Reborn, I Embraced Her Open Marriage

When my parents pressed us about starting a family, Id shoulder all the blame, never once revealing her decision to remain child-free. Stumbling upon her kissing her childhood friend goodbye as I took out the trash, I'd pretend not to see a thing, turning back upstairs without a word. Finding her childhood friend's underwear beneath the pillow, I'd simply wash it, dry it, and fold it neatly.

My friends called me a glutton for punishment, a willing cuckold. Even her closest friends whispered that my love for her was incurable, a hopeless devotion.

Another evening, returning home to the chaotic scene in our master bedroom, I'd considerately close the door for her. Then Id put on my headphones and start dinner.

As I turned, she was suddenly there, standing in the doorway, her stunning face clouded with an unfamiliar storm.

"Alan," shed snap, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the kitchen, "Where's your pride, Alan? The man you used to be?"

I feigned deafness, turning back to the sizzling pan. But a bitter pang twisted in my gut.

Pride? I was simply trying to avoid repeating the tragedy of my last life.

The last dish, one of Isabelle's favorites, was just placed on the table when Brendan, her childhood friend, fastened the final button on his shirt, admiring himself in the hall mirror. He turned, a smirk playing on his lips, a mixture of smug satisfaction and overt challenge in his eyes.

"Alan," he drawled, a glint in his eye, "I really like that jacket. Why dont you just give it to me?"

My gaze instinctively flickered to Isabelle, seated at the table. She'd been glowering for the past half-hour. She was the one who'd proposed this 'open arrangement' a year ago, yet here she was, the picture of discontent. Sure enough, the moment I agreed to hand over the jacket shed once given me to Brendan, her expression darkened further, a storm gathering on her brow.

With a sudden, violent kick, she sent the table leg flying, sending soup splattering across the pristine floor.

"Get out!" she spat, her voice laced with venom.

Brendans smirk faltered, his face shifting almost imperceptibly as he shrugged off the jacket. Brushing past me as I bent to mop the mess, he whispered a low, mocking taunt.

"Alan, what kind of man lets himself be treated like this? Youre no better than a doormat. I truly don't know why Isabelle ever married a pathetic worm like you!"

In my past life, that very question had haunted me. Isabelle, the heiress to the powerful Montgomery family, had been pampered and adored from birth, accustomed to wielding immense influence. In stark contrast, my own family, the Harrisons, was of modest means, a quiet household with no grand lineage. Until my dying breath in that previous existence, Id tormented myself with the same agonizing questions: Did Isabelle truly love me? Why did she marry me? If she did, then why... why had she treated me with such cruelty?

Having faced a brutal death once, I no longer wrestled with those thoughts. I simply didn't care anymore. She could do whatever she pleased, as long as it meant avoiding the tragedy of my past.

The moment Brendan stepped out the door, Isabelle swept her arm across the dining table, sending all the meticulously prepared dishes crashing to the floor. A soup bowl shattered at my feet, the scalding liquid splashing onto my calf. A searing pain shot through me, spreading from my skin to somewhere deep within my chest, forcing a sharp gasp from my lips. Yet, even then, no anger flared within me. I simply limped over to grab the broom, beginning to sweep up the shards and spilled food.

Behind me, Isabelle's voice ripped through the silence. "Alan," she shrieked, "Look at yourself! Do you even see how pathetic you are right now? What happened to your pride? I know Ive wronged you, but you don't have to deliberately sicken me like this!"

I paused, then slowly turned, my gaze utterly vacant, a void where emotion once resided. "Isn't this precisely what you wanted?" I asked, my voice flat.

Her eyes were bloodshot, and she took a ragged breath. "Alan, you're truly something else!" she spat, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Fine, then! If you're so brave, just hide away like a coward forever!" With that, she snatched her jacket and stormed out, the front door slamming shut with a deafening bang that echoed through the empty house.

My first instinct was to follow her. But then I stopped myself. There was no point. Every time we argued, Isabelle would seek solace in Brendan. In my past life, I'd witnessed her countless times, her head buried in Brendan's embrace. It had left me red-eyed, hysterical, lashing out in a desperate rage, only to be met with a searing slap across my face, delivered with all her strength. "Brendan and I grew up together, Alan. You have no right to lay a hand on him!"

I sank to my knees, beginning to pick up the scattered glass shards. My phone rang, a furious roar erupting the moment I answered.

"Alan, when in God's name are you going to divorce Isabelle? Brendan just publicly announced their relationship on social media, for crying out loud!"

I tapped open the social media app. The very first post was a jarring image of intertwined hands. On the woman's ring finger, a wedding band glittered, catching the light and piercing my eyes like tiny daggers. I stared at it for two silent seconds, then closed the photo, returning to my mindless task of cleaning.

Divorce? Impossible. Unless Isabelle initiated it herself, I would never divorce her. In my past life, I'd already endured the bitter aftermath of our divorce, and I wouldn't go through it again.

Isabelle didn't return that night, and I slept surprisingly well. I rose promptly, prepared a comforting broth, and headed to the hospital to visit Mother.

At the hospital, Mother set her soup bowl down, her gaze drifting towards the door for the third time. "Alan, dear," she began, "Have you spoken to Isabelle about having children yet? It's not that I'm nagging, but Isabelle will be thirty soon. The older she gets, the more difficult it will be to conceive"

I was peeling an apple. At her words, the knife slipped, nicking my finger. A droplet of blood welled up, the sharp sting bringing me back to reality, yet I replied, my voice perfectly steady, without a trace of a blush. "Mother, I'm not in a hurry."

"Is it you who's not in a hurry, Alan, or is it Isabelle who doesn't want children?" A mother knows her son best. Mother began to cough, agitated, and the entire hospital bed rattled violently beneath her. "Alan, tell me the truth!" she gasped, her voice strained. "Are those pictures online real? What exactly is happening between you and Isabelle?"

I frantically pressed the emergency call button, gently rubbing her back to help her breathe. Just before she lost consciousness, Mother clutched my arm, her voice a desperate, rasping whisper. "Alan, if our family line ends with you, how will I ever face your father in the afterlife?"

The doctors arrived promptly. After a quick examination, they assured me it was merely a brief fainting spell brought on by extreme emotional distress. The doctor patted my shoulder. "Your mothers condition is improving daily. Don't worry."

I forced a brittle smile, but the moment I reached an secluded corridor, I couldn't hold it in any longer. I slammed my fist into the wall, a torrent of long-held tears finally breaking free, falling so heavily they felt as though they could melt the very ground beneath me. Mothers convulsions on the bed had mirrored, with terrifying accuracy, the scene of her passing in my previous life.

In that past existence, after I'd discovered Isabelle's undeniable intimacy with Brendan, I had insisted on a divorce. Under Isabelle's relentless pressure, I was forced to leave with nothing but the clothes on my back. For Mothers sake, I had hidden the truth from her. I took on eight part-time jobs, grueling shifts every day, just to scrape together enough for her medical bills. When hunger gnawed at me, I'd eat stale bread soaked in water. When thirst became unbearable, I'd drink tap water from public restrooms. In a mere month, Id lost twenty pounds, my body a shadow of its former self. Several times, dizzy from low blood sugar, I'd almost caused a traffic accident while on a delivery.

Just when I'd finally saved a million dollars, Mother suffered a sudden heart attack and was rushed into the emergency room. It turned out that Mother, not having seen Isabelle in quite some time, had called to check on her. But it was Brendan who answered the phone. He didn't just reveal the truth about our divorce; he also sent Mother photos of me, looking utterly subservient, working multiple humble jobs to pay her medical bills. And worse, undeniable proof of his affair with Isabelle. Watching the monitor replay Mother spitting blood and convulsing on the spot, a pain sharper than any knife twisted in my gut.

Though the doctors managed to snatch Mother from the jaws of death, they delivered another crushing blow. I needed to gather another one and a half million dollars for her surgery within three days. Otherwise, Mothers fate would be unthinkable. I called every friend, former boss, and distant relative I knew, pleading for help. Some stammered, making excuses. "Im sorry, Alan," one friend said hesitantly, "Isabelle made it clear that anyone who helps you will be going against the entire Montgomery family." Others simply cursed me out on the spot. "No money, and even if I did, I wouldn't lend it to you! Dont you dare call me again! If you drag me into your mess, Ill never forgive you!"

On the third day, utterly desperate, I swallowed my pride and went to Isabelle. The defiant air Id carried the day of our divorce was long gone, replaced by knees that buckled and a voice that was nothing more than a hoarse, desperate plea. Isabelle looked down at me, a flicker of cold satisfaction in her eyes.

"I can save your mother, Alan, but on one condition."

"Marry me again."

My heart, already a barren wasteland, agreed to her terms in that instant. Isabelle immediately mobilized the nation's top medical team, crafting a meticulous treatment plan for Mother. She even flew in the world's most renowned specialist to perform Mothers surgery. Just as I dared to believe everything was finally in place, that Mother would at last live a long and healthy life

On the day of the surgery, the specialist vanished without a trace. Mother lay anesthetized on the operating table, her life hanging by a fragile thread. I dialed Isabelle's number ninety-nine times, each call going unanswered. On the hundredth try, she finally picked up. I crumpled to the floor, sobbing so hard I felt like I would vomit. "Isabelle, where have you taken the doctor? My mother is dying, she wont survive without this surgery! Please, Isabelle, shell die! I beg you, save her! Shes the only family I have left!"

After a long, agonizing silence, Brendans voice drifted through the phone. "Isabelle, who are you talking to?"

My heart plummeted to the depths of despair. All my desperate pleas, reduced to a cruel joke. Isabelle hung up immediately. Just then, the hospital finally managed to secure a surgeon from another facility, rushing them in to take over. Tragically, it was a step too late.

In her final moments, Mother clutched my hand tightly, spitting blood, her body wracked with violent tremors. "Alan dont cry Mother will always watch over you from heaven My Alan you must find happiness"

Clutching Mothers urn, I wandered through the biting winter streets like a ghost, aimless and hollow. As I rode a taxi towards the cemetery, my phone buzzed with a trending news alert.

#Brendan's Car Accident: Isabelle Sheds Tears of Concern#

The string of words pierced my vision like sharp needles. I clicked the link, my gaze locking onto the image of the specialist, the very same specialist, bandaging Brendan's arm. My hands trembled so violently I almost dropped the urn cradled in my arms. A mere scrape on Brendan's arm! And for that, Isabelle had whisked away the expert, personally sealing Mothers fate!

Standing in the bitter snow, I threw my head back and let out a guttural laugh, tears streaming down my pale, frozen face. Given a second chance, I wouldn't dare to gamble anymore. I couldn't. In this life, all I wanted was for Mother to be safe and well. Everything else was irrelevant.

I slowly pushed myself up, wiping the lingering tears from my eyes. Returning to the hospital room, Mother was awake. I gripped her hand tightly, my face a mask of calm. "Mother," I said, my voice steady, "it truly is my decision not to have children. It has nothing to do with Isabelle. Those online photos are baseless rumors, Mother. Please don't believe them. Isabelle and I were perfectly fine."

After soothing Mothers worries, I arrived home around eight that evening. Isabelle, uncharacteristically, was home before me. She reeked of alcohol, sprawled on the sofa, muttering incoherently to herself. Out of habit, I went into the kitchen to prepare her a hangover remedy. As I cooled the soup to feed her, she suddenly cupped my face in her hands. Her blurry, drunken state brought back a painful memory from my past life: the time shed whispered Brendans name while in my arms. I, who never suffered from insomnia, spent that night wide awake, finally driven to check her phone for the very first time. The intimate photos and messages I found felt like countless sharp knives tearing at my heart, leaving it raw and bleeding.

"Alan"

The unexpected use of my name startled me. The next moment, she had me pinned against the sofa. Her drunken eyes gleamed with an unnerving intensity, as if they could pierce through every thought in my mind.

"Alan." She spoke again, her voice laced with a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor of hurt. "Do you do you still love me, Alan? I dont know I feel like you dont care about me as much as you used to"

Before I could formulate an answer, Isabelle burrowed her face against my ear, her voice a mere whisper, yet strangely resolute. "No, you cant not love me, Alan. You just care too much, thats why youve become like this."

My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, a bitter, chaotic swirl. Only one truth remained starkly clear.

The Alan who had loved Isabelle was long dead.

The next morning, Isabelle seemed to have completely forgotten her drunken words. She retreated to the attic and stayed there for a long time. I had just set breakfast on the table when she stormed down the stairs, her movements frantic. The moment she opened her mouth, her voice was ablaze with fury.

"Alan, where are my father's paintings?!"

I paused, feigning ignorance. "What paintings?" I asked, though I knew exactly what she meant. At my reply, her face, contorted with rage, practically lunged at me.

"The art, Alan! The collection your father left in the attic! Who else but you would touch that garbage?"

Those last two words, 'that garbage,' struck my already fractured heart with crushing force. A flicker of bitter irony crossed my gaze. To her, those invaluable pieces of art were indeed just garbage. But in Brendans eyes, that 'garbage' was a golden ticket, enough to launch his career and make a name for himself in the art world.

In my previous life, barely had Mother been laid to rest when Brendan used my father's collection to host his own exhibition. His reputation soared, and he was hailed as a genius art master overnight. I recognized those very artworks in a livestream, pieces that had comforted me day and night, urging me to carry on. Fueled by a raw, searing fury, I hailed a taxi to the exhibition, causing an absolute scene. When reporters asked Isabelle if the artworks were indeed Brendans creations, she nodded without a moments hesitation. "I watched Brendan create them with my own eyes," shed declared. "As for my ex-husband" She glanced at me, a fleeting moment of hesitation in her gaze. But then it hardened, becoming utterly merciless. "Hes merely bitter after our divorce, seeking malicious revenge and trying to destroy my closest friend."

Overnight, I became a trending topic, vilified across every platform. Every day, strangers would throw foul liquids, symbols of bad luck and disgrace, at the door of my rental apartment. Some even sought out my parents graves, desecrating their tombstones with kicks, curses, and spit. In that abyss of despair, I lost all will to live. I swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. But Isabelle had me rushed to the hospital, where they brought me back from the brink. She sat there, her eyes red-rimmed, clutching my hand in a death grip. "Alan, lets stop fighting. Never again."

I nodded weakly. But the moment she left the hospital to buy my favorite peach pastries, I climbed to the rooftop and leapt. I landed squarely in front of her.

This time, I vowed not only to protect Mother but also to safeguard my father's precious legacy. I spoke, my face utterly devoid of emotion. "Those paintings? I already threw them out."

Isabelles eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you insane?! Who told you to throw them away? Go get them back, right now! Brendan needs them urgently!"

But no matter how frantic she became, I simply maintained an expression that conveyed utter helplessness, as if they were gone forever. Watching her storm out, I let out a long, slow breath. The heavy stone that had been weighing on my heart finally crashed to the ground.

As usual, I prepared dinner and headed to the hospital to visit Mother. On my way, a livestream with over a hundred million views blared onto my phone screen, instantly grabbing my attention.

#Brendan: The Calligraphy Prodigy#

The headline struck me like a physical blow, leaving me gasping. With trembling fingers, I tapped into the livestream. Seeing my fathers precious artworks hanging prominently in the exhibition hall, bearing Brendans name, was like plummeting into a frozen abyss. I was instantly transported back to that long, snowy night in my previous life when Mother had died.

I frantically dialed Isabelles number, while simultaneously rushing to the hospital, a growing dread clawing at my throat. Pushing open the door, I saw Mother peacefully knitting a tiny hat on her hospital beda hat for a child that would never exist. Seeing my breathless, panicked face, Mothers expression subtly shifted. "Whats wrong, Alan? Has something happened?"

I forced down the rising tide of fear and unease within me, managing only a grimace that was meant to be a smile, and shook my head. I took Mothers phone and quickly blocked and uninstalled every app or channel that could possibly expose her to my fathers stolen art. Only then did I feel a sliver of relief, pushing Mothers wheelchair out for a gentle stroll in the hospital garden.

Midway through our stroll, I received a phone call. When I returned, Mother was gone. At that exact moment, a nurses frantic shriek echoed through the hospital lobby. "Doctor! Help! A patient has collapsed, spitting blood!"

I pushed through the throng of people, and the identical, horrifying scene from my past life slammed into my vision. Mother lay on the floor, her limbs convulsing, blood flecking her lips. And above her, blaring from a large screen in the lobby, was Brendans live exhibition broadcast.

"Mother"

Outside the operating room, I knelt on the cold floor, my bloodied hands clasped together in desperate prayer, begging for her life to be spared. After what felt like an eternity, the doctor emerged, shaking his head slowly. "Im so sorry, but there was nothing more we could do."

The world spun around me, then dissolved into darkness. I collapsed to the floor, my face ashen and lifeless. As I walked out of the hospital gates, clutching Mothers urn, Brendans exhibition was reaching its triumphant conclusion. Isabelle stood beside him, a picture of perfect harmony, a match made in hell, perhaps.

I felt no hatred, no anger. Only the crushing numbness of a heart utterly deadened by grief. It seemed even with a second chance, I was powerless to protect the ones I held most dear.

Now, I had nothing left to lose.

Isabelle, goodbye.

No, not just goodbye. Never again.

Mothers dying wish for me to find happiness echoed relentlessly in my ears. I lowered my head and drafted a timed message, a divorce notification set to send automatically.

"Congratulations, Isabelle. Youre finally free of me, forever."

Then, with nothing but a small suitcase, I walked out into the encroaching night, vanishing without a trace.