The third month of my marriage to Kevin McQuarrie, I slit my wrists. As my soul drifted in the air, I imagined what would come next. I expected to see him weeping, tearing the world apart to find me. At the very least, he should have been clutching my body, kneeling at my grave day and night, drowning in repentance. It would be just like something out of a gothic romance: the billionaire tycoon, chasing after her ghost, his hair turning white overnight, his empire crumbling to dust, left with nothing before taking his own life to join her. But none of that happened. When Kevin McQuarrie looked down at my corpse, all he said was, "What a mess." There was no regret. No desperate, grief-stricken chase. Instead, my death cleared the way for his darling orphan, Sylvia McQuarrie. In a flash, she became the new Mrs. McQuarrie. I glanced down at the blade in my hand, time snapping back to the moment before I made the cut. Why the hell should I be the one to die? I was never the one who deserved it. I dropped the blade and walked out of the bathroom. This time, before Kevin could move Sylvia into our marital home, I signed my name on the divorce papers. 1 The searing pain in my wrist was the first thing I felt, a brutal confirmation that I was back. The memories of my death replayed in my mind on a relentless loop. I’d been driven to suicide by a single text message I received half an hour ago from Sylvia. It was a photo. Her, straddling Kevin. The pose was intimate, almost obscene, made all the more so by the suffocatingly close confines of his car. Rage consumed me. I called Kevin, again and again. He didn’t pick up. After the fourth frantic call, he simply declined it. All of New York high society knew I loved Kevin McQuarrie to the point of madness. They had a nickname for me: Rebecca Shaw, the Beautiful and Broken. Without him, I couldn't live. Back then, the thought of Kevin with another woman, doing that… it shattered me. I quickly created a group chat, adding all our mutual friends, and declared I was going to kill myself. Everyone in the group pleaded with me to calm down. Everyone except Kevin. His response was two ice-cold words: “Go ahead.” Those words were a razor to my already frayed nerves. I was so desperate for a scrap of his affection, any proof that he cared, that I actually did it. I started a video call and streamed my suicide. On the screen, my friends’ faces were masks of horror. Finally, Kevin reacted. I heard him mutter, "You crazy bitch," before the sound of a car engine roared to life. He was coming back for me. He was leaving that other woman to rush to my side. He’s mine, I thought, a triumphant, final flicker of obsession. He can only be mine. But I had cut too deep. I actually died. As a disembodied soul, I had eagerly watched, waiting for the moment his love for me would finally awaken. I waited for him to cradle my body and break down. But he did nothing. He just had me cremated. A month later, he married Sylvia, and she took my place as if I had never existed. That little suicide attempt taught me one thing: to hell with loving a man. It was time to love myself. Kevin McQuarrie, I'm done loving you. Sylvia's text was still on my phone. I didn't hesitate to reply. "Kevin prefers to be on top. He's not into your kind of trashy performance." Silence from her end. I stepped out of the bathroom and threw everything—the blade, the blood-soaked towels, the despair—into the trash. To think I’d spent ten years trailing after Kevin, begging for crumbs of his affection, only to trap myself in a cage of my own making. What a waste. I sent one last text to Kevin. "The divorce agreement is on your desk. All it needs is your signature." 2 Kevin returned quickly. The first words out of his mouth were, "Not dead yet? So this is your new tactic, a divorce?" The sneer in his voice was thick, but he wasn't wrong. The only reason I had managed to marry him in the first place was because of a merger between our families. At the time, the McQuarrie empire was on the verge of bankruptcy, their legacy in ashes. My marriage was the lifeline; my family’s money was the blood transfusion keeping his family’s dying company alive. That was my leverage. Every time I threatened divorce, Kevin would back down, making some small concession. In my delusion, I saw his compromises as proof of his love—the only love he had to give. Now I see it for what it was: not love, but business. He was yielding for the sake of the McQuarrie name, not for me. I schooled my features into a calm mask just as I saw Sylvia standing behind him. Sylvia McQuarrie. Two years my junior, adopted by the McQuarries from an orphanage. She and Kevin had grown up together, the picture of childhood sweethearts. How could I have ever been foolish enough to believe that the fiery new love could ever conquer the tender history of a first love? Besides, I was never the fiery new love. I was just Rebecca Shaw, the unhinged wife. I held the divorce papers out to him. "Sign it." Kevin let out a sharp, derisive laugh. He snatched the papers and tore them in half, not even glancing at my face. "Sylvia is moving in," he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She'll be taking the master bedroom. You have a problem with that?" A problem? How could I dare? In my past life, this was the exact moment things had spiraled. Sylvia had demanded the master bedroom, our bedroom. I had refused, and she’d been relegated to a guest room. The next thing I knew, she had fallen from the window of that room. She claimed the bed was too close to the floor-to-ceiling window and she'd "accidentally" tumbled out. A likely story. Who sleeps with a massive window wide open? Kevin had blamed me entirely. To "teach me a lesson," he locked me in a dark room, without food or water. By the time he remembered I existed, I was barely breathing. My best friend had pleaded with me. "Divorce him, Rebecca! That bastard is going to kill you if you keep this up!" And I, in my infinite wisdom, had shot back, "But why is he only a bastard to me? Why does he only want to destroy me and not anyone else? It's because he loves me! He's obsessed with me!" My friends, hearing that twisted logic, slowly backed away until no one was left. Thinking about it now… what a special brand of idiot I was. Since Sylvia was so keen on stealing my nest, she could have it. "Fine," I said, my voice unnervingly calm. 3 A flicker of surprise crossed Sylvia's face. Whatever manipulative drama she had prepared was now useless. Her eyes darted over me, trying to figure out my angle, before she tugged on Kevin's arm. "Kevin," she began, her voice a soft murmur, "about that other thing..." She let the sentence hang in the air. Kevin adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on his nose, a gesture so refined and elegant it used to make my heart ache. A wolf in scholar's clothing. Now I realize if a stray dog had made the same motion, I'd probably have fallen in love with it, too. I was just that sick. "Sylvia's health is delicate," Kevin said, his voice smooth as silk. "And we need to prepare for the pregnancy. You'll look after her for the next two weeks. You studied nursing, didn't you?" Yes, I had. For him. Years ago, when the McQuarrie company was on the brink of collapse, Kevin had been forced to attend endless dinners, drinking himself into a stomach ulcer that landed him in the hospital for weeks. They couldn't afford a private nurse, so I taught myself the basics and cared for him night and day for half a month. I never even closed my eyes, it seemed. If he reached, I was there with water. If he shifted, I was there to massage his back. I was more diligent than a paid servant. I thought he would remember my devotion. He did—he remembered he had a free caregiver on call. Still, I agreed without a fight. But this time, I would reclaim what was mine. "Kevin, give me back the three corporate seals my family gave you," I said coolly. "Do that, and I'll do whatever you want." Those three seals were the lynchpin that had saved McQuarrie Industries from utter ruin. I had married into the McQuarrie family from another city, against my parents' fierce opposition. As a last resort, they had given me those three seals, explaining that with them, every major corporation and enterprise in the city would have to give the McQuarrie family face and do business with them. They told me that the day I took back those seals, they would come for me, no matter how far away they were. When I gave them to Kevin, I made him promise to carry them with him at all times, for the good of his career. In my past life, I had asked for them back once. He had pointed a finger in my face and screamed, "Rebecca, who the hell do you and your family think you are? You think these worthless trinkets matter? McQuarrie Industries doesn't need the Shaws to rise again!" It was then I learned you can't tame a viper. You can't warm a heart of stone. If I'd given those seals to a dog, at least it would have wagged its tail for me. Kevin scoffed, pulling one of the seals from his coat pocket and tossing it to me. "Here. You'll get the other two, one per week, over the next two weeks." I understood. I had to serve Sylvia well for fifteen days. In exchange, I'd get my freedom. By the time I had all three, my parents would handle the divorce proceedings. I snuffed out the last embers of my love for Kevin. All I wanted now was to see his face when he was no longer a McQuarrie scion, but a pathetic, debt-ridden nobody. I wanted to see if Sylvia would still love him then. 4 And so, for the days that followed, Sylvia lived in my house. The news of her "preparations for pregnancy" had sent me to the hospital with an anxiety attack in my last life. It nearly drove me insane. Because the baby Sylvia was preparing for was Kevin's. She had spun a tale about her deep spiritual beliefs, claiming that since the McQuarries had adopted her, she was duty-bound to repay their kindness. Since Kevin was married to me and I had remained childless for three years, she couldn't bear to see the McQuarrie lineage end. She would "sacrifice" herself to provide an heir. She proposed IVF to Kevin. She called it IVF, but it was clear she was just planting his seed the old-fashioned way. She'd sent me photos and videos, one by one, until the torment made me physically ill, coughing up blood. I remember storming into Kevin's office, my hair a mess, my face pale and gaunt, looking utterly pathetic. He was in the middle of an international conference call. I burst in, ruining the deal, and threw myself on the floor, clinging to his legs, begging him to love me, to have a child with me. I even shrieked, "I promise! Our baby will be smarter than hers! More blessed!" The scene torpedoed Kevin's public image. He had his security drag me out and lock me away. When my hysterics didn't stop, he had me committed to a psychiatric hospital. I was only released when I had been "cured"—broken into docile submission. The memory still makes my chest tighten. Why did I debase myself like that? What Sylvia didn't know was that the reason Kevin and I were childless for three years was because my parents had investigated his family. They had a hereditary genetic disorder. Any child born would be either disabled or suffer from severe cognitive impairments. So now, in this life, with my eyes set on reclaiming my family's three seals, I was more anxious about Sylvia's womb than a midwife on call. At 8 a.m., I had the kitchen prepare the finest bird's nest soup and presented it to her myself. Sylvia took one sip and threw the bowl at me, the hot liquid splashing across my clothes. "What is this garbage? I'm telling Kevin on you." I endured. During her midday rest, I hired a professional aesthetician to apply firming oils to her body. Sylvia dismissed the woman and pointed a finger at me. "I want you to do it. Are your precious hands too good to serve me, Rebecca?" I endured. At 10 p.m., Kevin came home and disappeared into the master bedroom with Sylvia. He had the gall to look at me with feigned sympathy. "Rebecca, this is all for my sake," he said, his voice a low whisper. "You love me so much. I know you'll understand, won't you?" I stood by the door, listening to the sounds of their passion within, as my phone vibrated. It was my parents. "Rebecca, your mother and I received the seal." My father's voice was heavy with relief. "Does this mean you're finally coming home?" One more to go. Once I had the last one, every project under the McQuarrie corporate umbrella would grind to a halt. Because for the past three years, every contract had been stamped with a Shaw family seal. All of their partners recognized our family's authority, not theirs. I stood in the hallway, peering through the crack in the door at the two bodies entwined on my bed, and smiled. "Dad, Mom," I whispered into the phone. "Come get me in a week." 5 I barely slept or ate during those two weeks of servitude to Sylvia. I lost a dangerous amount of weight, but funnily enough, Kevin's opinion of me seemed to improve. He would often stare at me, a strange look in his eyes, and occasionally, something resembling a human sentiment would escape his lips. "Rebecca, if only you were always this quiet, this obedient. Life would be so much better." I would just smile faintly, saying nothing. Oh, I wouldn't be causing any more scenes. But I wondered just how many scenes he would cause when McQuarrie Industries finally collapsed. The day came. Kevin placed the last seal in my hand. Fearing he might change his mind, I immediately put the signed divorce agreement back on the table, adding a pointed reminder. "Remember to sign this when you get back tonight." The familiar sneer returned to his face. "What now? You found out Sylvia's pregnant, so you're going to pull that live-streamed suicide stunt again?" He leaned in, his voice a low threat. "Go on, Rebecca. If you die this time, I'll even handle the funeral." I lowered my gaze. I knew he meant it. That's why I wouldn't be so foolish this time. I had planned to pack a few things, but as I looked around the house, I realized there was nothing here that was truly mine. The moment Kevin’s car pulled out of the driveway, I was in a taxi heading in the opposite direction. Phone off, SIM card tossed. From now on, the world was my oyster. Kevin McQuarrie, I'll be waiting for you in LA. Waiting for your downfall.
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