In my last life, my husband forced me into a sham divorce to welcome his childhood sweetheart back into the country. He needed to maintain his single image for her. When I refused, he had me committed to a private sanatorium, claiming I was suffering from a deep depression. All because he had made a pact with her years ago: they would wait for each other until they were thirty. I was tortured to death in that corrupt hospital. The last thing I ever expected was for his childhood sweetheart to be the one to find my emaciated corpse, cradling my bones and sobbing apologies over and over again. When I opened my eyes, I was back on the day my husband tried to have me committed. 1. “Wait! I’ll agree to the divorce!” The words burst out of me the moment the shock of rebirth subsided. My husband, Alan, was in a frantic rush to get me to the hospital. He didn't say a word, his eyes fixed on the road as if he hadn't heard me. A cold dread settled in my stomach. I raised my voice, the words catching in my throat. “Alan, the divorce. We can do it. Just… please, not the hospital.” Only then did he lower his gaze, deigning to give me a look. “Too late for that now.” His voice was as gentle as it had always been, but the words plunged me into an abyss colder than any I had known before. Colder than the beatings, the shock therapy, the slow, agonizing descent into madness in my past life. I froze, struggling to find my voice, my words turning into a desperate plea. “Alan, I swear I’ll never go near her. I won’t let your… your friend… know we were ever married.” His eyes flashed with anger. “Married? What marriage?” he spat, the words like venom. “Get this through your head. You were a housekeeper I employed for three years. Nothing more. Yesterday, you were fired for making a mistake and thrown out of the Thorne estate.” A housekeeper? A bitter laugh escaped my lips. What kind of housekeeper has her boss drive through a storm in the middle of the night just to buy her a cheap bowl of noodles from a street vendor? What kind of housekeeper does a man defy his entire family to marry? “Do you really think Mia Vance will believe that?” I refused to believe he could be so heartless as to watch me die again. But the memories of my previous life were burned into my soul. I could not, under any circumstances, let him take me back to that place. My question seemed to give him pause. He fell silent. I pressed my advantage. “I can help you.” That clearly wasn't what he was expecting. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before it was replaced by a look of cynical understanding. “Don’t try to play games with me, Clara.” His tone was glacial, a world away from the warmth and affection he used to shower me with. I sniffled, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. My hands twisted the simple band on my finger. The ring. He’d bought it for me with the very first bonus he earned after starting his own company, after breaking away from his family’s fortune. He’d held me so tight that day, promising to make me the happiest woman in the world. Now, he was sending me to a living hell for another woman without a second thought. Love was a treacherous, incomprehensible thing. But if I didn't understand love, I at least understood Alan Thorne. “Alan, Mia isn’t stupid. As long as we’re legally married, she’ll find out eventually, no matter where you hide me. The only real solution is a divorce. And after we divorce, I can stay in the house, pretend to be the housekeeper, and help you sell the lie. What do you say?” His head snapped up, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You’d really pretend to be a housekeeper?” I met his suspicious gaze and nodded firmly, twice. He didn't believe me. The car continued on its grim path toward the sanatorium. Just as despair began to consume me, Alan, who had been silent with his eyes closed, spoke. “Turn around. Go to City Hall.” A wave of relief washed over me. I wiped the cold sweat from my brow and quickly pledged my loyalty. “Don’t worry. I’ll be the perfect housekeeper. I won’t let anything slip.” A faint smile touched his lips. He took my hand, his grip surprisingly gentle. “I’ll be taking this back for now,” he said, sliding the ring from my finger. “I’ll give it back to you after Mia leaves.” After three years, it was gone. A pale band of skin was all that remained. In that moment, I couldn't remember why I had ever fought so hard to stay with this man, why I had been so unwilling to let him go. 2. As soon as the divorce papers were signed, he was in a hurry to get to the airport to pick up his precious Mia. He had the driver drop me on the side of the road. The post-holiday traffic was a nightmare. I couldn’t get a cab. It took me two hours to walk back to the villa, nestled high in the hills overlooking the city. I had barely sat down, my hand reaching for a glass of water, when Mrs. Gable, the cook, rushed over and snatched the glass away. “Good heavens, Clara, what are you doing lollygagging here?” she clucked, her face a mask of frantic energy. “Mr. Thorne gave explicit instructions. You’re to move all your things from the master bedroom to the storage room today. And Miss Vance’s luggage, which was just delivered, needs to be taken to the guest room with the best sunlight.” She then led me down three flights of stairs to a storage room in the sub-basement. In the three years I had lived in this magnificent villa, I never knew such a dark, cramped, and damp space existed within its walls. “Here. I packed up everything you left in the master bedroom.” Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway, blocking the only source of light, and tossed a heavy canvas bag at my feet. CRACK. The sound of something shattering echoed in the small room. A sickening premonition shot through me. Ignoring the sharp edges, I reached into the bag and carefully pulled out the fragmented remains of a small, porcelain figurine. It was the last thing my mother had left me. A strange numbness spread through me. My hand was bleeding freely from a deep cut, but I couldn’t feel a thing. Mrs. Gable saw the raw hatred in my eyes and took a step back, stammering, “It was Mr. Thorne. He told me to do it.” I forced myself to breathe, to calm the storm raging inside me. “Mrs. Gable,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “When you were caught skimming from the household accounts, I was the one who begged him not to fire you. When your grandson was sick and you needed money for his treatment, I was the one who gave it to you.” Her eyes darted away, unable to meet my gaze. When Alan came home that evening and heard what had happened, he flew into a rage. He fired Mrs. Gable on the spot. For a fleeting moment, my heart, which had turned to stone, felt a flicker of warmth. Maybe, I thought, despite everything, the bond we once shared wasn't completely gone. In the next second, he shattered that naive fantasy. “Clara. Mia is coming over for dinner tomorrow.” “Remember your place. If you screw this up, you know what will happen.” I nodded numbly. He continued, his voice casual. “Oh, and by the way, Mia loves Sichuan food. Cook a couple of dishes tonight. I want to taste them, see if you can get the flavor right for her.” The chili paste stung the open wound on my hand, making it split open again. The water in the sink slowly turned pink. Alan saw it and frowned in annoyance. “Be careful. Don’t get blood on the food. I had those peppers flown in specially from Sichuan.” He had proposed to me in a kitchen just like this one. He’d sworn he would never let me cook, never let me lift a finger. He’d sworn he would protect me from any and all harm. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. A tear fell, then another, creating ripples in the soapy water. Alan closed his eyes and sighed. “Alright, that’s enough. Stop the waterworks. I don’t need Mia showing up tomorrow and thinking I’m some kind of monster for a boss.” I obediently dried my tears and, with hands now pale and puffy from the cold water, returned to my dungeon. Before I slept, I clutched the broken pieces of my mother’s figurine to my chest. “Mom, I can do this,” I whispered into the darkness. “Once Mia Vance leaves, I can finally escape this devil.” 3. The next morning, I was woken by a sharp slap across the face. “Clara, what have you done behind my back?” My head swam, the room spinning. I couldn't even make out his words, just a dull roar in my ears. I mumbled a denial, not even knowing what I was denying. Alan took my confusion for defiance. His anger flared, and he struck me again. “Still playing dumb? If you didn't say anything, then why is Mia asking people about you? Why is she asking about your marital status?” I wanted to argue, but I had nothing to say. How was I supposed to know what Mia Vance was thinking? She had been a mystery in my past life, too. Showing up at the sanatorium out of nowhere, apologizing to my corpse, and then spending a fortune to expose the hospital’s horrific practices. “It wasn't me. I didn’t say anything,” I gasped, his hand now tight around my throat, cutting off my air. “You’ve had me locked in this villa since the day you heard she was coming back. You took my phone. How could I have done anything?” He seemed to consider this. The pressure on my throat slowly eased. I collapsed onto the bed, gulping in air like a drowning dog. “Then why is she asking about you?” Alan muttered, adjusting his glasses as he paced the room. “Unless… you’ve crossed her somewhere before.” “Impossible. I’ve never even met her. How could I have offended her?” I said quickly, my body still trembling, terrified of provoking him further. He let out a cold, humorless laugh. “To be safe, you’ll stay in here today.” Panic seized me. I scrambled off the bed, grabbing at his sleeve. “Alan, no! Please. I have claustrophobia. I… I’ll die if I’m locked in here all day.” He was unmoved, convinced I was faking. He yanked his arm free and locked the door from the outside. “You’re really getting addicted to playing the victim, aren’t you?” As his footsteps faded, I closed my eyes in despair. He was right. The old me, the me before my first death, didn’t have this sickness. It was a parting gift from the sanatorium. I curled into a corner of the room. My breathing grew ragged, my head light. “Let me out! Let me out!” I screamed until my lips were cracked and dry. My fingernails left long, bloody scratches on the heavy wooden door, but no one came. I couldn't get out. But from upstairs, I could hear the faint clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter. I could hear Alan’s deep, booming laugh. I could hear Mia’s clear, bright voice joining his. No. I would not die like this again. Not quietly. Not in the dark. With a final, desperate resolve, I pulled out the lighter I had once given him as a gift, the one he had tossed back at me like trash. I lit the corner of the bedsheet. The fire caught quickly, greedily. Within minutes, thick, black smoke was pouring out from under the door. Just before I lost consciousness, I saw a delicate, fiery figure kick the door down.
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