After Dying 98 Times for Him, I Finally Let Go

This was my ninety-ninth loop.

The wall clock said eight in the evening. In three hours, Serena, his true love, would slit her wrists. He'd rush out like a madman. And When tried to stop him, an out-of-control truck would reduce me to a bloody mess.

This time, I wasn't going to stop him.

I even thoughtfully placed his car keys on the console table by the entryway, poured myself a glass of red wine, and waited quietly for the call to come.

The system's icy voice exploded in my mind. "Warning! Host is slacking off. This is your last loop. If the mission fails, your soul will be completely annihilated. Countdown: 3 days."

I smiled.

Three days? Enough time for me to plan a grand funeral.

The moment my eyes opened, the crushing pain of my chest bones being pulverized by a multi-ton truck seemed to linger through every nerve.

I bolted upright in bed, cold sweat soaking my silk pajamas, my heart hammering wildly in my chest. It was protesting being dragged back into a body that was already doomed.

Seven in the morning.

The sound of rushing water came from the bathroom. Ethan was showering.

According to the script of the previous ninety-nine loops, in five minutes he'd emerge wrapped in a towel, casually wiping his hair while telling me the same lie he'd told ninety-nine times.

The water stopped.

Ethan pushed open the bathroom door, water droplets sliding down his toned muscles. He didn't even glance at me, walking straight to the walk-in closet, his tone already laced with practiced impatience. "Overtime at work tonight, a multinational conference. Don't wait up for dinner."

The so-called multinational conference was just an excuse. Serena had just returned, and he was eager to go to a three-star Michelin restaurant to throw a welcome party for her.

In the past, I would have jumped out of bed barefoot, hugged him from behind, buried my face in his back, and pleaded pitifully. "But it's our wedding anniversary today. Not even for an hour?"

Then he would frown and push me away, annoyed that I had stained his shirt with tears. He'd call me childish and dramatic.

But this time, I just sat on the bed, quietly watching him perform.

My stomach was cramping from the side effects of the loops, and waves of nausea rose in my throat. I took a deep breath, forced the bile back down, then threw back the covers and got out of bed.

Ethan was rummaging through a pile of ties, his brow furrowed, clearly searching for the cobalt blue striped tie Serena had given him. In previous loops, I would deliberately hide that tie, trying to erase her presence on this special day.

I walked behind him, pulled open the bottom drawer, and retrieved the tie.

"Looking for this?"

My voice was raspy, like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

Ethan's hand froze in mid-air. He turned around, his eyes flashing with surprise, which quickly morphed into annoyance at being seen through. He opened his mouth, as if to explain, or perhaps to wait for me to hysterically question him.

But I said nothing. I stepped forward, stood on my tiptoes, and skillfully tied his tie for him. My fingers were cold; when they brushed his warm neck, I distinctly felt his muscles tense.

"This color brings out your skin tone. She'll probably like it." I adjusted the knot to perfection, then gently patted his collar, my movements as delicate as if I were arranging a shroud for a corpse.

Ethan grabbed my wrist abruptly, his grip so tight it hurt. He stared intently into my eyes, trying to find a trace of jealousy, anger, or even grievance.

Unfortunately, all he saw was an empty gaze.

"Scarlett, who's the snark for?" His voice was low, laced with suppressed anger.

I pulled my hand free, turned, and walked toward the bathroom, leaving him with only my back.

"Nothing. Just feeling tired. Go early, come back early, Ethan."

"After all, it's going to rain heavily tonight."

I knew he was still staring at me from behind; the feeling of his eyes on my back made my spine stiffen.

But I didn't look back, because the woman in the mirror had a face as pale as paper, and dark red blood was slowly dripping from her nostril.

This was the sign that my soul was beginning to strip away.

I turned on the faucet, washing the blood away with cold water again and again, the stream mixing with red, swirling down the drain, just like my absurd life.

Six in the evening. The downpour arrived as scheduled, thunder ripping through the sky.

Normally by this time, I'd be running around the kitchen, busy as can be. I would have pre-ordered dry-aged prime ribeye. I'd trim it, decant a red wine from Ethan's birth year, and light expensive scented candles. Then I'd dress myself up like a fancy gift waiting to be sent back.

This time, looking at the empty dining table, I felt nothing but irony.

I picked up my phone, opened a delivery app, and casually ordered a cheap pizza, the kind I would never touch normally, and Ethan would sneer at.

I sat cross-legged on the sofa, holding a slice of cheap, store-brand pizza. I took a bite; the cold cheese wouldn't melt in my mouth, tasting like cardboard.

But I actually enjoyed it, because I ordered it for myself, not to cater to Ethan's picky palate.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.

It was Ethan.

When I heard the key turn in the lock, I was still sitting cross-legged on the sofa, holding a half-eaten slice of pizza, tomato sauce smeared on the corner of my mouth.

Ethan pushed the door open. When he saw the scene, he froze in the entryway. He was carrying his briefcase, having returned for an important document he'd forgotten.

In previous loops, when he came back for the document and saw my carefully prepared candlelight dinner, a fleeting moment of guilt would cross his face, only to turn into sheer disgust when I insisted he stay for dinner.

Now, the living room had no roses, no candlelight, only the lingering smell of cheap cheese and burnt crust.

"What... are you eating?" Ethan frowned, his gaze falling on the greasy pizza box as if it were some bio-weapon.

"Dinner." I swallowed my food, didn't get up to greet him, or even lift my eyelids. "If you're getting files, hurry up. Don't let me delay your overtime."

Ethan changed his shoes and walked in, his steps heavy. He didn't go straight to the study but walked into the living room, standing in front of me, blocking the TV light.

"Today is..." He paused, seemingly waiting for me to remind him.

"I know, Friday, right?" I interrupted him, picking up a pill bottle from the coffee table and pouring out a handful of white pills.

They weren't vitamins; they were strong painkillers. The system had warned me that as the countdown approached, the feeling of my soul detaching from my body would intensify. The pain was like someone sawing at my bones with a dull knife.

The moment I heard him open the door, a sudden sharp pain erupted in my spine, so intense I almost dropped the pizza.

I tilted my head back and swallowed all dozen pills in front of Ethan, without even water, forcing them down. A bitter taste spread in my mouth, slightly suppressing the agonizing, churning pain inside me.

"Why are you taking so many vitamins?" Ethan's frown deepened as he watched me swallow the pills, a hint of inexplicable irritation in his eyes. "Scarlett, are you sick?"

Ha, asking now, isn't it a bit too late?

"Losing some hair lately. Just supplementing." I lied casually, picked up the remote, and turned up the TV volume. The variety show on screen erupted with laughter, jarringly loud in the quiet living room. "The files are on the study desk. I saw them just now."

Ethan stood still. The love that once suffocated him had suddenly vanished, replaced by a sense of detachment he couldn't control. This discrepancy made him uncomfortable, even more so than my constant nagging.

He stared at me deeply, as if trying to find a flaw in my calm face. But I just stared at the TV screen, laughing even more exaggeratedly than the show's guests, my fingernails digging deeply into my palms, using the pain to stay clear-headed.

Finally, he said nothing, turning and entering the study.

When he came out with the files, he paused by me and curtly remarked, "Eat less of that junk food."

The moment the door closed, I finally couldn't hold it in. I rushed to the bathroom and violently vomited into the toilet.

The pizza and pills I'd swallowed mixed with stomach acid spilled everywhere.

My stomach felt like it was on fire, and tears streamed uncontrollably down my face.

Seven thirty in the evening.

My phone screen abruptly lit up, displaying "Serena."

In the previous ninety-nine loops, this call was my nightmare. Each time it connected, it was her silent boasting, or a snippet of Ethan's voice beside her, enough to shatter my pathetic self-esteem.

I wiped the residue from my mouth, calmly pressed the answer button, and put the call on speaker, tossing my phone onto the coffee table.

"Hello? Is that Scarlett?"

Serena's voice came through the receiver, carrying her characteristic sweet, fragile tone.

In the background, I could faintly hear elegant violin music and the soft clink of cutlery against ceramic plates. "Oh, I'm so sorry to bother you so late. Ethan just went to the restroom, and he left his phone with me. I saw you were calling and worried it might be urgent..."

The same old story. I hadn't called Ethan at all. This was her usual trick to make sure I knew he was with her.

If it were before, I would scream into the phone, demand to know why she had my husband's phone, and then cry like a madwoman.

But this time, I picked up a nail file and slowly, meticulously filed my nails, my voice light with amusement. "Oh, no urgent matter. Just wanted to remind you of something."

A noticeable pause on the other end. "Remind me of what?"

"Remind him to use protection."

I blew the dust from my nails, my tone as nonchalant as if discussing the weather. "You know, he's been out networking a lot lately and hasn't been too careful. I don't really care, since I have my full health report. But you, darling, just back in the country, you're delicate. It'd be a shame if you caught something nasty. After all, I still have my life to live."

A dead silence fell on the other end of the line.

Then, I heard Ethan's voice. He had clearly just returned and heard my shocking "advice."

"Scarlett! What nonsense are you spouting!" Ethan's roar came through the speaker, mixed with the sound of a chair being knocked over. He was obviously furious.

Serena seemed startled too, letting out a short gasp. "Ethan, darling..."

I chuckled softly, imagining Ethan's livid face at that moment. The satisfaction of shattering that elite mask he always wore, the one of a man in a high position, was actually more effective than any painkiller.

"What's wrong, Mr. Evans? Are you all talk and no action?" I said languidly into the phone. "Alright, I won't disturb your fun. Remember, safety first."

With that, I decisively hung up.

Almost simultaneously, the system in my mind let out a harsh crackle of static. "Warning! Warning! Male lead's emotional fluctuation value abnormally soaring! Plot deviation 30%... Detecting severe OOC (Out of Character) behavior from host... Recalculating... Calculation error."

I leaned back on the sofa, looking at the chandelier on the ceiling, a mocking smile curving my lips.

Emotional fluctuation? That was pure rage.

This was probably the first time he realized that Scarlett, who used to only revolve around him, worshipping him like a god, could also utter such humiliating words.

He'd probably think I was crazy.

And he'd be right.

For someone abandoned in the ending, what did it matter if I cried or laughed, was sane or mad?

After I hung up. All words felt as light as a breath of white mist. Scattered in the air, not even a shape remained. I didn't even bother to wave my hand to clear them.

With three days left on the countdown, every minute and second was precious. I opened my laptop and sent the divorce agreement I had already drafted to my lawyer.

The terms were simple: I'd walk away with nothing. In the reason column, I typed five words: a ghost marriage.

After handling that, I took a thick stack of brochures from my bag. I had picked them up from the cemetery that afternoon. If I was planning a grand funeral, the location couldn't be sloppy.

I chose a plot on the hillside, facing south, with an open view of the city lights. Most importantly, it was quiet there. No Ethan, no Serena, no cursed loops.

The door suddenly slammed open.

Ethan was back. Faster than I expected.

He hadn't even had time to change his shoes, striding into the living room, carrying the dampness of the rain and unrestrained fury. I knew that phone call had completely enraged him, making him rush back without even finishing dinner with his "true love."

"Scarlett, what did you mean on that call just now?" He yanked the coffee table in front of me, sending the brochures scattering across the floor.

They were pictures of various tombstone styles and landscape photos of the cemetery.

Ethan's gaze fell on the brochures, emblazoned with phrases like "Rest in Peace" and "Forever Missed." His pupils suddenly constricted. He froze, the questions he'd prepared stuck in his throat, his expression becoming strange and absurd.

"What are you doing?" He pointed at the brochures on the floor, his voice laced with incredulous mockery. "To get attention, you're really pulling out all the stops now, aren't you? Even bringing this morbid stuff home? Are you trying to threaten me with death?"

In his eyes, everything I did was to get his attention. Before, it was faking illness, running away from home. Now, it had escalated to looking at cemetery plots.

I bent down, picking up the scattered brochures one by one, my movements slow and stiff. My fingers trembled slightly from the pain, but to him, it probably looked like shame and indignation from having my intentions exposed.

I picked up the last picture, a black marble tombstone, and looked up, meeting his eyes filled with disgust.

This time, I didn't rush to explain like before, nor did I cry and say, "I didn't."

I looked at him, my gaze as empty as if I were looking at a dead man, or rather, looking through him, at the person I was about to become.

"Threaten?" I chuckled softly, handing him the picture. "You're overthinking, Mr. Evans. This location is good."

I paused, my tone eerily gentle. "Yes, I picked it for you. A double plot. Even though we're getting divorced, I still saved a spot for you. Consider it my final gesture of goodwill. So, do you like it?"

Ethan's face instantly went ashen, then turned livid. He probably never imagined that one day, his subservient wife would smile and ask him if he liked his own cemetery plot.

"You're irrational!" He violently swatted the brochure from my hand. The sharp edge of the paper grazed my cheek, leaving a thin red scratch.

Pain flared, but I just stood there quietly, watching the tombstone picture flutter to his feet, like a prematurely delivered verdict.

The European-style wall clock ticked monotonously, its hands once again irreversibly aligning at the number 12. Eight o'clock sharp.

Outside the window, the rain poured as if someone was dumping basins of water, rattling against the glass, just like the ninety-nine times before.

My phone vibrated on the coffee table, the screen blindingly bright. It was Serena's friend calling, the so-called "death notification." Serena had slit her wrists in the bathtub and sent a picture of blood everywhere to Ethan, now hovering between life and death.

Ethan practically sprang from the sofa, his face pale. He didn't even finish listening to the sobbing on the phone before grabbing the car keys from the console table and rushing out.

In the script of fate, I should have lunged at him like a madwoman right now, hugging his waist, crying, begging him not to go, or trying to snatch his keys.

In previous loops, no matter what I did, the outcome was always the same: I'd catch up to his car at that traffic light intersection, then be caught under the wheels of a heavy truck that swerved to avoid his sudden brake.

The agonizing pain of my bones being crushed to powder and internal organs rupturing instantly, even now as I stood perfectly whole, still made my teeth chatter involuntarily.

"Scarlett! Get out of the way!"

Ethan rushed to the door, instinctively shouting that line. But he froze, because there was no one blocking him.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, swirling half a glass of decanted red wine. The red liquid clung to the glass, looking remarkably like spilled blood. I didn't even turn to look at him, just gazed at the blurred traffic in the dark, rainy curtain outside.

"The roads are slick in the rain, Mr. Evans. Drive safely." I took a sip of wine. The pungent alcohol slid down my throat, suppressing the sourness churning in my stomach.

Ethan's fingers gripping the doorknob turned white from the force. He glanced back at me, his eyes filled with disbelief and an indescribable panic. It was like punching a pillow, leaving his pent-up rage with nowhere to go.

"You'd better pray Serena's okay, or I'll make you pay!" He gritted his teeth, spat out the threat, and slammed the door shut.

The loud bang of the door made the plaster on the walls seem to tremble.

I turned around, looking at the closed security door, a cynical smile on my lips. Pay? I've paid ninety-nine times, Ethan. You should be satisfied.

I walked to the balcony and watched through the rain curtain as the black Maybach shot out of the garage, like an out-of-control beast plunging into the storm.

Without my interference, he'd left three minutes earlier.

And that tired truck driver, who always passed the intersection three minutes later, arrived precisely on time as well.

I closed my eyes, silently counting down in my mind.

Ten, nine, eight...

From this distance, I couldn't hear the impact. But I could feel that momentary stillness in the air.

Half an hour later, the shrill phone ring once again pierced the deathly silence of the living room.

It was the Metropolitan General Hospital ER.

"Are you Ethan Evans' family? The patient was in a serious car accident at the Riverwalk intersection. The truck overturned and flattened the driver's side of the car. The situation is critical. Please come immediately to sign the paperwork!"

I hung up the phone and drained the last sip of red wine in my glass.

This time, it wasn't me who shattered.