Not My Problem Anymore

My father-in-law tossed a credit card across the table and looked down at me, demanding that I divorce his daughter.

In my past life, I had refused with everything I had. But this time, I picked up the pen and signed the divorce papers without a second thought.

Because right then, I remembered what had happened last time.

In that life, I found my wife after she had lost her memory. To support her, I worked myself to the bone, delivering 200 food orders a day. But when her memories came back, she realized she was actually the daughter of the wealthy Harretts.

She saw our marriage as a stain on her perfect life. To get rid of me, she pretended to have amnesia again.

She said, "Since you saved me once, I'll give you some money. But after this, don't ever show up in front of me again."

I refused. I stayed by her side, enduring her insults and beatings. But in the end, she ordered our son to set the fire that killed me, just so she could marry her first love.

Now that I had been given another chance, I wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.

My father-in-law, Lionel Harrett, looked at me with disgust and sneered, "You're just a delivery guy. Now that you've suddenly got a fortune big enough to last several lifetimes, it must feel like heaven, huh? No wonder you clung to Rhea for so long, pretending to be head over heels for her every single day."

I almost laughed.

Rhea Harrett was the one who deserved an award for her performance in my last life.

When it poured, she would show up to pick me up from work. When our tiny apartment leaked, she would squeeze into the corner of the bed with our baby, promising that someday we'd make enough money to live a better life.

But the same woman later claimed she'd lost her memory again, locked me in the basement, and fed me spoiled food, all so she could marry her first love, Glen Newton.

A chill ran down my spine as I snapped back to the present. I took a slow sip of coffee and smiled.

"Mr. Harrett," I said lightly, "once I leave the country, don't forget to wipe away every trace of me, the so-called gold-digger, alright?"

Lionel gave a cold snort, grabbed the divorce papers, and stormed off.

At first, I had actually felt guilty toward Rhea. I thought she had crashed her car and lost her memory because she was trying to avoid hitting me on my scooter.

Back then, she couldn't stand any loud noise. It would trigger her headaches.

So, I worked two jobs, delivering food by day and washing dishes at a diner by night. Every cent went to her medical bills.

Each night, I would come home aching and exhausted, and she would look at me with guilt in her eyes, promising that someday she would make it up to me.

But after she returned to the Harretts as the heiress, everything changed.

That very night, during dinner with her family, she threw the meal I had cooked onto the floor.

Under their disgusted stares, she snapped, "Is this all you can cook? If you can't whip up something decent, leave it to the chef. You really are hopeless."

The plates broke, splattering food across my clothes. The meal ended in awkward silence.

From then on, everyone in the Harrett household knew I was the poor husband Rhea looked down on. Even the maids stopped respecting me.

When I regained my past memories, I realized both her amnesia episodes had been fake. She had only done it to get back at Glen.

Even the car accident that started it all wasn't fate. She had just gotten drunk after hearing Glen was dating someone new.

But now, in this life, I still had time to change everything.

Rhea came home past midnight.

A loud knock jolted me awake. She stood in the doorway, reeking of alcohol, her face twisted with irritation.

"Glen caught a chill," she said coldly. "He wants your chicken soup. Go make it."

I glanced up. Behind her stood Glen, his shirt half unbuttoned, abs showing.

He chuckled softly, his eyes full of challenge. "Sorry to bother you so late, Cassian. I just really like your soup."

Before I could answer, Rhea draped her coat over his shoulders and scolded gently, "Why did you wear so little? No wonder you caught a chill."

The tenderness in her voice made my stomach twist.

In my past life, after I had starved for three days, Glen had forced me to eat a whole bowl of rotten oatmeal. He had yanked my hair, sneering that people like me didn't deserve real food.

My scalp throbbed in pain, and the rancid smell of the food mixed with the taste of blood in my mouth made me sick to my stomach.