“100 million. Take the money, leave the country within a week, and never come near my grandson again.”

Mrs. Livingston, my boyfriend's grandmother, sat across from me in her silk blouse and diamond earrings, her face tightened with disgust, as if my very presence dirtied the air she breathed.

In my old life, I would have broken down, red-faced and trembling, telling her I loved Austin, that I was not after money. I would have fought for him until my last breath.

But this time, I only smiled faintly and nodded. “Alright.”

Her brows lifted for a second, then she gave a cold laugh. “At least you finally know your place.”

I lowered my eyes, took the check, and stood. I did not argue. I did not beg. Not anymore… Because I had already died once for Austin.

He pulled the trigger himself in my past life by staying at his side. It was an accident, they said. A drunken rage, a gun meant for someone else, but it found my chest instead. And while my blood soaked the floor, he did not even look at me. He only whispered another woman’s name.

When I opened my eyes again, I was here. Back to the night I was still his wife. Back to the time before the betrayal was complete. Back to this moment, where his grandmother handed me a check meant to erase me from his life.

So I took it. Quietly.

By the time I returned to the villa, the night was heavy. The house was far too big and the only warmth came from a photo on the coffee table. Austin’s arm around my waist, his eyes locked on me with a tenderness so deep it once melted my heart.

I brushed my fingers across the glass and memories flooded in.

Three years ago, under a bridge, I found him half-dead in the rain. My officemate—spiteful and cruel—had thrown my phone into the dark floodwater, and I had gone searching for it, cursing her name, when I heard the sound of someone struggling to breathe.

There he was. Collapsed against the concrete, a fresh gunshot wound tearing through his side. Blood mixed with the storm, pooling beneath him as he fought to stay conscious.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice trembling with fear.

“I… don’t remember,” he whispered, shivering, his lips pale as the rain plastered his hair to his face. “Don’t take me to a hospital. Please… no hospital.”

So I took him home. To my tiny apartment where the walls cracked, where the pipes dripped, where we survived winter by huddling under three quilts.

And in that poverty, we found love.

He waited for me downstairs after my late shifts, just to walk me home. When cramps twisted me into knots, he stayed up all night, rubbing my stomach until I could sleep. Behind my back, he worked himself to exhaustion at three different jobs just to buy me a bracelet I had only glanced at three times through a shop window.

And every night, he pulled me close, whispering against my skin, “Baby, I only want you because I love you too much.”

Back then, I believed him. Back then, I thought we would always stay like that. He even dragged me to a tattoo shop, had my name etched on his chest. “Pain means I’ll never forget you,” he said with a smile.

I thought it was forever.

Until his memories returned.

He was never a poor, broken man. He was the heir of the Livingston mafia, a man who controlled half of New York’s underground empire. He had not been abandoned. He had been hunted, nearly killed by rivals but managed to killed them.

And once he remembered who he was, everything changed.

He moved me into this sprawling villa, gave me jewels I never asked for, but the man I loved was gone. He wore suits I could not pronounce, held meetings about power and blood, and disappeared for nights on end.

I lied to myself that he was simply busy.

But then I saw the photos. Him opening a car door for Yvette McKinsey, her smile glowing up at him, his eyes soft in a way they no longer were with me. The headlines screamed “A Perfect Match” and “A Marriage Made in Heaven.”

That night, I sat alone under the moonlight and finally understood.

The man who braved storms for me, who broke his back to buy me a bracelet, who carved my name into his flesh… had died the day he remembered who he was.

The Austin I loved no longer existed.

In my past life, I refused to let go. I begged. I humiliated myself. And I ended up buried six feet under because of it.

But not this time.

Because this time, I had been reborn

--

That night, the villa was silent, just like always. Austin didn’t come home.

In my past life, I would have sat on the sofa until dawn, waiting for his shadow to finally appear through the door. But this time, I didn’t. I went to bed early. At sunrise, I headed to the visa center.

I took the express lane, signed what needed signing. A passport and visa could be ready in a week. Freedom was that close.

By the time I stepped back outside, it was noon. I walked aimlessly and picked a random restaurant. But the moment I pushed the door open, I froze.

By the window, Austin was sitting with Yvette. He leaned toward her, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, his gaze soft, intimate, exactly like the way he used to look at me when we were crammed into that little apartment.

My chest tightened. I turned to leave, but in my haste I bumped into a man. I immediately said sorry.

He looked up. And just like that, the tenderness in his eyes turned to ice.

He stood, striding toward me. “Are you following me now?”

Before I could even breathe, he added, sharper this time, “I already told you about me and Yvette. It was business. How long do you plan on making a fool of yourself?”

I opened my mouth, but Mrs. Livingston’s voice from yesterday stabbed through me again: His marriage with Yvette was arranged long ago. He likes her too.

Marriage. Arranged. That was the truth I had once been too blind to see.

“Austin, don’t be so harsh,” Yvette said sweetly, standing to join him. “We met by chance. Why don’t we all sit together?”

Before I could refuse, she hooked her hand through his arm and guided me toward their table. I found myself sitting across from his cold glare, the air around him pressing down on me like a threat.

“What would you like, Miss Calloway?” Yvette slid the menu over with a smile. “The Spanish food here is excellent.”

I stared at the page filled with Spanish words. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then at least try the soup,” she said kindly, signaling the waiter. A steaming bowl of seafood soup was placed in front of me. “It’s very fresh.”

The smell hit me, and my stomach twisted. I was allergic. One sip would send me to the hospital.

Before I could say anything, Austin’s phone rang. He stepped aside to take the call.

Yvette leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Go ahead, taste it. Food like this probably costs more than your monthly salary back when you lived in that hole you called an apartment.”

I froze, my fingers tightening on the napkin.

She smiled, sipping her wine. “You don’t actually think you belong here, do you? Women like you don’t marry into families like his. If Austin hadn’t lost his memory, you wouldn’t even be allowed to shine his shoes, bitch.”

Heat burned my face but I lifted my chin anyway. “You can have—”

“Oh!”

She suddenly gasped and “accidentally” tipped the steaming soup over both our hands.

Pain seared my skin. I flinched hard, biting back a cry. Even though I reborn, the scenes of me being abused publicly was still happening in different scenes.

Austin returned at once, grabbing Yvette’s wrist. “What happened?”

Her voice trembled just enough to sound pitiful. “It’s nothing… I was just startled. I suppose Dahlia didn’t like seeing us together. It’s understandable…”

His eyes cut toward me, sharp as a blade. “How many times do I need to explain this? Why are you acting like this?”

My burned hand throbbed, red welts already rising. “She did it herself—”

“Enough!” his voice was like a gunshot. “I saw everything. When did you become so pathetic?”

And then, holding Yvette close, he turned his back on me.

She rested her head on his shoulder, but not before throwing me a victorious smile over his arm.

I looked down at my blistered skin, throbbing with pain. I remember three years ago, I had burned myself cooking. He rushed out in the middle of the night to buy ointment. And now? He didn’t even blink.

I smiled bitterly and went home alone.

The villa was dark and cold, just as it always was when Austin wasn’t there. I pulled the first-aid kit from the cabinet in the living room and treated my burn myself. Disinfectant stung my skin, ointment cooled it for only a moment, and the bandage pressed against the blister until it throbbed like fire ants crawling beneath my flesh.

When I finally straightened, my eyes landed on the Cielo in the corner. A grand cielo he had bought after regaining his memory, saying he would teach me how to play.

But the lid was covered in dust. He had never touched it again, never taught me a single note. Just like our marriage. Something once promised, now forgotten.

My eyes burned. I turned away quickly, heading upstairs. In the bedroom, I opened a suitcase and began to pack. Clothes, documents, bank cards. One by one, I folded my past into a single box.

Halfway through, the door opened.

Austin walked in. His jacket hung over his arm, his tie loosened at his throat. He looked powerful, dangerous, every inch the mafia heir he had once forgotten he was.

His gaze fell on the suitcase. “What are you doing?”

“Packing,” I said quietly.

He stepped closer, and the scent of cologne reached me. My stomach sank. It was the same one I had smelled on Yvette earlier today.

His hand shot out, gripping my wrist. “So you’re leaving me because I had lunch with Yvette? You hurt her, Dahlia, and she didn’t even hold it against you. Yet you’re the one sulking?”

I looked up at him. His eyes were not cold, not soft, but full of something worse—irritation.

“Our families go back generations,” he said. “Her parents asked me to take care of her now that she’s back from abroad. Can’t you, for once, be more understanding?”

The word cut through me. Understanding. As if I hadn’t already given up everything for him once. As if I hadn’t already died for him.

How much more understanding did he expect from me?

“Say something!” he barked.

I stayed silent. My silence was the only shield I had left.

His grip tightened, then dropped. Anger darkened his face. “Fine. Stay stubborn. Let’s see how long you can keep this up. You have nowhere else to go. I owned half of the New York City.”

He slammed the door so hard the floor trembled.

I sat there staring at the half-filled suitcase. In my past life, I would have cried until my throat was raw. I would have run after him, begging him to choose over me... but this time, I bit my lip and kept packing.

The next morning, I came downstairs and froze.

Yvette was seated comfortably on the sofa, chatting sweetly with Mrs. Wilma Livingston. She wore a white dress, her smile radiant, her presence polished like she already belonged here.

When she saw me, her lips curved even brighter. “Miss Calloway, you’re up. My parents insisted Austin take me to the auction today. Don’t misunderstand, please.”

I glanced at Austin. He was fixing his cufflinks, expression unreadable. Not once did he look at me.

“I’m not misunderstanding,” I said softly. “What you do has nothing to do with me.”

For a moment, he paused, frowning faintly, but he said nothing.

Yvette laughed lightly. “Why don’t you come too, Miss Calloway? You’re free, aren’t you?”

Before I could refuse, she linked her hand through mine and pulled me along, her nails digging lightly into my skin as though reminding me who truly had the upper hand.

--

The auction hall glittered like a palace. Men in tailored suits, women draped in diamonds, all of them people who belonged in Austin’s world.

He sat in the front row, paddle in hand, bidding without hesitation. Each time, the items won were handed to Yvette, her smile growing brighter as she leaned close to whisper in his ear.

They looked like a pair of newlyweds. I sat on the side, invisible, like a slave.

At one point, Yvette’s voice rose, sweet as honey. “Austin babe, maybe buy something for Miss Calloway too?”

His reply was flat, dismissive. “She wouldn’t know how to use them.”

The words dropped heavy, stripping me raw.

Yvette gave me a look of satisfaction, as though she had won a battle without lifting a weapon.

My fingers brushed the glossy catalogue on my lap. He was wrong. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to use these things. It was that in his eyes, I didn’t deserve them.

No matter how much I had once meant to him, no matter how many nights I had stayed by his side, to him I was still just a girl from the slums. A woman he could discard without regret.

I sat in silence, watching Austin spend money like water on Yvette, every item handed to her as though I didn’t even exist.

Then the final piece appeared.

An ivory comb, its teeth delicately carved, the spine inlaid with gemstones that shimmered under the lights.

My breath hitched, and my hand clenched around the paddle.

It was my grandmother’s heirloom!

Three years ago, when Austin had been delivering food late into the night just to save for my birthday, he was hit by a car and nearly lost his life. The hospital bill was so high that I sold the comb, my last memory of my grandmother, just to save him. I had promised myself I would get it back one day.

But by the time I scraped together the money, it was gone. Vanished into someone else’s hands. I had searched every antique shop, begged every dealer, but it never appeared again.

Until now.

Without thinking, I lifted the paddle. “One million.”

Heads turned. Yvette looked back at me, startled, before her lips curved. She raised her own paddle. “Three million.”

“Four million,” I said.

“Ten million,” she countered smoothly, almost like she enjoyed watching me bleed.

The bids climbed, sharp as daggers. I didn’t care. I would bleed myself dry if it meant holding that comb again.

Austin’s brows furrowed. His gaze flicked between us before he finally raised his own paddle.

The gavel came down. “Sold! To Mr. Livingston.”

Applause broke out around us, hollow and mocking in my ears.

Then he turned, not to me, but to her. “You like it? It’s yours.”

My fingers went numb. The paddle slipped from my hand, clattering loudly against the marble floor.

I watched helplessly as the comb—my grandmother’s comb—was placed into Yvette’s hands. She beamed, cradling it as if it were a treasure, before gasping suddenly. “Oh no!”

The comb slipped.

I lunged forward, but it was too late.

It hit the ground and snapped cleanly in two, gemstones scattering like tiny stars across the floor. The sound of it breaking tore through me louder than the applause ever could.

My body moved on its own. I shoved Yvette aside and dropped to the floor, gathering the shattered pieces in trembling hands.

“Dahlia!”