The Fiancée Who Died Twice

The Fiancée Who Died Twice

Min Xiaoxi

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The typical bright Texas morning was promising, another day of booming business for Hayes Corp, my family's oil and real estate empire. My assistant's tight voice cut through the calm: "Mr. Hayes, there's... news. About Ms. Moreau." Isabelle "Izzy" Moreau, my fiancée, was supposedly lost at sea in a tragic boating accident off the coast of Maine. In my previous life, that phone call had shattered my world; I spent fifty years as a hollow shell, honoring her memory while her supposed grieving friends drained my company with their sob stories. But then, at eighty, frail and tired, I found her alive and thriving at our "special place" in the Caribbean, dripping in jewels, laughing on the arm of Liam Vance, my former head of security. Their children, their grandchildren, a grotesque dynasty built on my stolen life and stolen fortune. The sheer, monumental betrayal stopped my heart, killing me on the spot. Then I jolted awake, here, now, back on this exact Tuesday morning, the sun shining, the phone poised to deliver the same lie. Only this time, the news didn't devastate me; it filled me with a cold, clear resolve. I already knew. I had lived this day before, and I was reborn with a singular purpose. The game was officially on, and this time, I would win.

Introduction

The typical bright Texas morning was promising, another day of booming business for Hayes Corp, my family's oil and real estate empire.

My assistant's tight voice cut through the calm: "Mr. Hayes, there's... news. About Ms. Moreau."

Isabelle "Izzy" Moreau, my fiancée, was supposedly lost at sea in a tragic boating accident off the coast of Maine.

In my previous life, that phone call had shattered my world; I spent fifty years as a hollow shell, honoring her memory while her supposed grieving friends drained my company with their sob stories.

But then, at eighty, frail and tired, I found her alive and thriving at our "special place" in the Caribbean, dripping in jewels, laughing on the arm of Liam Vance, my former head of security.

Their children, their grandchildren, a grotesque dynasty built on my stolen life and stolen fortune.

The sheer, monumental betrayal stopped my heart, killing me on the spot.

Then I jolted awake, here, now, back on this exact Tuesday morning, the sun shining, the phone poised to deliver the same lie.

Only this time, the news didn't devastate me; it filled me with a cold, clear resolve.

I already knew. I had lived this day before, and I was reborn with a singular purpose.

The game was officially on, and this time, I would win.

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Beyond the River's Edge

Beyond the River's Edge

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The last thing I remembered was the freezing water closing over my head, Brittany' s triumphant smile the final image in my mind. Then, a gasp. I shot up, coughing, not in the dark river, but in my bed, sunlight streaming through the window. Had it all been a nightmare? The public shaming, getting fired, the whispers, the utter despair that drove me to that river' s edge? A self-satisfied hum from the living room shattered the illusion. Brittany. My heart hammered. This wasn' t a nightmare. It was a second chance. Memories flooded back: my sweet, bubbly roommate turning into a viper. She started using my online identity, my photos, twisting them into something sordid. When I confronted her, she just laughed, "Chloe, don' t be such a prude. They love it. It' s just a bit of fun." I went to HR, but she got there first, twisting the story, painting me as a jealous, unstable friend. They believed her. The photos became more explicit, sent from my work email. I was publicly humiliated, labeled an exhibitionist. My boss couldn' t look me in the eye. The company fired me to "protect its image." My career, everything I' d worked for, was gone. Brittany thrived. She took my job, my desk, my life. She stood on the ashes of my career and pretended she was a hero. The final blow was the public scandal that nearly cost me my life. And then, it did. As the current pulled me under, she had won. But now I was back. The girl who died in that river took all my innocence with her. What was left was a cold, burning desire for revenge. And as I lay there, listening to the clicks of her camera, I knew exactly how I was going to get it.

Nine Divorces, One Last Stand

Nine Divorces, One Last Stand

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Five years. Nine court dates. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days of a marriage on trial. Today, my husband, Mark Thompson, filed for divorce for the ninth time. As if his infidelity with Sarah Miller wasn' t enough, he stood in court, tears in his mistress' s eyes, dramatically presenting a positive pregnancy test and declared, "It's time for Chloe to let me go." But I had proof. A grainy surveillance video from our living room, showing Mark, drunk, begging me not to leave, then savagely biting my earlobe in a desperate, animalistic act of possession. The judge, clearly fed up with Mark' s theatrics, denied the petition. Mark, enraged, swore he' d keep fighting until I was out of his life for good. His words rang true just three nights later. I was poisoned at a dinner, doubling over in searing pain, gasping for air. Mark found me clutching my stomach, but instead of helping, he dismissed my agony, saying, "Stop faking it, Chloe. You' re just drunk." Then he drove away, leaving me to bleed on the dark street, his chilling threat echoing in the night: "Just obey, or I' ll file for divorce again at the next hearing. I' ll make sure it' s the tenth and final one." As his taillights vanished, a profound stillness settled over me. This wasn't just a physical wound; it was a soul-deep laceration, cauterized by his indifference. Lying there, alone and abandoned, a decision formed in my mind, crystal clear and devoid of emotion. I was done.

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