For three years, I called the police one hundred and eighty-eight times just to force Hudson to marry me. When he abandoned me with a high fever to take care of his ex-girlfriend, Fiona, I reported him as a missing person. When Fiona called him in the middle of the night to fix her plumbing, I called the cops to report illegal prostitution. Walking out of the precinct after the 188th time, I asked him if he was annoyed. He stayed silent for a long time before saying, "Since I promised your father, I will take responsibility for you." Later, an avalanche trapped us on a snowy mountain in Aspen. Hudson used his body to shield me, his lower half crushed by a massive boulder, yet he desperately refused to let me go. "Do you hate me?" I asked, crying. "Hate me for getting you killed and tearing you away from Fiona?" His tone was completely calm. "I am truly sick of you after all these years. But I won't let you die. I don't owe you anymore in this life. In the next life, please let me go." When I opened my eyes again, I was back in my past life. This time, I planned to do exactly as he wished. Chapter 1 Emerson Caldwell POV: "Put the knife down, Emerson," Hudson said, his voice flat, completely devoid of fear or affection. "You do this every time Fiona has an asthma attack. You know she is clinically unstable. If you want the Aguilar fortune and the status of a billionaire's wife so desperately, my father promised you a wedding, and I will give you one. You don't need to butcher yourself to prove you're an opportunistic leech." I was standing in the center of our Manhattan penthouse. In my right hand, I held a silver kitchen knife pressed against my left wrist. Hudson stood three feet away from me, his charcoal suit pristine, his jaw clenched in familiar, bone-deep annoyance. I stared at the edge of the steel blade. The memory of his dying breath in the snow hit me like physical trauma. My chest seized, but not with anger. It was an overwhelming, hollow quiet. When my father, a brave Fire Captain, died pulling Hudson's father, Ernesto Aguilar, from a burning building twenty years ago, Ernesto promised me to Hudson. For three years, I turned that promise into a cage. In my past life, I foolishly thought everything would be fine once we got married. I used suicide as a threat, and it worked. But to rush off and care for Fiona's asthma, he drove me to City Hall in the last ten minutes before closing. There was no preparation, no veil, no vows—it was less formal than the fake weddings we played as children. He stepped forward, reaching out with an impatient sigh to wrest the blade from my grip. As his fingers caught the steel, the sharp edge sliced across his palm. A thin line of crimson welled up, dripping onto the imported marble floor. Blood. The color made my stomach twist violently. My mind flashed back to Aspen, to the dark red pooling around his shattered ribs beneath the gray boulder. I immediately let go of the handle. The knife clattered against the floor tiles with a sharp, ringing echo. "Are you satisfied now?" Hudson asked, pulling a white linen handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping it tightly around his hand. "Do you feel better seeing blood?" I looked at his wrapped hand. His words from the snowstorm echoed in my ears: In the next life, please let me go. I took a step back, putting distance between us. I looked at the man I had loved for fifteen years. I had convinced myself that his coldness was just stress, that his loyalty to Fiona was just pity, and that my relentless devotion would eventually soften him. It was all self-delusion. "I'm sorry," I said. My voice was raspy, but steady. Hudson paused, his eyebrows drawing together. He was used to my screaming, my tears, and my frantic accusations. He was not used to an apology. "We don't need to get married, Hudson," I continued, looking directly into his dark eyes. "I am breaking off the engagement. Let's end this." Hudson let out a short, mocking breath. He adjusted his cuff over his bandaged palm. "Emerson, stop the theatrics. I told you, I am tired. I worked a fourteen-hour shift at the firm, and I don't have the energy to play your reverse-psychology games." He stepped toward me, knelt on one knee, and picked up the fallen knife, placing it high on the kitchen counter out of reach. Then he took a box of antiseptic wipes from the cabinet, grabbed my wrist, and began checking my skin for scratches. His touch was mechanical, the way a dutiful caretaker handles an unruly patient. "Fiona had a panic episode because her mother's anniversary is coming up," he said in that quiet, patronizing tone he always used. "She is fragile. You have a roof over your head, my family's fortune, and my name. You don't have to compete with a sick woman. Just behave, Emerson. You've successfully climbed the social ladder using your dead father's legacy; don't cause a scene that lands Dad in the hospital." He was binding me with duty, just like his father had bound him with gratitude. I didn't pull my hand away, but I didn't lean into him either. I simply looked down at the top of his head. Five, four, three, two, one, I counted silently. On cue, his phone vibrated loudly on the marble counter. The caller ID displayed the name: Fiona. Hudson's entire posture changed instantly. The cold, mechanical patience vanished, replaced by sharp, genuine urgency. He dropped my wrist, snatched the phone, and answered before the second ring. "Fiona? Where are you? What happened?" he asked, his voice full of protective warmth I had never once received in two lifetimes. I couldn't hear her words, only high-pitched sobbing through the receiver. "Take a deep breath," Hudson murmured, turning his back to me and walking quickly toward the foyer. "I'm coming right now. Don't touch anything sharp. Sit on the sofa and wait for me." He ended the call, grabbed his trench coat from the coat rack, and shoved his arms into the sleeves. He didn't even look back at me as he reached for the doorknob. "I'll be back late," he threw over his shoulder. "Order dinner. We'll discuss the wedding invitations tomorrow." The heavy oak door slammed shut. The penthouse fell completely silent. I stood in the vast, empty living room, looking at the faint drops of blood on the floor. In my past life, every time he walked out that door, I would throw vases, shatter wine glasses, and call his phone fifty times until he switched it off. I had thought it was a test of love, a contest between me and Fiona. It was never a contest. You cannot win a race against someone the other person actually wants to protect. I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a damp paper towel, and wiped the blood off the floor until the white marble was clean. Then I took out my phone. I opened my email and found the appointment confirmation for the Vera Wang bridal suite on Madison Avenue. I tapped the screen and canceled the custom dress fitting I had booked six months in advance. Next, I opened a travel app. I looked up the Appalachia region in West Virginia, specifically McDowell County, where a rural teaching initiative had posted urgent openings for primary school educators. I clicked Apply, uploaded my teaching credentials, and bought a one-way train ticket departing in seven days.

Emerson Caldwell POV: The first half of the night followed a strict, familiar pattern. At 8:00 PM, my phone buzzed: Arrived at Fiona's apartment. She is breathing normally. At 9:30 PM: She threw up her medication. Waiting for the doctor. At 11:00 PM: Doctor left. Prescribed sedatives. I will leave once she falls asleep. These hourly updates were a rule I had forced upon Hudson two years ago after catching him having dinner with Fiona on my birthday. I had thought that knowing his exact whereabouts would give me security. In reality, it was just a detailed log of my own humiliation. Whenever Fiona noticed him texting me, she would invent a new crisis to break the schedule. Midnight passed. 1:00 AM arrived. The updates stopped completely. In the past, this was the exact moment my panic would erupt. I would call his phone until it went straight to voicemail. I would call his assistant, his driver, and the doorman of Fiona' s building. Once, I had even driven to her apartment complex in the middle of a thunderstorm, pounding on her door for forty minutes while the neighbors threatened to call the police, only to find Hudson opening the door with his tie undone, looking at me with pure disgust. I remembered the first anniversary of my father's death. Hudson had promised to accompany me to the cemetery. At 7:00 AM, Fiona called claiming she saw a spider in her bathtub and had passed out from terror. Hudson left me standing in the rain with a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, spending six hours catching a household bug for his ex-girlfriend. I remembered Ernesto' s sixty-fifth birthday banquet. Hudson had arrived two hours late, his shirt smelling of Fiona' s sweet vanilla perfume, because Fiona had felt dizzy at a boutique and needed him to carry her shopping bags to her car. I remembered waiting on the rooftop of a restaurant in Brooklyn for four hours on Valentine's Day, watching the snow fall on cold steaks, while Hudson drove Fiona to the top of Bear Mountain because she claimed she needed fresh air to cure her claustrophobia. Every single time, the excuse was medical. Every single time, I was expected to understand because I was "healthy" and she was "sick." At 2:15 AM, my phone screen lit up. It was a text from Hudson' s number, but it contained no text. Only two photos. The first photo showed Hudson sleeping soundly on a gray suede couch, his face turned toward the camera, a knitted wool blanket tucked under his chin. The second photo was a selfie taken by Fiona. She was wearing Hudson' s oversized white dress shirt, holding a mug of chamomile tea, her eyes wide and innocent, with the caption: He was so tired taking care of me. Emerson, please don't be mad at him. He just has too much empathy. I looked at the photos for exactly three seconds. There was no rage in my chest. My heart rate didn't even accelerate. I felt the cold, clean detachment of someone watching strangers on a muted television screen. I typed a reply: Keep him. Then, I went into my settings, blocked Hudson's phone number, blocked Fiona's number, and blocked both of them across all my social media accounts. I set my phone on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and slept soundly for seven uninterrupted hours. The next morning at 8:00 AM, I dressed in a simple beige wool coat, pulled my dark hair into a neat low bun, and called a cab to the Aguilar family estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. Ernesto Aguilar had been a second father to me. When my father died in that fire, Ernesto had knelt before my father's coffin and sworn to the entire fire department that he would protect me with his life and fortune. For twenty years, he had treated me like a princess, funding my education, defending me against his snobbish relatives, and insisting that I was the only rightful daughter-in-law of the Aguilar family. I owed him the truth in person. I would not disappear like a thief in the night without giving that kind old man an explanation. The cab pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the estate at 9:30 AM. The butler, an elderly man named Thomas who had known me since childhood, opened the front door with a warm smile. "Miss Emerson! You're here early. Master Ernesto is in the study, but Master Hudson and Miss Hammond arrived half an hour ago." I paused on the marble threshold. "Fiona is here?" "Yes," Thomas whispered, his expression tightening slightly. "She came with Master Hudson. She said she needed to apologize to Master Ernesto for taking up Hudson's time last night." I walked quietly across the foyer. The heavy double doors of the ground-floor study were slightly ajar. Before I could raise my hand to knock, Fiona' s trembling, tearful voice drifted through the gap. "...Uncle Ernesto, please don't blame Hudson," Fiona sobbed softly. "It was entirely my fault. Emerson called the firm yesterday and threatened to leak internal financial documents to the press if Hudson didn't sign the wedding registry this week. Hudson was under immense stress, and when he saw me having an asthma attack, he just wanted to make sure I didn't die. Emerson has been spreading rumors among the board members that Hudson neglects his duties for an ex-lover. If the board votes against his CEO confirmation next month, it will ruin everything you built." She was laying the groundwork brilliantly. She was framing my desperation as corporate sabotage, turning a broken relationship into a threat against the Aguilar family legacy. In my previous life, I had heard these exact rumors circulate among Manhattan's high society, but I had never understood where they came from. I had spent months trying to explain myself to Ernesto, screaming that I had never talked to any reporters, which only made me look like an unhinged liar. Inside the study, Hudson' s deep voice spoke up, calm and dismissive. "Dad, Emerson is just throwing another tantrum. She is impulsive and acts without thinking about the consequences. I will handle her. You don't need to stress yourself over her behavior." I pushed the heavy mahogany door open.

Emerson Caldwell POV: The heavy door swung open and struck the brass stopper with a dull thud. The three people in the study looked up simultaneously. Hudson stood by the large mahogany desk, his hand still wrapped in white gauze. The moment he saw me, his body stiffened, and his first instinct was to take a step back, angling his broad frame slightly in front of Fiona, who was seated on the leather sofa holding a handkerchief. It was an automatic protective gesture. He truly believed I was a violent threat. Seeing me, Fiona let out a soft gasp, stood up quickly, and dropped to her knees on the Persian rug. Tears spilled over her pale cheeks in an instant. "Emerson! Please, I beg you, don't be angry with Hudson!" Fiona cried, reaching out to grab the hem of my coat with trembling fingers. "I know you hate me. I know you think I stole him from you last night. If you want to punish someone, punish me! Ruin my reputation, tell the newspapers whatever you want, but please don't ruin Hudson's position at the firm! He worked so hard for ten years to become CEO!" I looked down at her. Her makeup was meticulously smudged, giving her the appearance of a delicate, mistreated victim. In my past life, I would have yanked my coat away, slapped her hands off, and screamed at her to stop acting. And Hudson would have immediately grabbed my wrist, pushed me away, and accused me of being a monster. This time, I didn't move. I didn't pull my coat back. I simply looked at her with an expression of mild curiosity. "Fiona," Hudson snapped, his face darkening as he walked over to pull her up from the floor. He turned to me, his eyes blazing with cold reprimand. "Are you proud of yourself, Emerson? Look at what you've reduced her to. Threatening the firm? Spreading lies to the board? Have you completely lost your mind?" His words were sharp, heavy, and full of assumptions. For three years, this was his method of handling our disputes: judge first, convict immediately, and demand my obedience. Slap! A sharp crack echoed through the room. Ernesto Aguilar had slammed his open palm onto the solid oak desk. The seventy-year-old patriarch stood up, his face flushed with anger, his gray hair trembling as he pointed a finger directly at his son. "Shut your mouth, Hudson!" Ernesto roared, his deep voice shaking the glass display cabinets. "How dare you speak to Emerson like that! In this house, she is your fiancée and the daughter of the man who saved my life! You let this outsider slander her right in front of you, and you take her side without a shred of proof?" Ernesto stepped around the desk, his gait slightly unsteady due to his old knee injuries from the fire. He walked straight to me, his rough, scarred hands reaching out to gently touch my shoulder. "Emerson, my child," Ernesto' s voice softened instantly, thick with protective affection. "Don't listen to them. I built this company, and nobody can take Hudson's position unless I allow it. If he treats you poorly, I will strip him of his titles tomorrow. Tell me what happened. Did he hurt you?" I looked at Ernesto' s weathered face. The lines around his eyes were etched deep with genuine worry. Memories rushed back to me. When I was eight years old and lost both my parents, Ernesto carried me on his shoulders through the cemetery. When I had nightmares, he sat by my bed reading fairy tales until I fell asleep. When Hudson and I were teenagers, Ernesto would always save the largest portion of dessert for me, telling Hudson, "A man's greatest duty is to protect the girl who has no one else." I had clung to that duty for fifteen years. I had mistaken Ernesto's love for Hudson's love, believing that because the father owed my family everything, the son would eventually learn to cherish me. That was my greatest mistake. Gratitude cannot be inherited, and love cannot be enforced by a moral debt. I reached up and gently placed my hand over Ernesto' s trembling fingers. "Uncle Ernesto," I said softly, my voice clear and calm. "I didn't come here to complain about Hudson. And I didn't speak to any reporters or board members." Fiona sniffled from behind Hudson, her voice small. "Then why did Director Vance ask Hudson about the wedding registry this morning..." I ignored her completely, keeping my eyes fixed on Ernesto. "I came here today to officially return the engagement ring and cancel the wedding," I said. The room went dead silent. Hudson' s eyes widened in genuine disbelief. He stepped forward, his brow furrowed in irritation. "Emerson, enough! Stop using the engagement as a bargaining chip every time you don't get your way!" "I am not bargaining, Hudson," I said, turning my head to look at him calmly. "I am releasing you. We are done." "Emerson!" Ernesto gasped, his eyes filling with sudden tears. He grabbed both of my hands, his grip tight and desperate. "No, child, you can't! Is it because of this woman? I will ban her from New York! I will send Hudson to the London branch until he learns how to treat his wife! Don't throw away your future over his stupidity!" "Uncle Ernesto, it has nothing to do with Fiona," I said, looking into the old man's eyes with absolute sincerity. "A marriage built on obligation is a prison for both people. My father died to give you a full life, not to turn your son into a hostage. Hudson does not love me. He has never loved me. Forcing him to marry me will only make us hate each other until we destroy ourselves." I had lived that destruction once. I would not live it again. From the corner of my eye, I saw Fiona lower her head, a tiny, triumphant smirk flickering across the corner of her lips before she quickly hid it behind her handkerchief. Ernesto stared at me, his shoulders slumping as if he had aged ten years in ten seconds. He heard the finality in my voice. It wasn't the screaming of an angry girl; it was the quiet verdict of a woman who had completely given up. He closed his eyes, a heavy, ragged sigh escaping his chest. "Give me one week, Emerson," Ernesto whispered, his voice cracking with sorrow. "Give an old man seven days. If, after seven days, you still want to leave... I will sign whatever papers you want, and I will set up an independent trust for you so you never have to work a day in your life. Just give me seven days to fix this." I looked at the frail old man who had raised me. I could not break his heart all at once. "All right, Uncle Ernesto," I agreed quietly. "Seven days." I gave him a gentle nod, turned on my heel, and walked out of the study without sparing Hudson a single glance.