. Who knew a flowerpot would decide to fall on her head?

Next thing she knew, she woke up in the early‑seventies Huaguo.

In her previous life, she’d lost both parents early and built her own eco‑agriculture business from scratch, earning hundreds of millions every year—so much money it made her cousins green with jealousy.

She’d played everything safe, every step calculated, only to end up… handing the advantage to those people anyway.

No matter how bitter she felt now, what could she do? A road that’s gone is gone.

She shifted her gaze back to the original owner of this body.

The girl’s father, Jonathan Cavanaugh, was a young, promising regiment commander; her mother, Jessica Harding, a university professor who specialized in electronic communications.

Growing up with clothes put on for her and meals handed straight to her, the kid naturally developed a bit of a spoiled streak.

If life had kept going the way it was supposed to, she should’ve grown up smooth and steady.

But she just had to run into that turbulent era.

Her grandfather was framed and thrown into a cowshed; her mother got dragged down with him and was sent to the countryside for “reform.”

Her father, eager to save his future, rushed to divorce her mother, and Holly Hartwell, the family’s former nanny, took the chance to bring her own daughter into the Cavanaugh household as the new wife.

Her older brother had a job in the city and, afraid of being implicated, cut ties with their mother overnight.

Only little Tara Cavanaugh, stubborn as a mule, insisted on staying with her mom.

But Jessica Harding couldn’t bear to let Tara suffer in the countryside. Before she was sent away, she begged Jonathan Cavanaugh to take the child in. That was why the scene earlier had happened at all.

Now that Holly Hartwell had climbed from servant to “commander’s wife,” she sure wasn’t thrilled to take in a kid who saw her as a thorn in the eye.

And of course, the moment Tara stepped back into the house, Holly started laying down rules.

The girl got so worked up she lost her breath—literally—and that’s when the soul swapped, replaced by her: a farm owner from the 21st century.

Tara looked around the side room Holly had dropped her in.

Plain white curtains, a blue old-fashioned bedsheet, a desk so yellowed it looked like it was fading away.

A setup that screamed “temporary arrangement.”

She let out a soft snort, that little “bossy streak” inside her waking up again. She’d lived in this home for fifteen years—this was rightfully her room. She’d only been gone a few days, and someone already thought they could take it?

She turned on her heel, shifted her steps, and headed straight toward the main east-facing room.

"Wasn't the whole point of dragging me back here so I could live at home again?

Fine then. If I'm staying, I'm flipping this place upside down. Let Jonathan Cavanaugh get so frustrated he’ll practically beg to ship me back to my mom."

The little girl’s eyes flicked to the side, a spark of mischief lighting up. An idea landed instantly.

Inside the main room, Crystal Hartwell lounged with one leg crossed over the other, munching on a peach shortbread cookie.

Her white dress, embroidered with bright flowers, drew the eye at once. Cookie crumbs dotted the green–checked cotton sheet under her, but she didn’t care.

The curtain rustled. Tara Cavanaugh strolled in unhurriedly, each step relaxed, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a provoking, almost lazy smile.

"Tara, sorry to say, but this room’s mine now." Crystal glanced up, her look full of disdain.

The once–spoiled young miss was about to become her toy—finally.

Just a capitalist brat, that’s all.

Tara shot her a sideways look, tone drenched in disgust. "And who exactly told you you could move in here? You ever looked in a mirror? Your face must be huge."

Crystal jerked to her feet, staring at the pretty face she’d wanted to scratch since day one. Rage burned up her throat. "Tara Cavanaugh, my mom was kind enough to let you come back, and you still think you can take your old room? How thick is your skin?"

"My skin’s great, thanks." Tara brushed her fingers along her cheek. She didn’t know what she looked like yet, but the skin was smooth and soft—good enough for her.

She was very satisfied with her complexion.

"Tara, your mother got sent to the cowshed. You think you still live like before? I’m the young lady of the Cavanaughs now."

"The Cavanaughs’ Miss Hartwell?" Tara let out a mocking snort, her voice intentionally irritating. "Your mom climbed into someone's bed to get ahead, and you’re just riding her coattails. Even if you walk through the Cavanaughs’ door, aren’t you still a Hartwell?"

The words stabbed straight into Crystal’s chest like a needle.

A nanny’s daughter for years, Crystal had dreamed again and again of becoming a true Cavanaugh.

Now that the dream was finally real, how could she tolerate Tara saying that? She shot forward with a roar. "You shameless mutt, running dog of the capitalists—how dare you!"

Her hand sliced toward Tara’s face.

Tara slipped sideways, left arm blocking, and with her right hand she twisted hard into Crystal’s stomach, leaving a deep purple bruise blooming under her fingers.

Crystal Hartwell curled over, clutching her stomach, eyes brimming as if the tears were about to spill.

And the troublemaker who caused it all bolted out like her tail was on fire, even clawing her own cheek before she ran.

From the kitchen, Holly Hartwell had been watching Tara Cavanaugh the whole time. The moment she saw Tara dash for the door, she rushed out, snapping, "You little brat! First day back and you’re already picking on my daughter. Just wait, I’ll make sure you regret it."

Cursing under her breath, she lunged toward Tara, eager to avenge her girl.

But Tara slipped past her like a greased loach, twisting her body at the last second and dodging Holly’s grab. She sprinted for the courtyard gate, yelling at the top of her lungs, "Help! Stepmom’s hitting a kid! Anybody? Help!"

Her voice was loud enough to wake up half the compound, as if she were terrified someone might miss the drama.

Even while shouting, her hands didn’t stop working. One moment she was yanking her own hair, the next she was pinching bruises onto her arms.

Her skin had always marked easily—just a light touch would leave a red patch.

Now, after giving herself a few hard pinches, red and purple blotches spread across her face and arms in no time.

With her hair turned into a complete bird’s nest, she looked pitiful enough to make anyone’s heart twist.

She winced from the stinging pain, gritting her teeth, thinking that this stunt really cost her today. She’d have to find a way to pay it back sooner or later.

Tara Cavanaugh could put up with a lot, but swallowing losses wasn’t on the list.