Reborn at Thirty: His Ultimate Regret

Reborn at Thirty: His Ultimate Regret

Shirlee Melnick

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The piercing beep of the carbon monoxide detector was the last sound I heard on Christmas Eve, my thirtieth birthday. Then, a searing pain, and I gasped awake, not in my cold, dark apartment, but in a sterile, bright hospital room, giving birth. I was twenty-five again, watching Liam, my charismatic husband, and his perfectly coiffed mother, Brenda, barely acknowledge our newborn son, Leo. I remembered my first life: Liam' s growing indifference, sacrificing my culinary dreams for a love that was never returned, watching my son embrace another woman. The pain of that life, more real than the lingering ache of childbirth, burned in my gut: I vowed I would not live that life again. When Chloe, the woman Liam had left me for, showed up at our door, ostensibly as a "colleague," and I overheard Liam confessing that I was nothing more than "the next best thing," "a substitute." My heart shattered, but this time, it forged ice. When Liam sabotaged my return to the culinary world, taking the restaurant opportunity I had secured and handing it to Chloe, then poaching my entire team, all to publicly humiliate me. The numbness shattered, replaced by a white-hot, furious clarity: This was war. I walked into his office, saw Chloe perched on his desk, and told him, "Liam, I want a divorce." He followed me to Paris, trying to reclaim me, but I refused, winning the culinary competition he' d tried to sabotage. I knew, with sickening certainty, that he had lost the best part of himself. I built my own kingdom, and the future was a blank page, and for the first time, I was the one holding the pen.

Introduction

The piercing beep of the carbon monoxide detector was the last sound I heard on Christmas Eve, my thirtieth birthday.

Then, a searing pain, and I gasped awake, not in my cold, dark apartment, but in a sterile, bright hospital room, giving birth.

I was twenty-five again, watching Liam, my charismatic husband, and his perfectly coiffed mother, Brenda, barely acknowledge our newborn son, Leo.

I remembered my first life: Liam' s growing indifference, sacrificing my culinary dreams for a love that was never returned, watching my son embrace another woman.

The pain of that life, more real than the lingering ache of childbirth, burned in my gut: I vowed I would not live that life again.

When Chloe, the woman Liam had left me for, showed up at our door, ostensibly as a "colleague," and I overheard Liam confessing that I was nothing more than "the next best thing," "a substitute."

My heart shattered, but this time, it forged ice.

When Liam sabotaged my return to the culinary world, taking the restaurant opportunity I had secured and handing it to Chloe, then poaching my entire team, all to publicly humiliate me.

The numbness shattered, replaced by a white-hot, furious clarity: This was war.

I walked into his office, saw Chloe perched on his desk, and told him, "Liam, I want a divorce."

He followed me to Paris, trying to reclaim me, but I refused, winning the culinary competition he' d tried to sabotage.

I knew, with sickening certainty, that he had lost the best part of himself.

I built my own kingdom, and the future was a blank page, and for the first time, I was the one holding the pen.

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The Surgeon's Wife: A Postmortem Love

The Surgeon's Wife: A Postmortem Love

Horror

5.0

I feel the cold first. It' s the stainless-steel table beneath me, as my soul hovers just above, watching. The man in blue scrubs, my husband Dr. Ethan Cole, picks up a scalpel. He's a surgeon, brilliant they say, but today he' s playing forensic pathologist to my dismembered body. My body is in pieces-a leg here, an arm there. My soul is hollow, devoid of anger or jealousy, as Ethan and his assistant try to piece me together. He remarks, "This is a mess. The killer was thorough. Almost… personal." His voice sends shivers down what used to be my spine, reminding me of all the times he' d used that same dismissive tone. He finds a dark splinter near my ribs, speculating about where I was held. Moments later, his phone rings, and his voice softens for Olivia Hayes, inviting her to her birthday, then turning to me with pure disgust, muttering, "Let' s get this over with." Then he finds our secret. A tiny, nascent fetus within me. His mask shatters, replaced by a choked, guttural sound of shock, horror, and something else-a child he just declared not worth his money. Clara, my best friend, calls, frantic. Ethan coldly dismisses her, claiming ignorance of my whereabouts and indifference. Olivia arrives, radiant in red, bringing him soup. As she turns, her elbow bumps a tray of instruments, and caught off guard, a flash of pure, venomous rage twists her face – a look that unmasks my killer: Olivia. My last memories flood back: Olivia, silhouetted, smiling, whispering, "He' s mine, Chloe," before raising the hammer. Now I watch her ladle soup for Ethan, realizing my death freed him, made him hers. And a foolish, broken part of me thinks, 'Maybe it' s for the best. If my death makes him happy, then let him be happy.' But then Olivia answers Clara' s call, and, with a cruel smirk, lies, framing me as an unfaithful wife who ran off with "Ryan something." Just before Ethan rushes off, claiming a work emergency, I see him make a furtive call to Detective Ryan O' Malley, telling him to ping my real phone. And just as Olivia confidently shoves something into her bag after he leaves, it slips out: my phone, with its cracked screen and cat charm. I know exactly where Ethan is going now-to find my phone at Olivia' s other apartment-and the labyrinth of lies begins to unravel.

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