Nineteen again, and I woke up next to Annie Bright. The reckless abandon of last night flooded my mind. In my past life, I married him at twenty-three, becoming the envied Mrs. Bright, the woman who had it all in New York society. When the tabloids caught him with his childhood sweetheart at a hotel, I put on a brave face, smiling and saying I trusted him. When he asked if she could bear his first child, I swallowed my pride, saying it didn't matter, as long as the child was his. It wasn't until I was on my deathbed that he held my hand, his voice choked with anguish, asking if I would be his wife again in the next life. All I could think was: I never want a next life. I never thought I’d actually get one. 1 I lost the game and chose "Dare." Following the gaze of everyone in the room, I stood up, walked over to the boy sitting next to him, and dropped to one knee. "Silas, you're a god." Then, I pressed a light kiss to the back of his hand. "Hahahaha!" The room erupted in laughter. Silas’s face turned crimson, and he just sat there, stunned. My best friend, Faye, nudged me with her shoulder. "Did I hear that right, or did you get your wires crossed?" she whispered, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I thought you were going to use this chance to finally confess to Annie." She was right. All our friends knew I'd been crushing on Annie Bright for ages. A dare was the perfect cover. For months, I’d been clawing my way into their elite circle, all for the singular goal of marrying into the Bright family. Tonight's villa party was a masterpiece of my own design; I’d begged Faye to pull every string she had to get Annie here. The moment I’d arrived, she had pulled me aside, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Annie just got dumped. Get him drunk, take him home. Trust me," she’d said, "guys are simple. Even if there are no feelings now, there will be after you sleep with him." In my last life, I did exactly that. And to his credit, Annie was a responsible man. Our messy beginning led to six years of marriage. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance, not some epic love story, but looking back on it sent a shiver of dread down my spine. A cold, deep-seated fear that I never wanted to feel again. This time, I didn't want to marry him. The game continued around me, a chaotic symphony of laughter and shouting. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Annie’s hand, the veins popping as he gripped his glass. He tossed back his drink, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze fell on Silas beside him, a flicker of contempt so subtle it was almost invisible. The party finally wound down around one in the morning. As the crowd thinned, I pulled on my down jacket, ready to leave with my friends. "I'll drive you," Annie said, getting to his feet. "It's snowing out there. It’s not safe for you girls to go alone." I was about to refuse, but my friends were already cheering. "Wow, thanks, Annie! You’re a lifesaver!" The estate was out in the suburbs. One by one, he dropped my friends off at their apartments until it was just the two of us left in the car. We sat in silence, the air thick with unspoken words. The car finally pulled up to my building. Just as I was about to get out, he spoke, his voice laced with an unreadable emotion. "Aren't you going to invite me up?" In my past life, I was the one who asked. I’d invited him up to my apartment, and one reckless, passion-fueled night had led to a lifetime of entanglement. This time, I shook my head. "It's too late. It wouldn't be right." I opened the door and turned to say goodbye, but his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. I looked back, my eyes meeting his intense, burning gaze. His lips, thin and sensual, curved into a look that was part question, part invitation. "Jess Collins," he murmured, his voice low. "You're into me, aren't you?" It wasn't just "into." I had loved him. Deeply. I looked at him, the fresh-faced, nineteen-year-old Annie blurring with the cold, distant twenty-five-year-old from my memories. The past was a phantom, a half-remembered nightmare. I grew up in a single-parent home, molded by my mother from birth to be the perfect trophy wife for a wealthy family. She’d spent a fortune consulting astrologers to pick the perfect C-section date for me, and the ugly scar on her stomach was a permanent reminder of her ambition. When I first learned to speak and called her "Ma," she corrected me instantly. No, darling. The best families in New York say 'Mommy'. She rented a tiny apartment for us near the Upper East Side, a place where every plant was positioned according to the advice of some spiritual guru for "good energy." She worked three jobs to send me to a prestigious prep school, all so I could blend in with the children of the elite. Then, she sent me to study abroad in the UK. "Rich boys don't talk about Adam and Eve," she’d said. "They talk about Adam Smith." So, I got into the Adam Smith Business School, where Annie Bright was my classmate. I aced every course while he partied his way through the semester, never showing up for group projects. Right before finals, he’d shamelessly ask me to reteach him everything the professor had covered. When the results came out, his score was two points higher than mine. He’d grinned, throwing an arm around me. "It's all thanks to Professor Collins. Let me buy you dinner." I thought it would be a simple meal, but we ended up eating our way through every Chinese restaurant in Glasgow. My mother had always told me that when a man went out of his way like that, it meant he was interested. I never dared to admit that I was the one who fell first. But Annie had a girlfriend back then, an art student in London. They were childhood sweethearts, a perfect match from two powerful families. "So what?" my mother had scoffed over the phone. "Steal him. Finding a husband is a competition, a war between women. If you marry into the Bright family, I'll become a vegetarian and pray for your soul every day to build up your good karma." But marrying into a family like the Brights was never easy. I used every trick in the book to weave myself into his world, finally catching him on the rebound during a break with his girlfriend. During the years we dated, we fought, we broke up, and it was always me who swallowed my pride and went back to him. When his love for me was at its peak, he fought with his family elders for three days and nights, begging them just to meet me. The prim and proper image my mother had so carefully crafted for me over the years was just enough to win their reluctant approval. Our wedding was the event of the season, a staggering eight-million-dollar affair that made headlines everywhere. My mother was ecstatic, praising me for securing both love and money. At the time, I believed it too. A sleazy tabloid reporter, hungry for a headline, wrote a piece about me: Billion-Dollar Gold Digger: From Rags to Riches as a Broodmare for the Elite. Annie saw the article on his phone and immediately made a call. The man on the other end was practically groveling. Annie wrapped his arms around me, holding the phone out to me with a lazy smile. "That phrase I taught you the other day," he prompted. "Say it again." I flushed, mortified. "You... you son of a bitch," I stammered. "My business... is none of your goddamn business." The words felt alien in my mouth, so contrary to the gentle, well-mannered woman I was supposed to be. My face burned with shame as I forced the sentence out. Annie burst out laughing, clutching his stomach, while the man on the other end of the line apologized profusely. I found out later that the reporter who wrote that story vanished from the New York media scene completely. Memories flooded back, fragmented and bittersweet. In those moments, it felt like maybe, just maybe, Annie and I had really been in love. But I had underestimated the destructive power of a first love. The day Isabelle Monroe came back, I learned that the scorching passion I thought he had for me had never been mine at all. Her flight back to New York was delayed by a category three storm. The paparazzi caught Annie waiting at the airport for her. Three hours late, and he sat there for three hours, not moving an inch. He carried her bags as they checked into a hotel, looking every bit the devoted knight. They didn't emerge until the next morning. A provocative entertainment reporter shoved a microphone in my face. "Mrs. Bright, sources say Ms. Monroe was camped out in your husband's hotel room for eight hours. Worried your throne is a little shaky?" I kept my expression neutral, wanting so badly to spit back the words Annie had taught me: Piss off! It’s none of your damn business. He’d even sent me a meme of my favorite actor saying it. But my mother’s voice echoed in my head. A high-society wife is always graceful. No matter what happens behind closed doors, you never lose your composure in public. So I smiled sweetly and said, "I trust my husband." But trust? That had been eroded away long ago. That New Year's Eve, Annie brought Isabelle to the Bright family estate for the first time. He had his arm around her waist, ignoring the furious glares from the family elders. "Izzy said our view of the fireworks is the best in the city," he announced with a careless grin. "I just had to show her." At that moment, I was with his grandmother and mother in the family chapel, kneeling before the altar. I didn't dare lift my head. His mother didn't move either, her chanting just growing a little louder. After dinner, as the annual fireworks display lit up the sky over the harbor, I stepped out of the dining room. In a dark corner of the terrace, I saw Isabelle stand on her tiptoes and kiss Annie. He saw me, his eyes meeting mine over her shoulder. Then, he wrapped his arms tighter around her waist and deepened the kiss. It was brazen. Shameless. I froze, my entire world tilting on its axis. When he finally looked back at me, he was still smiling. "Darling," he said, his voice casual, "do me a favor and tell the family I had to step out for a bit." It was a holiday. I didn't want to ruin it for everyone by exposing his recklessness. I made up a simple excuse for the elders. Annie didn't come home that night. He rarely came home after that. Isabelle wanted to be an actress, so he threw money and connections at her career. He took her to every social event, transforming the bankrupt socialite into a pageant queen. It was as if he couldn't wait to prove that his hidden love and guilt had never faded. Even so, I maintained the dignity expected of me. If we happened to be at the same event, I would offer a polite nod and a quiet hello. Whenever people in our circle talked about me, it was with a tone of pity. "So what if she married up? Without a child to secure her position, she'll be divorced sooner or later." My in-laws, terrified of a scandal tainting the family name, forced Annie to use... certain medical means to ensure I got pregnant. The day he found out, he frowned. "Based on the due date, it's about two weeks after Izzy's. I won't have time to take care of you. I'll hire you some more nurses." I rested a hand on my flat stomach, my back straight against the sofa cushions, and smiled. "Of course." What I wanted to say was, Are you insane? That little tramp is having a bastard child! But I held my tongue. A calm environment was important for the baby. Besides, my position in the Bright family was already precarious. Without this child, Annie really might divorce me. My mother had told me that even if I couldn't hold onto his heart, having his child would at least secure my status. But it seemed even fate was against me. The child didn't make it. After the Brights publicly announced my pregnancy, Annie started putting on a "devoted husband" act and spent less time with Isabelle. I heard she threw several tantrums, and he had to shower her with jewelry to pacify her. That, combined with pressure from the Bright elders, finally made her quiet down. But every time I saw her at the private clinic for my check-ups, she’d shoot me a venomous glare before walking away. One day, the doctor confirmed I was having twin girls. Isabelle was having a boy. When she got her results, Isabelle approached me, a first for her. She told me she’d left Annie back then because her family's problems were too much, and she didn't want to drag him down. "I regret it," she said, her voice soft. "I can't forget him, Jess. I truly love him. If I hadn't let him go, I would be the one who is Mrs. Bright right now." "I'm sorry. I never meant to ruin your marriage." "This is my sincere apology." "But I can't stop loving him. And I know he feels the same way about me." I watched her gently stroke her swollen belly, her eyes filled with a dreamy anticipation. I wanted to slap her, to scream, You are the most shameless mistress in all of New York! But the words died in my throat. I just gave her a dismissive smile. I was Mrs. Bright. I couldn't stoop to brawling with a mistress in public. If she had any decency, she would have stayed far away from me, not paraded her pregnancy in front of me like a trophy. Her voice was fragile, designed to evoke pity. "If I give Annie the first Bright grandson, do you think he'll divorce you?" When I didn't answer, she raised her voice slightly. "You just wanted to marry into a rich family. It didn't have to be Annie, did it? You had other options." That was it. I snapped. My hand flew out, the crack of it connecting with her cheek echoing in the quiet hallway. "You're right," I spat, my voice trembling with rage. "I would have been fine without Annie. So why don't you go tell him to divorce me!" She stared at me, her hand pressed to her red cheek. I was just as stunned as she was. Then I saw him. Annie, standing right behind her. He pulled Isabelle behind him, his eyes fixed on me. "What did you just say?" His voice was low and cold, radiating the intimidating aura of a man used to being in control. I looked into his eyes, my hand still tingling, my mind a complete blank. A family like the Brights valued reputation above all else. Even if I was publicly humiliated, I was supposed to remain poised. His gaze was incredulous. "You want to divorce me?" he scoffed. "Don't make me laugh, Jess. You were the one who schemed and clawed your way into this marriage. And now you want a divorce?" I had nothing left to lose. I found my courage again. "Yes. I want a divorce." His expression turned to ice. "Forget it. You're not going anywhere." "You wanted the title of Mrs. Bright, and I gave it to you." "Don't play these games with me to get my attention, and don't you dare touch Isabelle." With that, he gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind Isabelle's ear, then wrapped an arm around her waist and led her away. Every movement was filled with a tenderness I hadn't felt from him since she had returned. That night, I went to the Bright estate. I knelt in the chapel and bowed three times to the altar. Then, I turned to the family matriarch, Annie's grandmother, and said with unwavering resolve, "Grandma, I want a divorce." The old woman continued to finger her prayer beads, her lips moving in a silent chant. She gave me no answer. In the end, I died on the operating table, still married to Annie Bright. Not long after that day at the clinic, Isabelle had a miscarriage. I overheard the household staff gossiping about it. They said that Annie's grandmother had heard about the pregnancy and sent someone to negotiate with Isabelle. The plan was for her to give birth and let me raise the child. We would tell the world I’d had triplets. Isabelle refused. So the old woman forced her to have an abortion. Annie was convinced that I was the one who had told his grandmother, that I had sicced the family on Isabelle. When he came to see me, his white shirt was stained with blood; he’d just been punished by the family elders. I felt a pang of pity and reached out to treat his wounds, but he grabbed my arm, his grip like iron. "The title of Mrs. Bright will always be yours. What more could you possibly want?" he snarled, his eyes filled with a raw hatred I’d never seen before. "Was it really necessary to push her to the edge like this?" I tried to explain, over and over, that it wasn't me. But he wouldn't believe it. Human emotions are never fair. His hatred for me had long since eclipsed whatever shallow love he’d once felt. The Brights blacklisted Isabelle. No entertainment company in the city would touch her. Annie stayed by her side, comforting her day and night. He never came to see me again. By then, I had already made a deal with his grandmother. After the babies were born, I would divorce Annie and leave the Bright family. Someone else could have the damned title. When I told my mother, she screamed at me, a torrent of furious accusations. I stormed out of her apartment, my heart heavy with resentment. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, a figure lunged out of the shadows. It was Isabelle. Her face was a twisted mask of rage as she flew at me, her hands closing around my neck. "Jess Collins," she shrieked, "you killed my baby, you stole my Annie, and now you've destroyed my career. I'll haunt you even after I'm dead. I'll see you in hell!" Before I could react, her grip tightened. A primal instinct for survival kicked in. I grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the wall. Blood streamed from a gash on her forehead. She screamed in pain, her disheveled hair matted with blood and plaster, making her look like a vengeful ghost. In the chaos, she kicked me hard in the stomach. I lost my balance and tumbled down the stairs. The world spun violently, and then, darkness. When I woke up, I was wearing an oxygen mask, each breath a struggle. Annie sat beside me, his face a canvas of pain, his hand gripping mine tightly. "Jess," he choked out, "in the next life... will you be my wife again?" I didn't answer. I just closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me. And when I opened them again, the villa party was in full swing, music pulsing and lights flashing. Outside, snowflakes drifted down from the night sky. It was the beginning, all over again.
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