A freak accident connected me to my younger self from ten years ago. The girl—bright-eyed and in love—whispered excitedly: "I saw Charles's hidden ring! Will he propose? Will we be happy forever?" Silently, I turned on my camera. Weak from my miscarriage, I shuffled to the hospital door. Down the hall, Charles embraced a tearful Emily—the woman who'd just hit me with her car. "Don't worry," he murmured. "I'll hire the best lawyer. The baby's father never even showed up anyway." He didn't know that father was him. My younger self paled as realization dawned. "So," I asked softly, "still want this future?" Only heavy silence answered—and I knew: this was God's second chance. 1 I was in the hospital for three days. Not a single call from Charles to ask if I was okay. When I finally returned to our home, Lynden Villa, he was just stepping out of the shower. Seeing me, he gestured vaguely toward a gift box on the coffee table. "Clara, I'm sorry. I've been stuck in meetings overseas these past few days. I've been neglecting you." He offered a lazy smile. "This is for you. A little something to make up for it." His apology was as hollow as the gift—a trinket that was merely a complementary piece to the necklace Emily wore. I just nodded, tossing the box aside without a second glance. The last couple of days, Charles seemed to be in a remarkably good mood. He came home unusually early and even brought me a slice of mango cake. "I don't like mango." My rejection didn't seem to faze him. "Oh. I just assumed all women liked sweet things like mango." The moment he said it, the voice of my younger self crackled through my earpiece, laced with disbelief. "How could he forget? I'm allergic to mangoes..." The first year we were together, I had a severe allergic reaction after accidentally drinking juice with mango in it. I broke out in hives, struggled to breathe, and was rushed to the emergency room. He had sat by my bedside then, sobbing like a child, repeating over and over again, "Clara, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault… I swear I'll remember everything you can and can't eat from now on!" How many years had it been? Everything had changed. It wasn't that I hadn't considered divorce. But the Vance and Blackwood family businesses were so deeply intertwined, a clean break was nearly impossible. Charles would never agree to it. "Clara, I've got an early start tomorrow. I won't be sleeping at home tonight." Charles meticulously styled his hair, spritzed cologne on his collar, and grabbed his jacket, leaving without a backward glance. I knew what was happening tomorrow. The annual company gala. I hadn't attended in two years. This year would likely be the same. 2 But the next morning, Charles's assistant, Alex, showed up at my door with a gown. A surprising, almost unheard-of gesture. It was a size too big. Not my style, not my fit. But Alex was insistent, rushing me to get changed. When I arrived at the grand estate where the gala was being held, the looks from the employees were a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and, most of all, pity. In the powder room, I overheard their hushed whispers. "If the boss is still married to Clara, doesn't that make Emily Hayes the other woman? She's so shameless about it!" "Keep your voice down! If she hears you, you're finished. Mr. Grant just mentioned that Emily wasn't as competent as Clara, and the boss fired him on the spot. Even threatened to run him out of Port Sterling!" Mr. Grant was one of the company's founding pillars. And Charles had cast him aside for Emily without a second thought. I lost the heart to listen any longer and made my way into the ballroom. Charles's eyes widened in shock when he saw me. Emily was standing beside him, wearing a gown that perfectly complemented his tuxedo. The triumph in her eyes was unmistakable. I understood instantly. The ill-fitting dress had been her doing. Charles steered Emily toward me. "Clara, this is Emily Hayes, a student I sponsor. She's a brilliant pianist—just won the national gold medal yesterday." His admiration for her was raw and undisguised. Emily playfully tapped his chest. "Oh, stop. Clara's the real genius. I was using her old piano, and I still can't make it sing the way she did." Charles just smiled, ruffling her hair with a tenderness that made my stomach churn. "You're too modest." He then turned to me, his tone casual, almost an afterthought. "By the way, Clara, I gave the grand piano from the house to Emily. You can't play anymore, so it was just collecting dust." "Fine," I said. It was just an 18th birthday present from him. If Emily wanted it, she could have it. 3 I watched them, clinging to each other. There was a time when Charles wouldn't let any woman other than me within arm's length. Now, Emily was the glaring exception. He acted like a teenager with his first crush, even getting into a fistfight with a business partner to defend her honor. And I, like a fool, had thrown myself in front of him to stop it. A shard of shattered glass had sliced through my right hand, severing the ligaments. After countless surgeries, my fingers could no longer command the keys of my beloved piano. Charles raised an eyebrow, about to say something more, but a sudden gasp cut him off. In a flash, he shoved me aside, catching Emily as she stumbled. He gave her a light pat on the backside, feigning anger. "I told you not to wear those heels. See? Now your ankle's twisted." Emily buried her face in his chest, but her eyes were on me. She mouthed the words silently, a cruel smirk on her lips. "You're pathetic, Clara Vance." Everyone in the company knew about their affair. The weight of their pitying stares was suffocating. I fled the ballroom, seeking refuge in the cool night air of the garden. From a shadowed corner, I heard the rustle of clothing and a woman's soft moan. "Honey… who do you like more? Your little kitten, or that Clara?" Charles's breathing grew heavy. "She's like a dead fish in bed. How could she ever compare to my feisty little fox?" His voice was thick with desire. "And that face of hers… she was pretty when she was young, I guess. Now, I can't even bring myself to kiss it." That was my husband. Tearing me down just to turn on another woman. My younger self had heard it all through the earpiece. After a long, crushing silence, she hung up the phone. 4 Back at home, a friend from my conservatory days sent me a video. [Clara, do you know this student? Her style is so much like yours.] In the video, Emily sat at a piano, playing the very piece I had composed for Charles as a gift. The piece that had just won her a national gold medal. The original manuscript was with Charles. Without hesitation, I packaged the video, along with a comparative analysis of clips from my previous works, and sent it all to a journalist I trusted. Almost overnight, Emily was engulfed in a plagiarism scandal. When Charles found out, he immediately used his position as my husband to issue a public statement in her defense: As Clara Vance's husband of ten years, I can confirm that while my wife has composed many brilliant pieces, this is not one of them. Emily Hayes is a student I sponsor and a remarkably talented pianist in her own right. The Blackwood Corporation's legal team will pursue action against any and all parties spreading these baseless rumors. Shortly after, Emily posted a photo of the manuscript. Some people bought it, but many remained skeptical. That evening, Charles came home, yanking off his tie in frustration. His tone was not of a request, but a command. "Clara, I need you to release a statement. Confirm that the piece was written by Emily." My fists clenched. For the first time, I fought back. "Charles, I will not help a thief legitimize the theft of my work!" His response was a sharp, stinging slap across my face. "Clara, wake up! You're just a cripple who can't even play anymore. What good are these compositions to you now? It's an honor for you that she can play your music." The world swam before my eyes. He snatched my phone and began typing out the statement, posting it online under my name. I watched his fluid, practiced movements and suddenly, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Charles, do you even remember what that piece was? It was my wedding gift to you." He froze, a flicker of panic in his eyes before he masked it with a cold resolve. "It's just one song. You can write countless more. But Emily is young. Her career can't be tainted by this." I smiled faintly, whispering to myself, "You heard him, didn't you?" Charles was too busy cleaning up his mistress's mess to notice. Through my earpiece, I heard my younger self take a deep, steadying breath. Her voice, when it came, was firm and resolute. "Don't worry," she said. "I won't be accepting Charles’s proposal." "If this love is doomed to turn rotten, then I would rather never have had it at all." 5 Charles confiscated all my electronics, turning our luxurious villa into a gilded cage. As if to keep an eye on me, he started coming home for dinner every night. We would sit in silence across the large dining table, with him playing the part of the attentive husband, placing food on my plate as if the ugliness between us had never happened. My gaze fell to his left hand. His ring finger was bare. The wedding band he had worn for nearly a decade was gone, leaving only a faint, pale mark on his skin. He noticed me looking and instinctively touched the spot, his expression shifting. "Must have lost it in the shower a few days ago," he said, a little too quickly. "We can pick out a new pair for our tenth anniversary." "Alright," I agreed, still clinging to the foolish hope that we could end this with some dignity. At the jeweler's, when the consultant prepared to measure my finger, I stopped her. Instead, I gave her Emily's ring size. I was waiting in the private viewing room when Emily herself appeared. She watched Charles, who was completely absorbed in selecting the perfect diamond, and her face tightened with a jealousy she couldn't hide. "This is just a marriage of convenience," she hissed. "Charles loves me! Do you want to bet? One phone call from me, and he'll leave you here in a heartbeat." How could I not believe her? When my grandfather was on his deathbed, one call from Emily had been enough to pull Charles away. He disappeared for three days, without a word. My grandfather passed away still asking for him. That night, Charles booked out an entire restaurant. The air was filled with the soft melody of a string quartet. The special ringtone he had set for Emily shattered the tranquility. His face tensed. "It's just work. Not important," he lied, but I saw his Adam's apple bob as he fought to control himself. His eyes were dark, clouded with a barely concealed lust. "Clara, something urgent came up at the office. I have to go, but you have to wait for me here. I have a surprise for you." I didn't answer. He didn't need one. The clock struck midnight. Fireworks exploded over the river, a spectacular, custom display lighting up the night sky. The very show Charles had once promised would be mine alone. At the same moment, a video arrived on my phone from Emily. Through the floor-to-ceiling window of a dark bedroom, the brilliant colors of the fireworks illuminated the scene within. I could clearly see Charles and Emily, tangled together in a passionate embrace. On their entwined hands, the new rings I had just "chosen" glinted in the explosive light. I walked over to the vase of imported roses on the table and dumped them into the trash. Ten years ago, my younger self had just refused his proposal. Charles. This time, we were really over. For good.
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