For five years, I belonged to Donovan Black. The pretty thing he kept in a gilded cage. In my first life, I made the mistake of listening to the whispers of other girls like me. I let myself believe that his affection was turning into love, and I did everything I could to make him propose. I became a nightmare when Camilla Rhodes, the one who always had a hold on him, came back to the States. I picked fights, I made scenes. In the end, I succeeded only in getting myself killed. Two bodies in one grave, me and our unborn child. Not long after I was gone, Donovan and Camilla had the wedding of the decade. I became a cautionary tale, a punchline about the girl who dreamed too big. When I woke up, I was back in the bed where I first asked Donovan if he loved me. The man beside me, his breathing still evening out from our lovemaking, turned his head on the pillow. "What did you say?" The first time around, I hadn't noticed the frost in his tone. I’d just snuggled deeper into his arms and asked if he could spend more time with me. Hearing those words again, a flash of memory seared through my mind: Donovan's face at my cremation, the look of a man relieved to finally be rid of a piece of trash. I slapped my own mouth twice, lightly, and manufactured a blush. "Oh my god, I'm so blissed out I'm not even making sense," I murmured. "I meant to ask if you loved the soup I made tonight. If you did, I can make it again tomorrow." 1. Shock flickered in Donovan’s eyes. He clearly wasn't expecting a post-coital performance review from me, the woman who usually went shy and silent in these moments. But it was that very boldness, those unexpected words, that made a man as meticulous as Donovan overlook the question I had actually asked. In my first life, when I'd asked him to spend more time with me, he'd mistaken it for the sweet nothings of a woman high on passion. So, he'd casually replied, "Alright. From now on, I'll take you wherever I go." That one simple sentence was all it took to fertilize the ambition in my heart. It made me believe, with every fiber of my being, that Donovan Black loved me too; he just hadn't realized it yet. "The soup was good," Donovan's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "It settled my stomach." As his words registered, I instinctively grabbed a silk robe, covering myself. I told him I was heading to the kitchen to prep for the next day's breakfast. The moment I was out of his line of sight, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. While I busied myself in the vast, stainless-steel kitchen, I started to sort through the chaotic fragments in my mind. I couldn't remember why I'd been given a second chance, only that it was a precious, fragile thing. And one thought was branded onto my soul, a mantra I couldn't escape: Don't be a fool for love. Don't you ever fall for a man again. Aside from making myself beautiful and making good food, I didn't have many talents. I wasn’t particularly sharp; I believed whatever anyone told me. That was my fatal flaw. It was because of that flaw that, in my past life, I let the goading from other women in my position make me forget my place. I became more and more demanding, more and more of a problem. Only after my death did I learn the truth about Tiffany, the so-called friend whose real name I never even knew. She had approached me with an agenda from the very beginning. Her benefactor, a man named Mr. Sterling, did business with Donovan. We met at a gallery opening, a brief, forgettable encounter for me. But Mr. Sterling remembered me. He mentioned to Tiffany, more than once, how striking I was. And for that, she hated me. Then there was Camilla Rhodes. The woman who had gone abroad to study long before I ever met Donovan. She heard about me from her friends back home. The idea of Donovan keeping me around for so many years infuriated her, but she considered it beneath herself to deal with me directly. So, after doing a little digging into my personality—my naivete, my insecurities—she found Tiffany. She paid Tiffany to "teach" me how to win more of Donovan's affection. Every piece of advice Tiffany gave me was perfectly designed to make Donovan slowly, but surely, grow tired of me. And so, that winter, just a few months later—on my way to tell Donovan that I was pregnant and demand he make me his wife—I was hit by a speeding truck. I died on impact. After my death, Tiffany, who had already been cast aside by Mr. Sterling, took the massive "thank you" payment I’d given her and went back to her hometown to get married. Camilla, who had orchestrated everything from a distance, finally won Donovan's heart for good. They had a son and a daughter. And me? I was the one who got greedy because I just wanted to be loved. In the end, I went to my grave without ever hearing Donovan Black say he even liked me. Playing the whole tragedy back in my mind, I took a deep, painful breath and resolved to do my job, serve my time, and wait for the day Donovan finally let me go. Afraid I might forget, that I might still harbor some foolish hope for him, I found the old notebook I used for recipes. I flipped to the last page and started to write. August 27th: Never forget the pain of your soul burning. It's not shameful to be starved for love, but don't lose your life over scraps from someone else's table. … Despite going to bed late, I was up at 5:30 the next morning. I worked without a break, preparing a full breakfast spread. Just as Donovan came downstairs, showered and dressed, I was placing a pot of slow-simmered herbal broth on the table. He stared at the array of dishes covering half the dining table, a dozen small plates filled with everything from omelets to fresh pastries. He was silent for a few seconds before he asked, "Alright, what do you want?" Cooking was my primary tool for pleasing him, but in five years, I’d almost exclusively made him dinner. Never before had I sacrificed my beauty sleep just to ensure he had a good meal before leaving for the office. 2. Worried the smell of cooking oil clung to me, I stood a careful distance away from him. "You mentioned before that I should find something to do, to keep me from embarrassing you when I'm out, right?" I watched his expression for any change. Seeing none, I continued, "Since you think my cooking is decent, what if I opened a restaurant? It's really the only skill I have that's worth anything." I didn't want to waste this second chance. I wanted to build something for myself, to prepare for a life after Donovan. He began to eat his breakfast, quietly, not saying a word. I took the hint and didn't press him. Donovan was a better man than the ones my peers were with, but he had the same flaw most of them did: a severe case of male chauvinism. Once, I was at a spa with another girl and missed his text. He froze my credit cards and confined me to the penthouse for three days as punishment for ignoring him. Knowing him as I did, I knew he wouldn't accept me doing anything that wasn't under his control. I couldn't just start a business without his permission. That's why I'd woken up at dawn, why I'd cooked this feast. It was all a calculated plea for his approval to go out and make my own money. Donovan was generous, and in this new life, I hadn't asked him for anything yet. If he agreed to the restaurant, his support would come with funding and connections. That was my real goal. Even though I knew my death in the last life was my own doing, Donovan was the catalyst. He was the one who had warped me into someone I wasn't. His pockets were deep. Making him shoulder some of the responsibility for my early demise didn't seem unreasonable, did it? Fleecing him for a little startup capital while I was still under his roof... surely that was understandable. Donovan left for work without giving any opinion on my "sudden" ambition. I wasn't worried. Camilla wasn't due back for another month. If once didn't work, I'd just have to try again. After he left, I went out too. First, I went to the bank to check the balance of the "salary" I'd accumulated from him over the years. Then I split the money, seventy-thirty. The larger portion went into a new, separate account. The rest I designated as my operating capital. I hadn't gotten any smarter. But my past life had taught me one thing: trust no one. I was eighty percent sure Donovan would help me, but you can never account for that last twenty percent. From the bank, I went to a restaurant I used to frequent. In the past, I'd always gone to try their new dishes. Today, I studied the prices on the menu, the decor, the thousand little details most customers overlook. The owner recognized me. Seeing me sitting alone for so long, he came over to say hello. Thinking of all the mistakes I might make without Donovan's help, I summoned my courage and started asking him for advice, to "learn from the master." He was surprisingly kind, not at all bothered that I was trying to steal his secrets. He shared story after story of the pitfalls he’d encountered since opening his own place. I went home with a phone that had died from taking so many notes. When I plugged it in, a message popped up on the screen, identical to the one from my last life: Nancy, how did it go? Did you ask Mr. Black if he loves you like I told you to? Nancy. That was the name he'd given me. I didn't reply. I just deleted Tiffany's contact and blocked her number. Truthfully, I didn't hate her that much. She was instrumental in my early death, yes, but ultimately, it was my own stupidity that sealed my fate. If I had been just a little bit smarter, a little less easily swayed by others, my life wouldn't have ended that way. Besides, I vaguely remembered a voice, just before I came back, whispering to me: Everything has a cause and effect. Don't seek revenge. Those who harmed you will face their own consequences. Don't waste the precious chance you've been given on a moment's satisfaction. Because of that, my heart had remained peaceful. I kept reminding myself: I came back to live a long, full life for myself. No one was going to derail that plan. 3. When Donovan came home that evening, he handed me a folder. I froze when I saw the title on the first page: Restaurant Development Proposal. "I spoke to a few friends in the restaurant business at lunch. This is a plan based on their collective experience," he said. "It's rare for you to want something like this. Study it. If you have any questions, you can come to me anytime." I clutched the folder and nodded dumbly. Mumbling an excuse about wanting to read it right away, I hurried back to the bedroom. I found my recipe notebook hidden under the bed, flipped to the back, and wrote under yesterday's entry: August 28th: So he's shown you kindness. That means the person you once loved had some good in him. But that's all. There are a million other sights to see, a million other meals to taste. Learn to love yourself. Put yourself first. Closing the notebook, I felt the frantic beating of my heart finally begin to slow. The reason I’d fallen for Tiffany's lies so easily in my last life was simple: I had already fallen in love with Donovan long before. Falling for your benefactor is the cardinal sin in our line of work. But I couldn't control it. To keep him from finding out and getting rid of me, I had to suppress it, to act indifferent. But emotions are like that; the more you push them down, the more powerfully they spring back. So when someone told me that Donovan treated me differently than other women, that he might actually have feelings for me, I gambled everything. I dropped the mask and never put it back on. By the time I opened the proposal, my heart was completely calm. Combining the advice from the restaurant owner with the detailed contents of Donovan's plan, a clear vision for my restaurant began to form in my mind. After noting down a few points I didn't understand, I went to find Donovan in his study to have them clarified. Seeing that I had genuine questions, he raised an eyebrow. "So, you're serious about this? I'm impressed by the effort." I just smiled and didn't say anything, diligently taking notes as he explained the complexities of payroll and supply chains. "Do you have any thoughts on the location and concept for the restaurant?" he asked as I was about to leave. After a moment's thought, I decided to share what I’d learned from the restaurant owner. "There's a coffee shop on Waverly Place that's up for sale, only been open for three months. It's right near a major shopping street and two universities. The foot traffic is incredible. I was planning to go look at it tomorrow. If it checks out, I want to open my restaurant there." Donovan looked at me, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "You seem to be in a hurry." I was. The process from site selection to design and renovation was a long one. If I went through the entire process from scratch, my restaurant wouldn't be open by the end of the year. I’d heard about this coffee shop. The decor was modern and appealed to a younger crowd, perfectly matching my target demographic. If the owner's family hadn't run into a sudden financial crisis, they wouldn't be selling so quickly. If I could take over the lease, I would only need to change the layout, which would save an enormous amount of time. I needed to get as much done as possible before Camilla came back. That way, even if Donovan's help disappeared, I'd be in a much better position. But obviously, I couldn't tell him that. "It's not easy to find a space that fits on every level," I said. "When you find one, you have to act fast." Hearing this, Donovan nodded in agreement. "I'll have Arthur go with you tomorrow. If you like it, we'll lock it down. Don't worry about the price. It's not often you ask for anything. Consider the shop a gift from me." I certainly wasn't going to refuse. Arthur was incredibly competent. With his help, everything from price negotiation to signing the contracts was done in half a day. From that moment on, I poured nearly every ounce of my energy into my restaurant. Though I was happy with the coffee shop's existing design, some changes were necessary to meet the needs of a full-service restaurant. Arthur recommended a rising-star interior designer, and by the time she had the new blueprints ready, the construction crew Arthur had sourced was already on standby. I was leaving before dawn and coming home long after dark. For over two weeks, I barely exchanged more than a few words with Donovan. 4. One evening, I walked in to find Donovan, who usually sequestered himself in his study, sitting on the living room sofa watching television. He stood up, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, took my bag from my shoulder, and asked how the restaurant preparations were going. I was so exhausted I didn't even register what he'd done. It wasn't until I was in the shower that it hit me: the easy way he'd greeted me, the casual conversation... it was all eerily similar to how a normal husband and wife might interact. After my shower, while Donovan was on the phone on the terrace, I quickly found my recipe book. I'd been running on fumes for weeks, usually falling into bed the moment I got home. On the rare nights when a thought of Donovan stirred something in me, I'd immediately jot down a warning to myself in my phone's notes app. I took a moment now to transcribe those frantic notes into the notebook. Then I added today's entry: September 16th: Less than two weeks left until everything goes back to the way it was. Remember who you are. Stop dreaming. Work harder. Don't let these small moments get to you. I shoved the notebook back into its hiding place and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the moon outside the window. I knew this was a foolish way to guard my heart. But it was the only way I could think of. A slow, painful desensitization until the day finally came. "Why aren't you in bed? What's on your mind?" Donovan's voice startled me. I quickly pulled myself together. "Nothing. The renovations are moving fast. I was just thinking if there were any details I might have overlooked." He nodded without comment. After he lay down, he spoke suddenly into the quiet room. "When I came home today, the housekeeper mentioned that Sterling's girl has been coming by to see you. When did you two get so close?" Hearing his dismissive name for Tiffany, a sharp pain lanced through my chest. I subtly rubbed the spot over my heart. "We're not close," I said, feigning indifference. "She started saying all this weird stuff, so I blocked her. I have no idea why she keeps showing up." Donovan made a soft "hmm" sound. "She's probably trying to get close to you on Sterling's orders. Ignoring her is the right move. Stay away from people like that." He rolled over and went to sleep. But I lay awake for a long time, the words "people like that" echoing in my head. For the next week or so, I made a point to leave earlier than Donovan and come home later, minimizing our contact. During that time, I heard from Arthur that Donovan had unilaterally terminated his partnership with Mr. Sterling. A few days later, I saw chatter in a group chat with some of the other girls. Tiffany had been confronted by Mr. Sterling's wife. She was beaten, stripped naked, and thrown into the park across from her apartment. They said she'd lost her mind by the time someone found her. Seeing her fate, so drastically different from the last time, made my chest feel tight. A chill ran down my spine. The day Camilla Rhodes flew back into the country, one of the girls tagged me in the group chat: Nancy, the real one's back. You better watch your step. Don't end up like Tiffany. I didn't reply. I just left the group. On this day in my last life, Donovan went to the airport to pick Camilla up and didn't come home all night. So I wasn't in any hurry to get back. I ordered takeout, sat in my nearly finished restaurant, and drank until I was pleasantly drunk. It was just before midnight when I finally stood outside the penthouse door. The moment I stepped inside, the alcohol buzz vanished. There, on the sofa, was the man who was supposed to be with Camilla. He was leaning back with his eyes closed, and in his hand was my recipe notebook. After a long, heavy silence, Donovan opened his eyes. His gaze was dark and intense as he stared at me. He held up the notebook. "Come here," he said, his face a mask of neutrality. "We need to talk."
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