When my husband opened his mouth again, announcing he was taking his precious first love to watch the sunrise at the beach,
I didn't cry. I didn't make a scene.
I just calmly reached for the unopened box of condoms on the nightstand and slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
Oliver Gilbert's hand froze on the door handle. He stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
“Vivian Mercer, what the hell is wrong with you?”
I smiled. Said nothing.
Nothing was wrong with me. I hadn't lost my mind.
I had simply been reborn.
This time, I wanted a different ending.
——
When I made no move to take the box back, his expression darkened further.
His voice carried an edge of real anger：
“I'm talking to you. I'm just going to the beach to watch the sunrise. What exactly is this for?”
I leaned against the headboard, scrolling through my phone without looking up：
“I'm perfectly sane. Hotel condoms are cheap garbage. The last thing you need is to knock someone up and waste money on an abortion. Oh, and double-bag it. Sara Swanson gets around. I'd rather not catch something.”
His face went black as a thundercloud.
He crossed the room in one stride, snatched the box, and slammed it onto the nightstand so hard the glass rattled.
“I've told you a hundred times, there is nothing between me and Sara! Her ex dumped her. She's not thinking straight, she's talking about throwing herself off a cliff into the ocean. I'm going to talk her down. That's it!”
“Sure.”
I bent down, picked the box up off the floor, and tucked it back into his pocket with a pat：
“All the more reason. Who knows what's in the water? Safety first.”
“You!”
Oliver jabbed a finger at my face, so furious he couldn't form a sentence.
“What has gotten into you lately? You used to cry all night if I so much as spoke to Sara, and now you're……”
He was right. I used to cry.
In my last life, this exact night played out the same way. He left at midnight to comfort heartbroken Sara, and I fought him on it.
He slapped me across the face, called me unreasonable, and slammed the door on his way out.
The rage sent my stomach into acute perforation. I collapsed on the cold tile floor, writhing in agony.
I called him thirty-seven times. He didn't pick up once.
I died alone in that house. By the time the housekeeper found me, my body had already started to decompose.
When they finally came back, my three-year-old son Matthew Gilbert was clinging to Sara Swanson's neck, saying：
“Aunt Sara, bad mommy's dead. Can you be my mommy now?”
Oliver stroked his hair, gentle as anything, and said：
“Okay.”
Now that I was back, I would never be that fool again.
Let them love whoever they wanted. All I needed was to survive.
I pushed the covers aside, got out of bed, and straightened his crooked tie：
“I used to have water for brains. It's all drained out now.”
“Go on, hurry up. If you're late and Sara actually jumps, you'll find a way to blame me for her death too.”
The bedroom door burst open.
Matthew ran out barefoot, threw himself into Oliver's arms, and tugged at his sleeve, screaming：
“Daddy, Daddy! I wanna go to Aunt Sara's house too! I don't wanna stay with bad mommy!”
My heart seized.
In my last life, he was exactly the same.
At three, he called me bad mommy. At four, he scraped the meals I cooked into the trash.
At five, he held a fruit knife to my face and said he was going to kill me to avenge Aunt Sara.
I thought being reborn had prepared me. I thought I'd armored myself for this.
But hearing those two words from my own son's mouth again, my chest clenched so tight I couldn't breathe.
Oliver frowned but didn't correct the boy.
He just looked at me, his tone heavy with the kind of blame that assumed it was already settled：
“See? You're too hard on him. He's scared of you.”
“Be good, Matthew. It's too late tonight. Daddy will take you to see Aunt Sara tomorrow, okay?”
