Three years after my death, an app called The Book of Life and Death was forcibly installed on every mobile phone in the world. The rules were simple: Anyone could nominate a deceased person for resurrection. After seven days, the user with the highest global Karma score would have their wish granted. The resurrected person would be soul-bound to their nominator, automatically joined in marriage. The second the app went live, my husband, the world’s wealthiest man, Adrian Lowe, made his nomination. But he didn’t nominate me. He nominated his first love, the one who had always held his heart: Sierra Xia. He leveraged his immense wealth, launching a global charity blitz. His Karma score skyrocketed at an astronomical rate, leaving everyone else in the dust. The world watched, certain he would be the sole victor. But on the second day, another nomination quietly appeared beneath his post. “I want to resurrect the wife of the man above me.” 1 I had been dead for three years, murdered by Adrian Lowe, yet my soul remained trapped in our marital home. Day after day, I watched him. I watched him grieve for another woman, mourn for another woman. Until The Book of Life and Death appeared. Without a moment's hesitation, Adrian orchestrated an unprecedented spectacle of philanthropy for Sierra. He launched a 24/7 global livestream, donating billions to refugee agencies in Africa. He funded the construction of a thousand schools in remote, impoverished regions. He poured colossal sums into wildlife conservation efforts. His Karma score shot up like a rocket, creating a celestial chasm between him and the next contender. In a live interview with global media, his face was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot. He played the part of the heartbroken saint, a man willing to sacrifice his fortune to resurrect his one true love, to perfection. “Yes, I nominated Sierra Xia,” he said, his voice husky, filled with a storyteller’s sorrow. “She was the only light in my life. The one and only love I will ever know.” An audacious reporter brought up my name—Nora Grey, his legal wife. A look of carefully crafted helplessness and pity flickered across Adrian’s face. “My marriage to Nora was… a mistake from the very beginning. A debt of gratitude owed by our parents forced us together. I respected her, but I… I never loved her.” He paused, as if wrestling with an immense, unspoken pain. Then, he delivered the lie that would stun and enrage the world. “I never knew a person could be so venomous…” he choked out, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down his cheek. “Three years ago, Sierra needed an operation. It was her only chance at survival. And Nora… Nora was the only bone marrow match in the world. I begged her. I got on my knees. I promised her all my wealth, everything I owned, if she would just save Sierra’s life.” “She agreed, on the surface. But I found out later… she hated me. She hated Sierra. She hated us so much that, when she went to donate her marrow, she took a banned drug, a substance that temporarily alters the viability of bone marrow cells…” He closed his eyes, his face a mask of agony. “It was my fault. I should have seen the darkness in her heart sooner. In the end, the drug backfired. She died on the operating table. But she succeeded… in the most vicious way imaginable, she murdered the woman I loved.” His masterful reversal of the truth instantly transformed him into a tragic hero, a man trapped in a loveless marriage, whose true love was murdered by a jealous wife. And I, Nora Grey, was summarily crucified on a pillar of shame, branded a "murderer who got what she deserved." The world wept for him. The world spat on my name. Everyone believed he would be the sole victor. But the next day, another nomination appeared beneath his post. It was simple, direct, almost jarring in its audacity. “I want to resurrect Nora Grey, the wife of the man above me.” The nominator: Julian Shen. A name I didn’t recognize. The internet erupted in ridicule. He was mocked as an attention-seeking clown, a twisted freak who sympathized with a killer. But my soul, my trapped and tormented soul, trembled violently at the sight of that name. The bloody, humiliating memories of my life came roaring back, threatening to swallow me whole. 2 My marriage to Adrian Lowe was born from a debt. My family, the Greys, had saved the Lowes from ruin during their darkest hour. To seal the bond between our families, we were betrothed as children. I was naive enough to believe that a childhood friendship could, with time, blossom into love. I was wrong. On our wedding night, there was no celebration, no tender words. Adrian took me to the cold, sterile blood-drawing room of his private hospital. I remember the way he gripped my chin, his eyes colder than a scalpel. “Nora Grey, since you schemed your way into this marriage, you will fulfill your duties as Mrs. Lowe.” “Your duty,” he continued, his voice a blade of ice, “is to use your blood to keep Sierra alive.” That night, I learned the truth. Sierra Xia, the woman he adored, suffered from a severe blood disorder. She needed regular transfusions to survive. And I, I possessed the extremely rare P-type blood that was a perfect match for hers. From that day forward, I was no longer Nora Grey. I was no longer Mrs. Lowe. I was a walking, breathing, warm-blooded IV bag. The weekly forced blood draws became my living nightmare. My body grew weaker, my face paler with each passing day. I watched, week after week, as my blood was siphoned from my body, bag by precious bag, and slowly dripped into Sierra Xia’s veins. She would hold my hand, her face a mask of innocent sweetness, and say, “Oh, Nora, your blood is just wonderful. Look, my cheeks are all rosy now. Adrian says you’re my lifesaver.” And Adrian would stand by, watching her with eyes full of adoration, as if gazing upon a masterpiece. In his masterpiece, she was the beloved subject. And I? I was merely the paint. One day, after a transfusion, Sierra, resting in her hospital bed, began to cough violently, her face turning deathly pale. She clutched at Adrian’s sleeve as he rushed to her side, her voice as fragile as spun glass. “Adrian… I… I don’t know what’s wrong. After the transfusion today, my chest feels so tight, I can’t seem to catch my breath.” The doctors examined her immediately, but all the tests came back normal. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a kind of wounded accusation, before shaking her head at Adrian. “It’s nothing, really. It’s probably just me.” Her performance only made Adrian’s heart ache for her more. “Adrian,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “do you think… maybe… could it be that Nora has been in a bad mood lately? And so her blood… isn’t as clean?” Adrian’s head snapped towards me, his eyes filled with a chilling disgust. He ripped the needle from my arm, heedless of the blood that welled up, and ordered his men to hold me down on the bed. “Take another two hundred ccs!” he barked at the nurse. Then he leaned over me, his face close to my pale, weakened one, and spat out each word with venom. “Nora Grey, I don’t care what you’re thinking. You will get rid of that disgusting resentment and jealousy.” “Your life is worthless, but your blood must be pure. Sierra’s health is a million times more important than your life.” “If Sierra feels the slightest bit unwell again, I will have the doctors double the amount. We will drain every last drop of your filthy emotions from your body!” I went into shock from blood loss that day. When I woke up, the first thing I saw was the two of them on the sofa in my hospital room, wrapped in a passionate embrace, oblivious to the world. In Adrian’s hand was a jade bracelet I knew all too well. It was the only thing my mother had left me, a family heirloom passed down from mother to daughter. Adrian had often mocked it, calling it old-fashioned and unworthy of the mistress of the Lowe family, telling me to hide it away so it wouldn’t embarrass him. Now, he completely ignored my frail form on the bed. He took Sierra’s hand and gently slipped the bracelet onto her wrist. Her wrist was slender and pale, and the jade did indeed look radiant against her skin. She feigned reluctance, but her eyes, sharp and venomous, darted towards me in triumph. “Adrian, I don’t know… this is Nora’s mother’s, after all…” “Silly girl,” Adrian interrupted, his voice dripping with affection. “What’s hers? What’s mine is yours. Besides…” He finally turned to look at me, his gaze imperious, as if savoring the look of numb despair on my face. He held up Sierra’s wrist, adorned with my mother’s bracelet. “Nora, open your eyes and look. This bracelet… it truly shines on the wrist of someone as pure and graceful as Sierra.” “On you, it just looked gaudy. It was an insult to the jade. Don’t you agree?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, refusing to make a sound. In that moment, I finally understood. I wasn’t just her blood bag. I didn’t even have the right to own my mother’s legacy. They laughed, admiring the bracelet on her wrist, and left the room. And I lay on the bed, my eyes closed, my body cold as ice, a corpse without a soul. My soul was shackled to this house of horrors, forced to relive the agony of my stolen life. Was this my eternal damnation? Or was the arrival of this mysterious Julian Shen a sign? A chance, not just for resurrection, but for retribution? 3 In those dark, sunless days, I sought a sliver of solace in anonymous philanthropy. Using my substantial dowry and with the help of my father’s loyal former staff, I secretly established several charitable foundations focused on education and medical aid. The one I poured my heart into the most was the “Starlight Initiative,” a project dedicated to funding early-stage cancer research. Reading the letters of gratitude from those I helped was the only thing that made me feel like a living person, not just a walking corpse. Adrian was, of course, dismissive of my efforts. “If you have time for these childish, boring games,” he’d sneer, “you should be thinking about how to serve Sierra and make her happy.” He never imagined that these “boring games” would one day become the very tools he used for his grand performance. One day, Sierra casually mentioned to the media that she wished she could contribute more to charity. To please her, to paint her as the kindest soul in the world, Adrian used his formidable resources to uncover all the foundations registered under my name. Then, at a glittering charity gala, in front of a crowd of socialites and reporters, he announced the formation of a new brand: “The Heart of Sierra.” He took my “Nora Foundation,” the one I had built from the ground up, and gifted it to Sierra on stage, renaming it on the spot. He forced me to attend that night. I was dressed in a gorgeous but constricting gown he’d chosen for me, sitting in the audience like a doll. I watched as Sierra, in a pristine white dress, walked onto the stage as the "founder," accepting the adoration and praise of thousands. I shot to my feet, ready to rush the stage, to tell the world that it was mine, that it was all mine! I had barely taken a step when Adrian materialized at my side like a phantom. His face was wreathed in a gentle smile, but his arm gripped me like an iron vise. SLAP! Another sharp, crisp slap, right in front of all the guests behind me. The sound echoed in the silent hall. Everyone turned to look. He leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper only I could hear. “Don’t you dare make a scene. Sit down. Or tomorrow’s headline will be the bankruptcy of the Grey family.” Then, he straightened up, presenting a pained, tolerant expression to the stunned guests. “My apologies, everyone. My wife… she’s a bit emotionally unstable. Please, forgive her.” I was frozen in place, listening to the undisguised whispers around me. “Look at her. Just like they say, she’s not right in the head.” “Poor Mr. Lowe, married to such an unpresentable madwoman.” “If it were me, I’d have divorced her long ago. It’s only because he’s so kind that he still brings her out.” He held me down in my seat, a prisoner being publicly executed.
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