In the institute's residential compound back in the eighties, everyone noticed the change in Melinda Fuller.

At six in the morning, she no longer got up early to make breakfast for Nathaniel Sanderson, nor did she iron his white lab coat until it was flawless.

At noon, she no longer stood outside the research institute's main gate, holding a thermos and waiting for the man who was perpetually late.

At ten at night, she no longer sat by the window with the light on, waiting for Nathaniel to come home.

This went on for a full week.

On the seventh night, at ten-thirty, Nathaniel finally pushed the door open. He set down his research papers, shed the jacket still carrying the chemical scent of the lab, and finally looked at Melinda. She was sitting under the lamp, reading.

"What's been wrong with you lately?"

It was the first time he had spoken to her all week.

His voice was faint—precise, calm, and stripped of any unnecessary emotion, like a reagent in a beaker.

Melinda paused, turned a page, and looked up at him.

In the shadows of the lamp, he really was handsome—a cold, dignified sort of attractiveness steeped in the academic. He possessed a steadiness beyond his years. The girls in the compound always said that when Nathaniel stood in a room, no one could help but look at him.

Melinda used to be unable to look away, too.

But now, having been reborn into this life, she wanted to do it differently.

In her previous life, everyone had envied Melinda. They said she was incredibly lucky to marry Nathaniel.

He had a bright future, having entered the country's top physics institute young. He was a recognized genius, handsome, charismatic, and always the center of attention. Marrying a man like that was considered incredibly lucky.

She had thought so too, marrying him with a humble, intense devotion.

On their first day of marriage, Nathaniel had told her, "In my heart, research will always come first. I don't have time for romance, and I don't have the energy to manage a family. Make sure you understand that."

Melinda had nodded, blushing. "I understand. You focus on your research. I'll handle the house."

She truly understood, and she truly did it.

He had no time, so she took on all the chores—cooking, laundry, cleaning, taking perfect care of him.

He didn't care for romance, so on birthdays, anniversaries, and Valentine's Day, she watched others receive flowers and gifts, telling herself not to be envious. He was a man doing big things; romance was too trivial.

He was obsessed with research, so she called her own ambulance after a car accident, went to the hospital alone for surgery after a miscarriage, and visited family graves by herself.

Later, afraid of disturbing his experiments, she didn't even tell him when she was diagnosed with cancer. She went to chemotherapy in secret, vomiting violently, yet returning home as if nothing had happened, continuing to cook and clean for him.

Meanwhile, he focused entirely on science. He won a top national technology award at thirty, became an academician at thirty-five, and stood on the Nobel Prize podium at forty, watched by the world.

In a globally broadcast interview, the host asked, "Professor Sanderson, your brilliant achievements must rely on the support of your family. Can you talk about your wife?"

Nathaniel, looking as cold and rational as ever in front of the camera, pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses and spoke in a flat tone. "My wife was arranged by my family. We've lived together for a lifetime, but I have no feelings for her. I have dedicated all my energy and passion to science."

He added, "Romance is not worth mentioning; science is eternal."

The interview brought praise from home and abroad.

Some called him righteous for sacrificing personal feelings for science; others called him a giant, a true intellect with all of humanity in his heart.

And he truly did bury himself in his next project, never returning home again.

So he didn't know she was vomiting blood until she passed out. He didn't know she was in so much pain from the spreading cancer that she couldn't sleep. He didn't even know that on the day she died, her body lay in the cold house for three days before a neighbor sensed something was wrong and found her.

Melinda's spirit had floated in the air, watching her funeral be hastily arranged, watching Nathaniel receive the notification in the lab, give a simple "Hmm," and hang up the phone.

It took her a lifetime to understand that he had never truly cared about her.

He was a brilliant scientist, but being his wife was too bitter a pill to swallow.

Because in his heart, there was only science, not her.

So, when she realized she had been reborn back to 1983, the first thing Melinda did was go to the courthouse to file for divorce.

The second thing was to dig out her high school textbooks and begin working toward university admission.

She had secretly taken the exam; the results would be out in two days.

Scientists were fine, but she didn't want to be a scientist's wife anymore.

Life was long and good, and this time, she wanted to live for herself.

"It's nothing. I've just been busy." Melinda closed the book in her hands—it was a high school math study guide.

Nathaniel's brow furrowed tighter. "Busy with what?"

His tone was faint, his eyes confused, as if the idea of her being busy was hard to comprehend.

In his mind, she existed to center her life on him—running the household and taking care of everything around him. That was all she was worth.

Melinda felt a sharp sting in her heart, but it quickly went numb.

One had to love oneself before loving anyone else. In her previous life, she had never loved herself—so how could she have expected him, someone so intellectually superior and distant, to love a woman who knew nothing beyond household chores?

Just then, a neighbor's voice drifted in from the window, loud enough to be heard clearly through the glass.

"Melly had done everything right for Professor Sanderson all these years. If she was showing signs of discontent now, it could only mean she'd been hurt or wronged."

"I heard it was her birthday a few days ago. She cooked a whole table of food and waited until midnight, but Professor Sanderson never came back. Who wouldn't be heartbroken?"

"That was really over the line, even for Professor Sanderson..."

Nathaniel frowned even more deeply. He turned to explain to Melinda, "I never celebrate birthdays. That time could be better spent finishing a data comparison."

Melinda stayed silent.

Seeing her reaction, Nathaniel pulled two tickets from his pocket and placed them on the table. "The Institute gave out two movie tickets. I'm taking you. This one's an exception—tomorrow, everything goes back to normal."

Melinda looked at the two tickets.

They were paper, printed with red text—a rare item in this era. In her previous life, she would have been too excited to sleep.

But now, she only found it ironic.

"I'm not going," she said.

Nathaniel froze.

He looked at Melinda with rare surprise.

In three years of marriage, she had never said no to him.

"Why?" Nathaniel asked.

Melinda stood up. "I'm going to sleep."

She turned toward the bedroom, but he followed, stepping in front of her to block the way.

"Go change. We're leaving now," he said.

Melinda looked at him, and a thousand similar moments from her previous life came rushing back. Whenever Nathaniel made a decision, her only option was to get in line.

He was a top scientist, a leading figure in the nation; his time was gold, and his judgment was infallible.

Consequently, she wasn't supposed to have opinions, emotions, or... thoughts of her own.

She wanted to refuse again, but Nathaniel had already grabbed his coat and was ushering her out the door.

An hour later, they were at the movies.

A romance about a young couple played on the screen, but while Melinda watched, Nathaniel sat beside her reading documents in the dim light of the theater. They were shoulder to shoulder, yet they couldn't have been further apart.

It was past nine when the credits rolled. Nathaniel drove them home, his mind still chewing on experimental data. They were halfway across the bridge when a truck suddenly sped toward them from the opposite lane.

The high beams were blinding, cutting through the dark and coming straight for them.

"Look out!" Melinda screamed.

Nathaniel slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The car spun out and plunged off the bridge. Freezing river water instantly flooded the cabin.

Melinda couldn't swim. Terror seized her as the air ran out.

She clawed at the door, but the water pressure held it sealed tight.

In the chaos, she looked over at Nathaniel in the driver's seat. He wasn't reaching for her.

Instead, he lunged toward the back seat, grabbing the leather briefcase he kept with him at all times—the one holding his manuscripts and research data.

The water rose above her head, and Melinda felt her consciousness slipping. Her last sight was Nathaniel clutching that briefcase against his chest as he smashed the side window.

The glass shattered, and the water rushed in with renewed force.

Then, holding his precious data, he climbed out through the window. He never once looked back.

As the freezing cold enveloped her, Melinda thought bitterly.

To him, that data would always matter more than she did.

When she came to, she was in a hospital.

The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air, and her body ached all over. Melinda opened her eyes to a white ceiling and a nurse changing her IV bag.

"Mrs. Sanderson, you're awake. Professor Sanderson said he had an urgent experiment to run and that you should take care of yourself. The bill's settled, there's cash on the nightstand, and the cafeteria is on the first floor."

Melinda nodded without a word.

She was used to this.

It was the same in her previous life. When she'd been in a car accident, he went to the lab; when she'd had a miscarriage, he went to a meeting; on the anniversary of her parents' death, he went to accept an award.

He was consumed by worries about his research, while she was consumed by worries about him.

"Oh, right," the nurse added. "A letter came for you. I put it on the table."

Melinda turned and saw a brown envelope.

She reached over, tore it open, and pulled out the contents—an acceptance letter for the Comparative Literature program at the University of Chicago.

Her fingers began to tremble.

In her previous life, her biggest regret was never going to college.

She'd been accepted when she was seventeen, but her family was poor, and her brother needed an education, so she'd been forced to give up her spot.

After marrying Nathaniel, the opportunity vanished completely.

He had told her, "Melinda, taking care of the house is the best way you can support me."

So, she put down her books and became a housewife.

She never picked them up again.

But now, with this second chance at life, she had gotten in. She could finally live for herself.

As soon as the divorce papers were finalized, she was gone.

A tear fell onto the acceptance letter, blurring the ink.

Melinda wiped her eyes, folded the paper neatly, and tucked it into her inner pocket, safe and close to her.

For the next few days, she stayed in the hospital alone.

She listened to the nurses chatting about the woman in the next ward whose husband visited every day, or the man who ran across the city just to buy supplements for his wife.

Melinda listened in silence. The cast on her left leg was heavy, but she felt lighter than she had in years.

On the day she was discharged, she navigated the supermarket on crutches. She bought supplies for her move to Chicago—a mug, a lamp, a set of sheets, a blanket, and a few new pens.

It was almost dinnertime when she left the store. She ducked into a nearby restaurant and found a table. That was when she saw Nathaniel.

He walked in with a woman.

It was Ophelia Dobson, a research assistant at the institute and Nathaniel's junior colleague.

She wore a stylish blouse and had permed curls. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled; she had the kind of face people instantly liked.

Melinda felt a sharp jolt of pain.

Ophelia. She had remembered that name for her entire previous life.

Many women liked Nathaniel, but he was cold to everyone, caring only about his data.

Ophelia, however, was smart. She never talked about romance. She only talked about work.

"Nate, I think there's an issue with this data..."

"Nate, I want to discuss this experiment plan..."

"Nate, can you review this paper for me..."

Using research as her cover, she stayed glued to Nathaniel's side. They ate together, worked late together, and traveled together.

In her previous life, Ophelia spent more time talking to Nathaniel, seeing him, and even touching him than Melinda, his lawful wife, ever did.

Before, seeing this would have made Melinda too upset to eat.

But now, she simply looked away and went back to reading the menu.

But Ophelia spotted her.

"Melinda?"

Ophelia waved enthusiastically and dragged Nathaniel over. "Total coincidence. Nate and I just finished going over an experimental protocol, so I'm treating him to dinner as a thank-you. Don't read into it."

Her tone was polite, but the look in her eyes was provocative.

Nathaniel gave Melinda a tight nod—barely a greeting—then sat down and immediately started flipping through his files, acting as if she didn't exist.

He didn't even ask if her leg was still hurting after her release from the hospital.

Melinda looked at him, feeling that familiar, dull ache in the emotional hollow she had lived with for so long.

Ten years of love and three years of marriage, and the result was him ignoring her in public.

"I haven't misunderstood anything," she said, keeping her voice calm. "You two go ahead and eat. I'll order for myself."

Ophelia froze for a second, seemingly thrown off by the reaction.

She glanced at Nathaniel, but he still didn't look up.

The air grew awkward.

Just then, a waiter approached with soup. Maybe the floor was slick, or his hand shook, but he stumbled as he reached their table, sending the entire bowl splashing toward Ophelia.

Nathaniel's expression changed. Almost on instinct, he yanked Melinda toward him.

Caught off guard, Melinda crashed into Ophelia, taking the hot soup right on her back.

"Ah!"

The scalding liquid soaked her clothes, the intense pain making her dizzy.

Yet Nathaniel's first reaction was to check on Ophelia.

"How are your hands?" He grabbed Ophelia's wrists, inspecting them closely. "Did you get burned? In research, the brain and hands are your most important tools—you can't afford to hurt either."

Ophelia's eyes reddened, and she said in a wounded tone, "It only burned a little. I'm fine..."

"I'll go buy medicine." Nathaniel stood up immediately and walked away without even glancing at Melinda.

Melinda lay slumped on the table, her back stinging severely.

But she didn't cry, and she didn't call out.

She simply sat up slowly and asked the pale, terrified waiter, "Do you have any burn ointment?"

Melinda treated her burns in the restaurant's back utility room.

She lifted her shirt; a large area of her back was red and blistered. She dipped a cotton swab in the ointment and applied it carefully, gasping at the pain.

The door opened.

Ophelia walked in, paused at the sight of her back, and then smiled.

"Must hurt, doesn't it? Nate actually used your body to shield me from the soup. In the end, you were burned like that, and yet he ignores you completely." Her voice held a note of gloating.

Melinda ignored her.

"Melinda, I really don't understand." Ophelia walked up to her. "Nate clearly doesn't love you, so why do you insist on staying his wife?"

Melinda finished applying the ointment, lowered her shirt, and turned to look at her.

"And you?" she asked. "You know he doesn't love you either, so why do you keep throwing yourself at him?"

Ophelia's expression shifted, but she quickly smiled again. "True, Nate doesn't love me. He doesn't love anyone. But he cares about me more than you because I help with his research. I can discuss the Schrödinger equation and quantum mechanics with him. What can you do besides cook and clean? You don't deserve him.

"Melinda, don't be stupid enough to think Nate stays married out of affection. He doesn't divorce you because he needs a housekeeper, a logistics manager, someone to keep his life organized. And you do that very well."

Melinda felt a sharp emotional pang.

Yes, she did it well.

So well that Nathaniel would rather tolerate a wife he didn't love than replace her.

Because replacing her meant readjusting, which meant wasting time.

And his time was too precious.

Melinda looked at her with indifference. "Yes, Nathaniel only cares about research; no one can get close to him. Even if you married him, you'd just be the new logistics manager. Ophelia, you're at the institute, but instead of serving the country, you're obsessed with stealing my husband. I feel sorry for the institute having a researcher like you."

"Melinda, you..."

Ophelia hadn't expected such a sharp retort and was momentarily speechless. Then, as if an idea struck her, a malicious smile appeared.

Melinda didn't bother to respond. She turned to leave, wanting to end the confrontation, but Ophelia pulled a stack of papers from her pocket—the experimental data Nathaniel had just been reading.

She took out a match, struck it, and the paper ignited instantly.

"Help! Someone help! Melinda is burning the institute's data!"

Ophelia shoved the burning documents into Melinda's arms, stumbled backward, and screamed.

The fire singed Melinda's hands. She let go instinctively, and the burning papers fell to the floor.

She tried to stomp out the fire, but Ophelia lunged at her. Pretending to save the papers, she shoved Melinda hard.

The back of Melinda's head hit the cold wall. Her vision faded to black, and she lost consciousness instantly.

When she woke, she was in the hospital.

Melinda opened her eyes to see Nathaniel standing by the bed, his expression cold.

"Melinda," he said, his voice completely devoid of warmth. "I pulled you in front of Ophelia to block that soup because she is a researcher. Her hands cannot be injured. I thought you would understand the bigger picture.

"Even if you were angry, you should have directed it at me. But you actually chose to burn those research materials? That represents the hard work of so many people. It is state property. Do you have any idea how important that data is?"

"I didn't do it. Ophelia burned them!" Melinda protested, though her voice was barely a rasp.

"You didn't?" Nathaniel cut her off, his eyes cold with disappointment behind his glasses. "Ophelia saw you holding the folder. The waiter confirmed it, too—they saw you arguing, and then they saw you torch the bag.

"Melinda, I thought you were just ignorant, but I didn't realize you were actually malicious. It's bad enough you won't own up to it, but slandering Ophelia? A real researcher values data more than their own life. Do you think everyone operates like you—obsessed with petty jealousy and dirty tricks?"

Every word sliced deep.

After all their years together, he chose to believe Ophelia—and a complete stranger—over his own wife.

She wanted to argue, but a knock on the hospital room door silenced her. Two men in suits, looking like government officials, walked in.

They glanced at Melinda with disdain before shifting their expressions to respect as they turned to Nathaniel.

"Professor Sanderson, the results are in. The data was destroyed, and all evidence points to Mrs. Sanderson. According to regulations, destroying critical research data warrants seven days of detention. Do you... Really intend to take her place?"

Melinda stared at him in disbelief.

Was he really going to a detention center for her?

Nathaniel gave a curt nod. "She's my wife. She wouldn't be able to handle the harsh conditions in there. I'll take responsibility."

"But you're a national asset..."

"I said I'm going." Nathaniel's tone left no room for argument.

The men exchanged glances before finally nodding. "Alright, then. Please come with us."

Nathaniel turned to leave.

"Nathaniel!" Melinda called out.

He stopped, but he didn't look back.

"Why?" Melinda asked, her voice trembling. "Why take the detention for me? Don't you hate me? Don't you think I'm malicious?"

Nathaniel stood silent for a few seconds before turning to face her.

"I told you," he said, every word crisp and cold. "You can't handle that environment. I need you to be functional.

"The institute requires logistical support, and no one else is meticulous enough to meet my standards. Right now, only you can handle those trivial tasks properly. So, you need to stay healthy and keep doing what you're supposed to do."

Melinda felt a violent jolt.

Her ears rang, a dull pressure throbbing in her head. Lightheadedness swept over her, and her chest felt unbearably heavy, as if a chill had settled deep inside.

So that was it...

Ophelia hadn't been wrong. He didn't love her. The reason he wouldn't divorce her—the reason he was protecting her even now—wasn't out of affection or duty. It was simply because she managed his life too well, and he couldn't find a replacement.

The question that had haunted her until her death in her previous life finally had an answer.

She suddenly started laughing—laughing until tears streamed down her face.

Nathaniel frowned. "Get some rest over the next few days."

He turned to leave, but Melinda called out to him again. "Nathaniel."

He glanced back.

"If, one day, a woman appears who takes better care of things and complains even less than I do, would you replace me?"

Nathaniel thought for a moment, then answered honestly, "If such a candidate existed, and the transition didn't disrupt my workflow, I would consider it."

Melinda laughed harder, her whole body shaking with it.

Nathaniel glanced at her. She was acting strange today, but people were waiting outside, and he didn't have the time to unpack it.

"Just get some rest," he said again, pushing the door open and walking out.

The second the latch clicked, Melinda's laughter cut off.

Tears slid silently down her face. She bit her lip, forcing down the sound of her own grief.

Suddenly, the door banged open.

Ophelia stormed in, slammed the door shut behind her, and marched right up to the bedside, glaring.

"Who knew?" she sneered. "You actually matter to Nate. He'd rather sit in detention himself than let you go."

Melinda wanted to laugh again.

Sure, she was essential—in the same way a maid was essential.

"What's so funny?" The look on Melinda's face unnerved Ophelia. "I'm telling you, Melinda, everything Nate is going through right now is your fault!"

She lunged forward, ripping the IV needle straight out of Melinda's hand.

"Since Nate is too soft to punish you, I'll do it for him."

Before Melinda could react, Ophelia hauled her off the bed. She started dragging her toward the door.

Melinda was too weak to fight back; she couldn't break the grip.

Ophelia dragged her down the corridor, out of the hospital, and onto the street.

It was rush hour, the sidewalks packed.

Ophelia threw her onto the pavement and started screaming at the gathering crowd.

"Look at her, everyone! This is the woman! She deliberately burned vital government research data. Because of her, Professor Sanderson—our country's youngest scientist—is sitting in a detention cell right now!"

The crowd erupted.

"What? She burned data?"

"Professor Sanderson? The guy working on the atomic bomb?"

"My God, how dare she?"

Ophelia kept riling them up. "Professor Sanderson has given everything to his research, working day and night. But this woman burned three years of his hard work just because she was jealous! Now he's taking the fall for her, and she has the nerve to lie here in a hospital bed!"

"Disgusting!"

"Kill her!"

Someone threw the first stone.

Then more people joined in.

Stones, rotten vegetables, even a shovel... they pelted Melinda relentlessly.

She curled into a ball on the ground, covering her head with her arms, but the blows left her bleeding all over.

It hurt.

It hurt badly.

But the emotional pain was worse.

Watching those angry faces and Ophelia's triumphant smile, she suddenly remembered her previous life. It had been the same after she died back then—no one cared how it happened, and no one remembered who she was.

She was just Nathaniel's wife. A person who didn't matter.

A hammer slammed into her ribs.

She heard the bone snap.

Melinda's vision went black, and she lost consciousness.

When she woke up, she was back in the hospital.

The doctor told her she had two broken ribs and that they would ache whenever it rained.

Melinda didn't say anything.

She just reached for the bedside phone and dialed the research institute.

"I want to file a report," she said, her voice steady. "Ophelia Dobson incited a riot and committed assault. I expect this to be handled strictly."

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. "We will investigate," a voice finally replied.

Three days later, the investigation concluded.

Ophelia was taken into custody.

Lying in her hospital bed, Melinda felt nothing but calm when she heard the news.

Finally, some peace.

A week later, Melinda was discharged.

She pushed open the front door to find Nathaniel back from detention. He was sitting in the living room holding a book, though he clearly wasn't reading it.

At the sound of her entering, he looked up.

"Did you report Ophelia to the institute and get her detained?" That was the first thing out of his mouth.

Melinda didn't answer. She just set down her things.

"Do you realize she's a brilliant researcher?" Nathaniel stood up and walked over to her. "Her hands are important. Her mind is important. Sending her to detention is going to ruin her career."

Melinda looked up at him.

"Nathaniel," she said. "You're worried about her being in detention, but have you looked at what she did to me? She dragged me out of the hospital in front of everyone, incited a mob to slander and beat me. I have broken ribs and internal bleeding. I almost died. Doesn't she deserve to be punished?"

"She has a temper, yes. She's impulsive and doesn't think things through." Nathaniel frowned. "But couldn't you have handled this more appropriately? A formal complaint, a reprimand, even internal disciplinary action—anything would have been better than this vindictive approach."

"Vindictive?" Melinda laughed coldly. "You think this is about revenge?"

"Isn't it?"

Melinda looked at him—the man she had loved her entire life—and suddenly felt exhausted.

She was too tired to even argue.

"Yes," she said. "I am taking revenge. I've already done it, so what do you want? To kill me?"

Nathaniel's expression darkened.

He stared at her for a few seconds, then turned and walked into her room.

"What are you doing?" Melinda's chest tightened with a sudden, bad feeling. She stumbled after him.

Nathaniel had opened her wardrobe and pulled a wooden box from the bottom shelf.

Inside was a silver bracelet—her mother's keepsake, the only thing she had left of her.

"What are you doing?" Melinda rushed forward, trying to snatch it back.

Nathaniel held it up high, out of her reach.

"I know this is important to you." Nathaniel's voice was clear and cold, measuring every word. "So, Melinda, if you ever hurt one of my researchers or destroy data again, I will break this."

"Nathaniel! Don't you dare! Give it back!" Melinda went cold. Her calm and numbness shattered, and she lunged at him, desperate to get her mother's bracelet back.

"Remember what I said." Nathaniel turned to leave, taking the bracelet with him.

Just then, someone shouted from outside, "Professor Sanderson! There's an emergency at the institute!"

Nathaniel called back in acknowledgment and hurried toward the door.

Melinda chased after him, reaching for the bracelet. Nathaniel shook her off impatiently.

The force threw Melinda back, and her head slammed against the doorframe.

Pain exploded in her skull. Her vision blurred, and she collapsed to the floor.

Warm liquid trickled down her forehead. It was blood.

Nathaniel hesitated. For a split second, his hand twitched, his instinct to reach out and steady her flickering to life.

But the voice outside cut through. "Professor Sanderson! Please, hurry! The experiment can't wait."

Nathaniel glanced at her, then pulled his hand back.

"Put some ointment on that yourself," he said. "And stop making a scene."

He turned and walked away.

Melinda sat on the floor, watching him disappear through the doorway. Suddenly, a laugh bubbled up.

Tears mixed with the blood on her face, streaking down her cheeks as she sat there laughing.

Nathaniel didn't come home for the next few days.

The cut on Melinda's forehead scabbed over, and her bruises began to fade, but the emptiness inside her only expanded. It felt cold and permanent, a hollow space nothing could fill.

That afternoon, Nathaniel's parents visited, bringing specialties from their hometown.

They were both intellectuals who had studied abroad in their youth before returning to establish their careers here. They were reasonable people and had always been kind to Melinda, appreciating her quiet, dutiful nature.

During dinner, the tension between Nathaniel and Melinda was thick enough to choke on. Nathaniel's mother—Deborah Sanderson—couldn't stand it and gently kicked her husband under the table.

Nathaniel's father—Giovanni Sanderson—took the hint. He cleared his throat, set down his fork, and tried to keep his tone soft. "Nate, Melly, you've been married a few years now. Relationships take work, but sometimes... having a child is a good way to bring a family together. Deborah and I are hoping for grandchildren soon—to bring some joy to the family. Don't you think it's time you two considered it?"

Nathaniel didn't look up. His voice was flat, the same as always. "We're at a critical stage in the project. A child would be a huge distraction and take my focus away. We'll talk about it later."

Deborah frowned, looking at Nathaniel with disapproval. "Work is important, but life goes on. You have to think about your family, too. Melly, do you like children?"

The question landed on Melinda. The table went silent. Even Nathaniel, who was peeling a shrimp, paused for a beat.

Melinda's grip on her fork tightened.

Did she like children?

She did.

In her previous life, she had given up on the idea because Nathaniel hadn't wanted them. She had stayed on birth control for years and died without ever being a mother.

But in this life, she wasn't going to sacrifice anything for him again.

"I don't like children either," she said. "There's no rush."

Nathaniel finally looked up at that.

There was a rare look of surprise in his eyes.

He looked like he was about to say something, but he remained silent.

Giovanni and Deborah exchanged a glance, sharing a look of helpless worry.

It was one thing for Nathaniel to be obsessed with work, but if Melinda didn't want children either?

Since they had both made their stance clear, the parents couldn't push it. They just sighed.

After his parents left, Nathaniel stopped Melinda.

He looked at her with a complicated expression, hesitating before he spoke. "What you said earlier—about not liking kids. Was that true?"

Melinda avoided his eyes. "Of course it's true," she said flatly.

She had only meant that she wouldn't want his child, because she was never going to have one with him.

She carried the dishes into the kitchen without another word.

Nathaniel sat in the living room, staring at the kitchen doorway. He tapped his finger absently against his knee. Eventually, he said nothing, simply picking up a foreign journal he'd brought home to read.

Melinda lingered in the kitchen, washing the already clean plates over and over. Only when her fingers were wrinkled and pale from the water did she turn off the tap, dry her hands, and head to the bathroom.

When she came out of the shower, she was surprised to find Ophelia there. She was sitting on the sofa, her head leaning close to Nathaniel's as they whispered over a spread-out blueprint.

They were sitting extremely close. Nathaniel pointed at the paper occasionally, his fingertips nearly brushing against Ophelia's hand.

Seeing Melinda, Ophelia looked up and gave her a smug, challenging smile before standing up. "Nate, I'll double-check those parameters when I get back. See you at the lab tomorrow morning."

She grabbed her bag, cast one last meaningful glance at Melinda, and sauntered out.

The apartment was quiet again, though the air felt heavier than before.

Nathaniel checked the wall clock, closed his journal, and got up to take a shower.

A while later, the water stopped running, but Nathaniel didn't come out immediately like he usually did.

Melinda didn't pay it much mind. She continued drying her hair with a towel, mentally calculating that the divorce papers should be finalized in a few days. She still needed to check the list of things she had to bring for her university registration.

A few minutes passed, and then the bathroom door was flung open.

Nathaniel walked out. He wasn't wearing pajamas, just a towel hastily wrapped around his waist. His face was flushed, his breathing ragged, and his eyes had a strange, glossy sheen.

"What's wrong?" Melinda asked.

Nathaniel didn't answer. He just walked toward her, grabbed the back of her head, and kissed her.

Melinda froze.

In three years of marriage, this was the first time he had ever initiated a kiss.

But the kiss was rough and urgent—nothing like him.

Melinda tried to push him away, but his grip was too strong, pinning her against him.

"Nathaniel! Let me go!" she struggled.

He didn't seem to hear her. He kept kissing her while his hands began to wander.

Just then, the door was shoved open.

Ophelia burst into the room.

"Nate! Wake up!" she shouted, rushing forward to pull Nathaniel away. "You've been drugged. Snap out of it!"

Nathaniel staggered back, his gaze still unfocused.

He shook his head, as if trying to clear the dizziness and rising heat. "What ... is going on?" he rasped.

Ophelia seemed to exhale in relief, then her expression shifted to one of indignation. She whirled around, pointing an accusing finger at Melinda. "Nate! It was her! Melinda drugged you! I didn't want to say anything. You're a couple... But I couldn't stand by and watch! Her intentions are vile!"

Without waiting for a reaction from either Nathaniel or Melinda, she spun back and marched straight to the dresser. She yanked open the drawer containing contraceptives with precision.

"Look! The condoms have been tampered with—pinholes!

"All that talk about not being ready for children was a lie, wasn't it, Melinda? You resorted to this pathetic trick because you knew Nate's research came first. You think a baby will tie him down? He's our institute's top researcher. A child would derail his projects for years. Is your desperation to keep him worth sabotaging his career?"

Nathaniel strode forward and snatched the packet from her hand. Sure enough, the condoms bore several tiny punctures.

He turned sharply to look at Melinda, his gaze icy.

"Melinda, I used to think you were merely ignorant, jealous, small-minded. It seems I overestimated you. You're not just despicable. You are utterly without scruple."

The drug still clouding his system, he stumbled toward the desk the next moment. His hand closed around a letter opener.

"Nate! What are you doing? Don't be reckless!" Ophelia cried out, making a move to stop him, but then halting. A flash of satisfaction crossed her eyes.

Nathaniel didn't even glance at her. He raised the blade and dragged it sharply down the length of his own forearm.

Crimson blood welled up instantly, snaking in rivulets down his fair skin.

He seemed not to feel the pain. He did it again and again. Each cut was deeper than the last, the blood now flowing freely, quickly soaking his entire forearm.

The intense pain brought him back to his senses, but his eyes held a new, chilling determination.

He looked at Melinda, each word deliberate and cutting.

"Melinda. Listen carefully.

"If you want a child that desperately, you're free to go try your luck with someone else.

"I will never, ever have a child with you."

With that, he allowed Ophelia to support him as he staggered from the room.

On his way out, in a final act of retribution, he took the bracelet—her mother's keepsake—from his pocket and dashed it against the ground.

Melinda froze.

It was the only thing her mother had left her, the one thing her mother, starving and near collapse, had clutched with her last strength before pressing it into Melinda's small hand, telling her to live on.

It had been her talisman, the fragile thread of hope she'd clung to through every hardship.

Now, it was broken.

He had broken it, an act filled with nothing but disgust and retribution.

A pain exploded in her chest. It cut deeper than seeing him hurt himself, deeper than his cruel words.

The pain was so intense that her vision darkened. Her blood ran cold. A ringing filled her ears, and she swayed on her feet.

She opened her mouth. She wanted to shout, to sob, to run and gather the pieces. But her throat tightened, and no sound came out.

Only tears came in a sudden, uncontrollable flood, blurring everything.

Supported by Ophelia, Nathaniel walked out without a backward glance.

The door slammed shut.

The crash echoed in her blank mind, a physical pain ringing in her ears and vibrating through her entire body.

She sat there, unmoving, through the night until morning.

The next day, a shrill, relentless telephone ring finally shattered the heavy silence in the room.

The sound jerked Melinda from a long, painful daze. Her eyes focused slowly on the black telephone.

It just kept ringing, over and over, refusing to stop.

She pushed herself up on stiff, numb legs, walked unsteadily to the phone, and lifted the receiver.

"Hello, is this Melinda Fuller?" An unfamiliar woman's voice sounded. "I'm calling to notify you that your divorce is final. The decree is ready. Please bring your identification to collect it today."

The divorce was finally done.

"OK. Thank you."

She hung up and stood in the quiet room for a moment.

Then, she turned and went to the bedroom to pack.

She didn't have much to pack, only a few clothes, a couple of books, and her university acceptance letter.

She placed each item one by one into her bag carefully.

Then she opened a drawer, took out a pen and paper.

She inhaled, then began to write. Each word was formed with slow, deliberate pressure. It felt as if she could somehow transfer every ounce of hurt, pain, and despair from the past three years onto that single sheet.

"Nathaniel, this is Melinda. You got what you wanted. I'm leaving to build my own future. And don't worry—I'll find someone new."

Finally, she picked up her suitcase and took one last look at the apartment she had lived in for three years.

She turned, closed the door behind her, and walked away without looking back.

Outside, the sun was shining.

A new life was beginning.