The summer we graduated, Weston decided he was going to be a star. He signed up for a major televised music competition in LA, ready to throw himself into the spotlight. He didn't ask me to go with him. Instead, he had his roommate tell me to pack my bags. I turned down a prestigious doctoral fellowship and a lucrative corporate offer, following him to California like a shadow. I was there for the grind—from the empty dive bars to the sold-out arenas. I watched him become the country's most coveted artist. And me? I was just the secret wife he never acknowledged. Harassed by his fans. Mocked by his childhood muse. Until the day I died, he never once stood up for me. I spent years drowning in regret, wondering why on earth I had sacrificed my own career for a man who kept me in the dark. Then, the universe hit rewind. I woke up on the morning of my thesis defense. His roommate knocked on my door with a smug grin: "Weston’s heading to LA tomorrow. You better get a move on and start packing." I looked at him, completely numb, and said, "I'm not going to LA." 01 The silence in the room was deafening. My classmates looked back and forth between Weston and me, waiting for me to cave, to take it back. But I just turned to the girl next to me and started chatting about the weather. Weston never asked for anything directly. He used Tyler to do his dirty work, expecting me to anticipate his needs. If I ever felt slighted or expressed hurt, he’d smirk and say, "Didn't you volunteer for this?" It left me utterly speechless. Like right now. He wanted me in LA to manage his life, but he made Tyler deliver the command. Tyler glared at me. "Cora, if you're not going to LA, where else could you possibly go?" "I’m thinking of going abroad," I said, my voice steady. Weston scoffed, a cold chuckle escaping his lips. "Abroad? Since when?" His usual cool, detached facade was slipping. He looked genuinely rattled. "Since now," I replied. His face hardened. Tyler chimed in with a sneer, "Oh, please. The help's kid is putting on airs now? Don't come crying to us when you realize what a massive mistake you're making." "The help's kid." That was their favorite label for me. My dad was the Drakes' personal driver; my mother was their housekeeper. My family’s livelihood depended on their charity. To them, I was born to be second-class. But I didn't let the insult sting. "Give the opportunity to someone who actually wants it," I said smoothly. "Excuse me." I grabbed my bag and walked out. Behind me, I heard the whispers. "What crawled up her sleeve today?" "Don't sweat it, Weston. She’ll come crawling back. She always does." Weston’s voice floated after me, lazy and arrogant. "Who’s sweating? I don't care if she goes or not." He was convinced I was just playing hard to get. I didn't slow down. My heart hammered against my ribs as I bolted back to the dorm. Sitting at my desk, I opened my laptop. There, sitting in my inbox, was the official offer letter from the Silicon Valley firm. The tears came hot and fast. It was real. I was back. I was twenty-two, and the future was mine to rewrite. 02 In my past life, I followed him to LA. He won the competition, signed with a major label, and became an overnight sensation. I turned down every job offer, every academic path, to become his glorified assistant. Then, we got married. There was no ceremony, no diamond ring, no public announcement. He forbade me from telling anyone. "Just wait," he’d whisper in the dark. "Once my career stabilizes, I'll give you the wedding of your dreams." His fans hated how close I was to him. They called me a social climber, a leech trying to hitch a ride on a star. Even my friends warned me: "He can have any beautiful woman in Hollywood. What makes you think you can keep him?" I swallowed the humiliation. Even my own parents didn't know we were married. When I turned thirty, we were still a secret. My parents were frantic. My mother wept, begging me to let Weston go and move on with my life. Seeing her heartbroken, I finally begged Weston to at least let us break the news to our families. He sighed, claiming his mother would never accept it. "We have to wait a few more years for the right moment," he said. "Unless... you want to go tell her yourself?" He knew I wouldn't. Mrs. Drake was my ultimate terror. I had been a left-behind child in the countryside. Every summer, my parents would bring me to the city to live with them for two months. We lived in the damp basement of the Drakes' massive estate. My mother constantly whispered in my ear: "Be useful. Keep quiet. Don't make a sound, or they'll kick us out." I grew up terrified of being thrown away. Especially by Mrs. Drake. She’d sit on her plush velvet sofa, looking down her nose at me, criticizing how skinny, dark, and clumsy I was. If she found out I had married her precious son, she would have torn me to shreds. I had no leverage. No spine. I waited year after year, watching Weston collect awards and build a financial empire. I died without ever getting my wedding, or my name next to his. 03 I pulled out my phone and immediately canceled my train ticket to LA. I opened Instagram. Weston had just posted a video of himself playing a violin track. The caption read: "As it always was." It was a message meant for Scarlett Ward. Five years into our marriage, Scarlett returned from Europe. That was when I realized she existed—the ghost that had always occupied the corners of his mind. When they were together, they laughed and talked endlessly. For the first time, I realized Weston wasn't cold; he just wasn't warm to me. Soon, they became partners. From hit singles to music videos, world tours to indie films, they were inseparable. He was the brilliant actor-singer; she was the prodigy violinist. The media called them a match made in heaven. Even his fans embraced her, calling her the "real" Mrs. Drake. And he never corrected them. I had always felt like an imposter next to him. Being married to him felt like a lottery ticket I hadn't earned. It happened during his third year in the industry, back when he was still struggling. He got a slot to perform at a major gala, but someone spiked his drink backstage. Desperate not to lose his shot, he begged me to help him through it. In that dark backstage room, terrified of losing everything, he clung to me. That night, we crossed a line. The next day, he took me to the courthouse to get registered. I knew it wasn't out of love. I felt guilty, like I had taken advantage of his vulnerability. So when Scarlett reappeared, my insecurity flared like a wildfire. I threw tantrums, I picketed his studio. He merely shrugged it off. "It's just PR, Cora. You're being paranoid." Once, after they spent the entire night locked in his study, I lost my mind and confronted her in public. Weston was furious. "Cora, do you have nothing better to do with your life? Scarlett lives for her art. Your baseless accusations are bordering on slander!" Scarlett had only smiled, a soft, patronizing thing. "It’s fine, Weston. I don't hold grudges against housewives." Her pity was sharper than any knife. It left me raw, humiliated, and utterly silent. 04 I had even secretly taken vocal lessons, foolishly believing it would give us something to talk about. But Scarlett caught me practicing once. She mimicked my awkward pitch and clumsy posture to Weston, giggling behind her hand. "I’m sorry, Weston. Her pronunciation was just so bizarre. I couldn't help myself." Weston rubbed his temples, looking thoroughly exhausted. "It’s embarrassing. Like a monkey trying to paint." I stood frozen outside the door, tears of pure shame burning my eyes. I ran back to my room and tore the sheet music to pieces. Later, Scarlett brought up my "music phase" at dinner parties, prompting polite, mocking chuckles from his industry friends. I had to force a smile and say, "It was too hard. I gave up on it a long time ago." Within a year of her return, they started playing up their romantic chemistry for the cameras. I used to be Weston’s manager and assistant. I handled everything—booking gigs, managing contracts, dealing with publicists. His rise hadn't been easy. The Drakes were comfortable in our mid-sized hometown, but their money was nothing compared to the millions required to bankroll a star. I endured the grittiest parts of the hustle with him. But Scarlett insisted he needed a "professional team." One by one, my responsibilities were handed over to slick agency executives. Until I was locked out entirely. I watched them walk red carpets together, dropping hints about their shared history. I grew bitter, jealous, and unrecognizable to myself. Scarlett would tease Weston about me: "Look at the mess she made. She’s only a liability." Then she’d turn her pitying gaze to me. "Weston works so hard, Cora. If you can't help him, at least don't drag him down. A woman needs her own identity. Clinging to a man never works." She was a terrible person, but she wasn't wrong. Back then, I remember wishing with every fiber of my being that if I could do it all over, I would never let Weston Drake into my life. Thank God someone was listening. Now, the tech giant’s offer is still waiting in my inbox. I actually have a choice. 05 I slept terribly that night. Scarlett’s sneering face kept flashing behind my eyelids. "Your marriage was a mistake from the start, Cora. Do yourself a favor and leave with some dignity." She had spoken with such authority, as if I were the mistress and she the aggrieved wife. I had stared at her, dumbfounded. "Oh, does that hurt? Or are you just bitter? Having sex with him in a filthy backstage bathroom... I don't know if I should call you desperate or cheap. No wonder he refuses to tell the world you're his wife." I hadn't realized Weston viewed that night with such disgust. Even worse, he had shared our private, intimate moments with Scarlett. It felt like being stripped naked and paraded in front of my worst enemy. My chest felt tight, my face hot, my throat closing up. She had leaned her chin on her hand, smiling like a cat. "Don't you think that whole 'spiked drink' incident was a little too convenient? Weston and I both think the timing was absolutely perfect. It makes you wonder, doesn't it?" The accusation hit me like a physical blow. He suspected me? How dare he? By then, my depression had already spiraled out of control. I couldn't remember what she said next. My mind had dissolved into white noise. I remember driving home in a daze, my hands shaking on the wheel. Then, the blinding headlights, the screech of tires against the guardrail, the crushing impact. When my soul detached from my body, I saw my parents. They were sobbing, their faces gray with grief. They had spent their entire lives, breaking their backs, just to raise me. And I had given them nothing but a corpse. The regret was a physical weight. I regretted my weakness, my surrendered career, my obsession with a boy who never loved me. Because my spirit was bound by resentment, I couldn't cross over. I watched Weston and Scarlett’s lavish wedding. I watched him tell reporters about their "eternal love story," how they were childhood sweethearts separated by distance but never in heart. They admitted they were essentially dating on the studio's dime. Scarlett even boasted that the years after her return had been the sweetest of her life. Even in death, the betrayal cut to the bone. 06 I woke up sobbing several times during the night. When dawn finally broke, I gave up on sleep. I got up and washed my face. The dark circles under my eyes were heavy, so I took extra time to apply concealer and makeup. My roommate, Taylor, watched me from her bed, letting out a sharp laugh. "I thought you weren't going to LA, Cora? Getting up at dawn to put on a full face of makeup? You're such a hypocrite." I knew it. None of them had believed me yesterday. I didn't bother explaining. I packed my bags and got into a cab. Maeve sent me a furious voice note. "Cora! Where is your spine? If I had been in the dorm, I would have locked you in! Are you seriously going to LA?" Maeve had always detested Weston. She thought he was a pretentious, self-righteous snob. She forwarded me a few screenshots. It was a photo Taylor had taken of me packing, posted in their joint group chat—the one that included Weston's roommates, but excluded me. "Relax guys, she was just bluffing. She’s already on her way." The replies were brutal. "Lmao, I actually thought she had a spine for a second. The help's kid trying to act like she’s going abroad." "And now she's slinking back to LA." "Whatever. Weston, don't be too hard on her. You need someone to do your laundry anyway. Having her around saves you a lot of trouble." "Make her wait at the station for a few hours. Teach her a lesson." Maeve was breathing heavily in the audio. "Cora, I want to rip your head open and see what’s inside! Cancel the ticket! They’re literally laughing at you, and you're just running to them?" I smiled and texted her a screenshot of my actual ticket. "Calm down, babe. I’m on a train to Chicago." "I have a visa interview." 07 My job offer was based in Silicon Valley, which meant I needed a visa. The nearest consulate was in Chicago. I slept soundly on the train ride. When I woke up, my phone was practically vibrating off the seat. 99+ missed calls. 99+ unread messages. At first, they were demanding to know where I was. Then, the tone shifted to anger, accusing me of being irresponsible and leaving Weston stranded. I laughed, typing out cold, biting replies to every single person who had insulted me, and then blocked them one by one. I had planned to keep up appearances until graduation, but they had made that impossible. Weston didn't get his personal assistant. He had to board the flight to LA alone. He didn't call. He just sent a single text: "?" Typical Weston. Our chat history was a sea of green bubbles on my side—long, frantic paragraphs of me checking in on him—and short, icy fragments from him. This time, I left him on read. I knew what lay ahead for him. In LA, he would meet his mentor. He would sign with a powerhouse agency, release his debut single, and rocket to fame. Later, his looks and brooding intensity would land him leading roles in film, making him an Oscar-winning superstar before thirty. His path was paved with gold. But I wouldn't be the pavement anymore. 08 The visa interview went smoothly. I took the train back to my hometown that same evening. The moment I saw my parents standing on the platform, the dam broke. I threw my arms around my mother and sobbed. She patted my back, utterly bewildered. My parents were simple, quiet people. They didn't know how to navigate big emotions, let alone express them. "What’s wrong, sweetheart? Why are you crying?" "Nothing," I choked out. "I just... I missed you guys so much." "But we just saw you at Easter," my mother said, touching my forehead to check for a fever. She had no idea that in my mind, it had been a lifetime since I last held her. In my previous life, after I died, my parents aged ten years overnight. When my mother was packing up my belongings, she found our secret marriage certificate. By then, Weston had already gone public with Scarlett, flaunting their romance on every late-night show. My parents, fueled by a rare, desperate courage, took that certificate to the Drake estate to demand answers. But Mrs. Drake only spat on them. She tore the paper to shreds and screamed, "Your daughter was a shameless leech who drugged my son and forged a fake certificate! Thank God she died before she could ruin him completely!" "Shut up! Our Cora would never do that!" My parents, who had spent their entire lives bowing their heads and telling me to stay humble, fought like wild animals that day. When the security guards dragged my mother away, they broke her wrist, but she refused to let go of the torn pieces of my marriage certificate. She didn't know the marriage was registered in public records. She just wanted to protect her daughter's dignity. My father was left bleeding from his temple. Now, looking at their dark, thick hair and their unwrinkled faces, a wave of profound relief washed over me. They were still whole. 09 Three days after I got home, Weston showed up. In my past life, the singing competition lasted for over a month. We hadn't even made it back for graduation. There was absolutely no reason for him to be in our hometown right now. He walked down the gravel driveway, his tall frame cutting through the afternoon light. But as he drew closer, I noticed something was off. His posture, the heavy, desperate look in his eyes... This wasn't a twenty-two-year-old boy. This was... "Cora," he whispered. My brain went completely numb. "What are you doing here?" "You blocked me," he said, his voice raw. "I had to come find you." He tried to smile, but his eyes were dark and haunted. That look. I knew it instantly. Before Scarlett had returned in our past life, Weston and I had actually found a rhythm. He started helping me with dinner. He bought tickets to Tahiti because I mentioned I’d never seen the ocean. He’d leave designer handbags on my vanity, and wrap his arms around my waist from behind, whispering my name. We were almost happy. Until Scarlett came back and shattered the illusion. I stared at him, cold and silent. "I've been having these... dreams," Weston said, taking a step closer. "Every night for the past week. Terrible, vivid dreams." "And when I wake up, my chest hurts so bad I can't breathe." "Cora... I regret it."
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