After another grueling night of Francis Harris having his way with me in bed, a new woman with an innocent look showed up at the villa. She had a slender figure, yet her chest was anything but modest, the kind of body that screamed fertility. Back straight, arms crossed, she looked me up and down. "I'm here to take over your job of bearing Mr. Harris's child," she announced. "A hen that can't even lay an egg in three years? You've been replaced. So take the money and get out of here while you still can." She expected me to break down and beg to stay. But I nearly laughed out loud. Finally, I could get away from that pervert. If it weren't for my sister Isabel's medical bills, I would never have signed that contract with the Harris family, the one that bound me to him until I gave him a child. I'd have run far, far away long ago. To the outside world, Francis was every bit the gentleman, polished, charming, well-mannered. But behind closed doors, he was a monster with moods as unpredictable as a storm. When he was pleased, he'd casually drop millions on jewelry and shower me with gifts. When he wasn't... he'd lash me with his belt while taking me, leaving marks all over my body — some big, some small. Every single time. Being his mistress was worse than being his servant.

I was reborn to the day after Richard Davis's car accident, the day he claimed he'd lost his memory and insisted on marrying the love of his life instead of me. This time, I didn't scream, cry, or fight. I simply nodded and signed the divorce papers. In my previous life, when Richard demanded a divorce after his "memory loss," I refused to let him go. I fought him every step of the way. I even posted photos of his first love, Lydia Walker, all over social media, exposing her as a homewrecker who knowingly chased a married man. The public backlash destroyed her. Unable to bear the humiliation, Lydia hastily married an older man. She died giving birth not long afterward. The day she died was our wedding anniversary. Richard missed the last phone call she ever made. The night he learned she was gone, he drank himself unconscious. After that, he grew colder toward me with every passing year. For the next forty years, every anniversary, he spent the day holding Lydia's photo instead of celebrating with me. He punished me for forty years. I punished myself for forty years. Only on my deathbed did I learn the truth. Richard had never lost his memory. The whole thing had been a lie so he could marry the girl he'd loved since he was young and make up for the regret he'd carried all those years. "If it weren't for you, Lydia wouldn't have died. Sharon, if there's a next life, let me be with Lydia." When I opened my eyes again and looked at Richard pretending to have amnesia in that hospital bed, I signed the divorce papers without a second thought. This time, I was letting him go. And I was finally letting myself go, too.

Everyone knew Ethan Ward loved me more than his own life. During the three years I disappeared, he turned the entire city upside down searching for me. He even swore that anyone who could bring me back would get his entire business empire. When I finally returned, he refused to fall asleep before I did. Every single night, he waited until I was fast asleep before closing his eyes, terrified that if he slept first, I'd disappear all over again. I used to tease him for being clingy. He'd just smile, kiss me, and leave marks on my skin that belonged to him alone. I thought I was the happiest woman in the world. Until that night, when Ethan never came home. The next morning, I received a photo. In it, Ethan was holding a woman who looked about 70% like me, kissing her with desperate intensity. The madness burning in his eyes was something I'd never once seen when he looked at me. That was when I learned the truth. She was the substitute he found during the three years I was gone. While I was missing, he slept with her every night, in the bed that belonged to us. I waited for him in numb silence. An entire day and night passed before he finally came home. His eyes were bloodshot. The moment he saw me, he grabbed my shoulders so hard it hurt. "Freda, Doris has a rare blood type. You're the only one who can save her. Don't worry. I've hired the best doctors in the world. You'll be fine. Once she's recovered, we'll go back to living our life together." I was heartbroken. The man who used to lose sleep over the tiniest scratch on me was now asking me to donate my blood to his mistress. What he didn't know was there wasn't a single drop of blood left in my body. I had died in a car crash three years ago. The only reason I could return was that I'd become a vampire.