Ten years of marriage. Ten years of sleeping in separate wings of the house. The day our home burned, the flames were a roaring beast, so violent no one dared get close. No one but me. I ran back into the collapsing structure, the searing heat blistering my skin, and strained to move the mahogany wardrobe that had pinned her beneath its weight. When the firefighters finally burst in, one of them yelled over the inferno, "The roof is coming down! We can only get one of you out!" Without a moment's hesitation, her eyes found the man cowering in the corner, her first love, who had been visiting that afternoon. "Save him," she said. "I want him to live." There was no anger in me, no questions. Just a hollow ache and a single, desperate need to know the truth I’d been too afraid to confront for a decade. "These ten years," I choked out, the smoke stealing my breath. "You never let me touch you. Was it because of him?" She wouldn't meet my eyes. Her gaze fell to the floor, and her silence was all the answer I needed. Finally, a soft, weary sigh escaped her lips. "I'm sorry, Leo. If there's a next life, I promise I'll be a proper wife to you." A laugh, brittle and broken, tore from my throat. Of course. Only hearing it from her own lips could finally kill the hope I’d so foolishly guarded. My heart is yours in this life, or not at all. I have no interest in being your second chance. In the stunned silence that followed, I wrapped my arms around her. With her gasp against my chest, I threw us both from the sixth-floor window. As we fell, I twisted my body beneath hers, my final act a cushion against the unforgiving ground. "Congratulations, Stella," I whispered into her hair, the wind roaring in my ears. "Our story's over. Now yours can begin." When I opened my eyes again, I was in the back of a town car, on my way to move into my freshman dorm at Vanderbilt. Without a second thought, I pulled out my phone and made a call. I was pulling strings. I was transferring. To Northwestern, a school as far away from Stella Prescott as I could get. But as I sat on the Acela train bound for Chicago, a girl's desperate cry cut through the noise. "Leo Callahan! Our story isn't over! It will never be over!" I snapped my head toward the window. Outside, keeping pace with the speeding train, was a cherry-red Porsche. And behind the wheel, a familiar face, streaked with tears. 1 "Young master, we're almost at the Prescott estate. Did you remember the flowers Mr. Callahan asked you to prepare?" Flowers? What flowers? I blinked, my mind foggy, and saw our family driver, Arthur, watching me in the rearview mirror with a concerned expression. "It's your first day of college, sir. You and Miss Prescott. You said you wanted to bring her favorite jasmine?" Seeing Arthur's careful deference, feeling the strange wholeness of my own body, it hit me like a physical blow. I was back. I had been reborn. I was back on the day I was meant to pick up Stella and drive with her to Vanderbilt. I remembered this moment. In my hurry to see her, I'd forgotten the jasmine at home. Just as Arthur was speaking, he was already making a smooth U-turn. He didn't even need to ask; he knew I would insist on going back for them. Whatever Stella wanted, I gave her. It had been that way since we were children. In everyone's eyes, Stella Prescott was my future wife. The future Mrs. Callahan. It was a foregone conclusion, as solid as the family fortunes that bound us together. They all assumed she was as devoted to the idea as I was. After all, we were childhood friends. We were perfect for each other. They were only half right. A girl you've known your whole life is one thing. But she's no match for the one that got away. The Prescotts and the Callahans were old family friends. Or rather, the Prescotts owed their current standing to my family's influence. Stella, ever the dutiful daughter, couldn't bear to disappoint her parents. So she broke things off with Grant, the scholarship kid from the wrong side of the tracks. I can still see her at the altar. The officiant asked if she would take me as her husband. She didn't answer him. Her eyes, red-rimmed and glistening, found mine. "Is this what you wanted, Leo?" she'd whispered, her voice trembling. "You won. Now we're stuck together for life." The wedding went off without any further drama, but in that moment, I knew I was just a villain on their stage, the clown who had stolen the ending of their love story. Even so, for ten years of marriage, she never let me touch her. The irony is staggering; the most intimate contact we ever shared was when I used my body as a shield for hers as we plummeted from that window. And even at the end, she couldn't bring herself to tell me a single comforting lie. This new life… it’s a chance to do it right. A chance to finally live for myself. The sweet fruit’s not worth it if you have to force it from the vine. And this time, I was letting it go. My last life was bitter enough. This time, I was choosing something sweet. I leaned forward and tapped Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur, don't go back. Take me to the train station. I'm going to Northwestern." 2 "Right away, sir. I'll get us there as quickly as—" "Wait!" The screech of tires filled the air. I had braced myself, my hand already on the grab handle. Arthur was flustered, apologizing profusely. "My apologies, sir. Did I mishear? You want to go to Northwestern? But… what about Miss Prescott?" Vanderbilt was in Nashville, an easy drive from our homes in Connecticut. But Northwestern was in Chicago. The Acela train was the only practical way. "You heard right, Arthur. I've had a change of heart. As for Stella… she can get an Uber. It’s not that far." I held up a hand to stop his inevitable questions. This was a seismic shift in the world he knew. It was like a chain-smoker of ten years suddenly quitting cold turkey. The first reaction is always disbelief. But I had no explanation to offer him. Confused but loyal, Arthur changed course for the station. My grades were more than good enough for Northwestern, and a quiet word from my father would smooth over any administrative hurdles. I called him and laid it out. As expected, he was stunned. At first, he refused, even offering to make a call to get Stella into Northwestern with me. But I wore him down, my quiet insistence finally breaking through his objections. He agreed. With that settled, I opened my message thread with Stella. I'd sent her more than a dozen texts this morning. No reply. The last message from her was over a week ago, a single, dismissive letter: K. In all the years I'd known her, my efforts to talk, to make plans, to just connect, were mostly met with three responses. K. Fine. Are you done? Or, most often, the deafening silence of a read receipt with no reply. My original plan had been to text her that I was going to a different school. But why bother? She clearly didn't care. Why invite more of that cold indifference? I scrolled to her Instagram. Her feed was nearly empty, save for a few old, tagged photos of her with Grant. She never posted. I remembered once, I'd used her phone to post a picture of the two of us. She’d yelled at me for the entire day. Now I understood. It wasn't that she hated social media. She just hated the idea of me appearing in her world. Looking at the radiant smile on her face in those pictures, a painful realization dawned on me. In the ten years we were married, I never once saw her smile like that. So, she was capable of joy. Just not with me. Block. Delete. A wave of relief, so profound it was almost dizzying, washed over me. Then, I opened a new message. To Grant. He was also an incoming freshman at Vanderbilt. My fingers typed out a single line. She's at her parents' place in Greenwich. Go get her. She's all yours now. I didn’t need to specify who. He would know. Block. Delete. Stella, my debt is paid. This time, you go your way, and I'll go mine. We will be strangers for the rest of our lives. 3 At the station, I had ten minutes until departure. My phone buzzed again and again. The screen lit up with her name: Stella Prescott. I'll admit, for a split second, I was shocked. In all the years I’d known her, I had always been the one to call. The number of times she had initiated a call to me was exactly zero. But the shock lasted only a moment. I declined the call and blocked her number. She was just annoyed I hadn't shown up to chauffeur her. After more than a decade of my unwavering devotion, she’d grown accustomed to me being at her beck and call. This was nothing more than an angry summons, a demand to know why I was late. I’d been the pathetic, devoted man for one lifetime. I wouldn't start this one by taking another one of her scoldings. (Ten Minutes Earlier) Stella finished applying her makeup just as she got a call from Arthur, confirming he’d be there at ten-thirty sharp. His tone was a little strained, but she didn’t notice. From the balcony, her best friend suddenly burst into the room, breathless. "He's here! He's here!" Stella’s eyes lit up, the exact same way they had whenever Grant used to come pick her up. In my previous life, Grant had arrived at her house before me. I had seen it with my own eyes: the joyful, radiant smile on her face as she hopped onto the back of his bicycle. She had only remembered her obligations when my town car pulled up. She had climbed into a car most people could only dream of riding in, but a single tear had traced a path down her cheek. This time, the cheerful ding-ding of a bicycle bell echoed from the street. Stella didn't even bother with her shoes, running downstairs to throw open the door as if a second's delay might make the person outside vanish. Grant, tipped off by her friend, quickly produced a bouquet of roses, smoothed his hair, and put on the charming, roguish smile Stella had once adored. The door swung open. "Stella." No response. No embrace. Grant watched as Stella’s eyes swept right past him, her gaze frantically scanning the street beyond, searching for someone else. "Stella, I came to get you," he said, thinking maybe she hadn't heard. He held out the flowers. "These are for you. Your favorite, red roses." This time, Stella took a deliberate step back. Her smile was polite, but her tone was firm and distant. "Thank you, Grant, but I can't accept these. My fiancé, Leo, will be here to pick me up any minute." The roses fell from his hand, scattering on the manicured lawn. It was the first time he had ever heard her refer to me as her fiancé. Her best friend, standing by the door, couldn't help but ask, "Stella, I thought you said you couldn't stand Leo? What—" Stella cut her off with a slight shake of her head, her focus remaining on Grant. "I appreciate you coming all this way, but my fiancé is on his way. Please, you should leave. I don't want Leo to get the wrong idea." Grant, who had been completely bewildered, suddenly let out a laugh. "Stella, you don't get it, do you? Leo isn't coming. He's the one who sent me a message telling me to come get you." Stella froze. "That's impossible. He loves me. He would never say something like that." Everyone in our circle knew how desperately in love with me she was. I was notoriously possessive. The idea of me sending my rival to pick up my fiancée was laughable. Seeing her certainty, Grant's smirk grew wider. He fumbled for his phone, scrolling through his messages. "Leo's just a rich playboy, Stella. He probably got tired of you and pawned you off on me. He's a jerk. I'm the one who truly loves you. Just you wait, I'll make something of myself, I'll give you the world..." "No! That's not possible!" Stella's face had gone pale. "Arthur just called! He said he was almost here!" She stared intently at the watch on her wrist, the second hand sweeping towards the twelve. Just then, the throaty roar of an engine filled the air, and a black town car pulled up to the curb. Stella's face flooded with relief. It was Arthur! Grant had been lying! Composing herself, she ran to the car, a sweet smile gracing her lips. "Good morning, Arthur!" Arthur, who was usually so warm and effusive, couldn't quite meet her gaze. "Miss Prescott," he stammered. "Please, get in. I'll take you to the university." But Stella didn't move. She stood by the curb, her fingers twisting the hem of her skirt, her eyes fixed on the rear passenger door. If I had been there, I would have known what she was waiting for. In our last life, I couldn't even wait for Arthur to put the car in park. I'd burst out, bouquet of jasmine in hand, desperate to see her even one second sooner. Today, the car door remained shut. The silence was heavy, absolute. Grant's words echoed in her mind: It was Leo who told me to come get you. "Miss... Miss Prescott?" "Arthur," she asked, her voice small. "Is Leo... is he in there?" Arthur looked deeply uncomfortable. "The young master... he's not quite awake yet, miss. Why don't I take you to campus first?" Stella forced a smile. "Then let's go get him together. We can all go to campus as planned." A bead of sweat trickled down Arthur's temple. He couldn't understand it. Miss Prescott, who had always treated the young master with such indifference, was suddenly so concerned. But a lie can only hold for so long. Wiping his brow, Arthur finally broke. "Miss Prescott... I... I should just take you to school. The young master has already left on his own." Stella’s gaze fell to the empty space on the seat where the jasmine should have been. "But... wasn't he just in the car? Doesn't he want to go to school with me more than anything?" "Well..." Finally, with no other choice, Arthur told her the truth. "The young master... he's on a train. He's going to Northwestern University in Chicago." Before the words had even fully registered, Grant finally found the message on his phone. Stella, who had been holding onto a fragile composure, snatched the phone from his hand. Her body trembled as she read the words. She grabbed Grant's shoulders, her voice rising with panic. "He said I'm yours now! How could he say that? He loves me more than anything!" Her frantic eyes found Arthur's. "Tell me it's not true, Arthur! Tell me he's lying!" Arthur said nothing. His silence was the most damning answer of all. Stella’s eyes turned a dangerous shade of red. After two long minutes of suffocating silence, her voice emerged, raspy and raw. "Arthur. Let me borrow the car." Arthur couldn't help but protest. "Miss Prescott, at this point, he's probably already on the train. It's too late to catch him." But Stella was already sliding into the driver's seat of the Porsche he sometimes used for errands, her hands shaking on the steering wheel. "It's not too late," she vowed, her voice trembling with a terrifying resolve. "I don't care if he's on a plane. I will catch him. He is not getting away from me. Not in this lifetime."
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