Evander Parker never told people what I did for a living unless they asked. And if someone did ask, he always answered before I could. "She runs a small studio and does some clothing design." To him, the high-end intimate apparel I design was nothing more than "something sexy for the bedroom". We'd been together for 3 years. He'd always been courteous and considerate with everyone else, but when it came to me, his prejudice was impossible to miss. "Elowen, what you do isn't design." I opened my studio last year. This year, through my own hard work, I won the National Intimate Apparel Design Competition Gold Award. I gave him an invitation to the awards show as soon as I received it. All he said was, "It's not really appropriate for me to attend something like that." A second later, Chloe Reed texted him. Chloe: Evander, I'm doing my first runway show since coming home. Want to come? Chloe, a famous model and a regular at major fashion weeks, was also his first love.

At the welcome banquet, Mason Calloway fastened a genuine diamond necklace he had brought back from Paris around Vivian Monroe's neck, his first love. Then he turned to me and handed me a blue velvet box. "This pearl is for you, Celia. It's just as sparkly, and it makes a great cheap substitute." Everyone at the table stared at me, Celia Whitmore, waiting for the stand-in to burst into tears. I weighed the pathetic little stone in my hand before hurling it straight at Mason's forehead. "If you can't afford it, just say so! If you can't buy two real diamond necklaces, then what's the point of playing this ridiculous 'stand-in romance' game?" I retorted. "Trying to fool people with a fake? Are you deliberately trying to piss both of us off?" Vivian froze in shock. I immediately linked my arm through hers. "You see him clearly now, right? He's so stingy that he can't even give a decent gift. Just imagine how much you'll have to put up with if you marry into his family someday." I scoffed. "Come on. Let's max out his supplementary card." That night, I dragged Vivian from one jewelry counter to the next and cleaned out the entire mall. Mason chased after us, his forehead beaded with sweat, while I lectured Vivian. "From now on, whenever he gives you a gift, there have to be two identical ones, and both better be top-of-the-line! If he ever tries to pass off cheap junk as something valuable, he's nothing but a broke poser." Vivian nodded vigorously. On Valentine's Day, Mason was so distraught that he actually knelt down in front of the Hermes counter and wailed, "Come on! There's no way you can find two identical copies of this discontinued bag, right?"

When I learned that my mother-in-law had been in a car accident, I called my husband right away. "Mom needs 500,000 dollars for surgery. I don't have enough in my account." But all he said was, "My money is for venture capital, not charity. The online loan I sent you has a low interest rate. Apply for it yourself." I was about to explain when I saw his assistant on television, giving an acceptance speech. "Thank you to my boss for believing in me and supporting me. I'll do everything I can to make this new firm a success!" My husband, who usually barely cracked a smile, looked at her with undisguised affection. "I'm only investing 5,000,000 dollars. Don't put too much pressure on yourself. If you lose it, I'll cover it." In that moment, I finally understood. It wasn't that he couldn't afford it. He just didn't think I was worth 500,000 dollars. My mother-in-law's life wasn't worth that much to him, either. But why, at her funeral, did he cry and tell me he'd been wrong?

Once we were married, my husband thought I spent too freely, so he hired his childhood sweetheart, an award‑winning housekeeper, to manage our finances. From afternoon coffee with other ladies to buying jewelry at auctions, I had to submit applications to the housekeeper for everything, going through round after round of sign‑offs before I could get any money. Then my mother‑in‑law suddenly had a heart attack and urgently needed $300,000 for surgery. I made over a dozen calls but couldn’t reach my husband, so I had to go to the housekeeper to apply for funds. But she didn’t even look at me, and said flippantly while scrolling through videos on her phone. "You can have the money, but we can't break the rules. Write an application first and let me review it." Normally, applying for funds was next to impossible—even 20 dollars for afternoon coffee took half a day to get approved. But thinking of my mother‑in‑law waiting in the hospital for this life‑saving money, I immediately wrote the application. "This is a matter of life and death—every second counts!" But that housekeeper threw the application at my face. "Who are you trying to fool with so few words? Do you think $300,000 is $30?" I was so anxious my voice trembled. "Ms. Prescott, it's clearly written that this is money for saving a life. Please make an exception!" Ember Prescott didn't care at all and bookmarked the video. "Rules are rules. Applications for large sums must be at least three thousand words. Don't come back until it's done. You want to save your mother? Then do as you're told and rewrite one that's actually up to standard."

When I got home, my boyfriend didn't even bother getting off the cheerleader. Just because I was his doormat girlfriend, I had to put up with it if I didn't want to break up. Even as I listened to their passionate panting, I got a text from my family nagging me to get married. So I immediately dumped the boyfriend I'd been playing the doormat for three years and started going on blind dates back home. A friend asked me, "You like Ralph so much. Can you really get over him?" I scoffed, "I'm not stupid. He's fine for a casual fling, but if I actually married him, wouldn't I be miserable for life?" But then, from beside me, a dark and familiar voice suddenly cut in, "So that's your excuse for dumping me?"

I walked out of the hospital clutching the test report, my expression grim. My fiancé glanced at the report and immediately spotted several words that seemed to jump off the page: Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS. He said nothing. But when we got home, he prepared a table filled with all my favorite dishes. After we finished eating, he looked at me solemnly. "Alice, there's no cure for this disease. My company has only just gotten off the ground. It would be incredibly difficult for me to take care of you after we get married, and I can't bear to watch you become completely disabled." He paused before continuing, "Let's call off the engagement." I froze, staring at him blankly. He went on, his voice gentle and sincere. "If I were the one who was sick, I'd support you in calling off the engagement, too. I would never ask you to throw away your bright future because of me. Alice, I hope you can understand." Of course, I understood him. So I nodded. "Okay. Let's call off the engagement, then." He seemed relieved. But there was one thing he had gotten terribly wrong. I wasn't the one who was sick.

"Rachel, you need to take care of yourself. Stay strong."   I took the death certificate from my best friend, Megan, and called the crematorium.   "My husband just died. I need him cremated right away."   In my past life, I'd been too grief‑stricken to think clearly. I'd cried until I passed out.   By the time I woke up, he'd already been cremated.   While I was still crying over his ashes, the debt collectors showed up at my door.   That was when I found out he'd left me with millions in debt.   10 years later, I was scavenging through trash when my dead husband pulled up in a luxury car—his arm around Megan.   He tossed a coin at me. "Rachel, thanks for clearing all my debts and taking care of my mother all these years. Here's one dollar. That should cover it."   The shock was too much. I coughed up blood and died on the spot.   When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the hospital—the day he'd been rushed in for a stroke.   I looked at the sheet-covered body on the bed and smiled coldly.   'Since you loved playing dead so much, this time—I'll make sure you stay dead.'

I was the world's leading surgeon. People said there wasn't a surgery I couldn't perform. In my previous life, I restored Brian Miller's paralyzed legs. Only afterward did I learn that the Miller family had publicly declared that whoever cured Brian would become the future Mrs. Miller. Brian was forced to marry me. Meanwhile, his childhood sweetheart, Cathy Green, died in a car accident on our wedding day. On the night of our wedding, Brian dragged me to the morgue to see Cathy's body, preserved in formaldehyde. He held a knife to my throat and snarled, "Cathy and I were in love. Why did you have to operate on me? You killed her! Aren't you the world's greatest surgeon, Lillian? Bring Cathy back to life!" As blood poured from my body, I begged weakly, "Cathy is already dead. I can save the living, but I can't bring the dead back to life." But Brian refused to listen. He stood there and watched me bleed to death. After I died, he threw my body to a pack of wild dogs. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day the Miller family invited me to treat Brian. Looking at the man sitting in the wheelchair, his face dark with resentment, I smiled. "Sorry. I can't help."

As the heir of the Coppola family, I had been kept hidden from the public eye since childhood. After finishing my economics degree in Lorenzia City and returning home as an adult, my grandfather suddenly insisted that he had already chosen my future husband.   The moment I stepped back into the country, he dragged me straight to the Leone Family to finalize the engagement.   I couldn't stand the endless polite greetings and old-fashioned mafia etiquette, so I slipped away and wandered into the rose garden by myself.   That was when a woman suddenly stormed over and slapped me across the face.   "Where did this lowlife come from? How dare you steal what's mine!"   I held my cheek and stared at her in shock. The woman only raised her chin higher, speaking with the kind of arrogance reserved for someone who thought the world revolved around her.   "That ruby on your hand was a birthday gift from the young master of the Leone Family! A nobody like you thinks you can wear something that expensive?"   I parted my lips, ready to ask who exactly she was, but she didn't even give me the chance. She lifted her hand and struck me again.   "Do you have any idea who I am? I'm Mr. Leone's fiancée, the future Mrs. Leone. Everyone in Averon will have to know their place when they see me!"   I took out my phone, opened the chat saved under "Fiancé" right in front of her, and sent a message.   Barbara: Albert, your lapdog is attacking me at your place. Are you going to do something about it or not?   What I didn't expect was getting deleted instead.   I laughed in disbelief. Our engagement wasn't even finalized, and Albert already treated me like a disposable contact?   Fine. If he had the courage to delete his future wife, then I had the power to make the entire Leone Family regret ever crossing me.