Chapter 3

I sat there on the cold stone bench down in Hell, nervously twisting the hem of my shirt between my fingers.

Lucifer's words kept spinning on an endless loop inside my head.

"She was making sure you were still hers."

Mandy didn't beat me out of pure malice. She did it just to confirm I still belonged to her.

And Rosie? Well, Rosie's gambling sprees at least started as a desperate bid to give us a comfortable life.

So what about Olivia? The very same woman who had broken down crying while carrying that untouched bowl of soup back into the kitchen.

Out of the three of them, she was the only one who had ever truly made my heart soften. More importantly, she was the only one who shed actual tears the day I died.

What if she could finally stand up for herself? What if I forced her to grow a spine this time around?

"Let me see the third one." I looked up to meet Lucifer's gaze.

"Last one on the list," Lucifer said, closing the Book of Life and tapping his fingernail against the cover. "Once you've seen this, you're locked into making a choice."

I squeezed my eyes shut, letting the blinding white light swallow me whole once more and carry me back into my previous life with Olivia Morrison.

…

Day 1 of our marriage.

True to form, Olivia quietly helped me make the bed and unpack my luggage.

She even arranged all my toiletries in the handiest spots right along the bathroom vanity. She wasn't big on small talk, but she was so attentive it was hard not to feel touched.

"Is the comforter warm enough for you? I can easily grab another one if you're cold," she murmured right before we drifted off to sleep.

Back when I lived through this exact moment in my third life, I genuinely believed I had hit the jackpot. She didn't have a gambling problem, she didn't throw punches, and she had a steady, down-to-earth presence that made you feel safe.

…

Day 3 of our marriage.

Then came the routine medical checkup results.

The verdict dropped like a ton of bricks. I had a hereditary liver condition whose symptoms had been brought on by overexertion. I needed long-term treatment and plenty of rest.

Olivia's hands wouldn't stop shaking as she stared down at the lab report.

"Babe, I promise you, I'm going to take good care of you!" she vowed, gripping my hand so tightly her knuckles turned white, her eyes reddening and filling with tears.

That very evening, her mother called.

After a brief, nervous hesitation, Olivia spilled the truth about my health.

On the other end of the line, there was a heavy two-second silence, followed by a scoff.

"A grown man throwing a fit just because he catches a little bug? My poor daughter really drew the shortest straw imaginable."

"Mom, please don't talk like that..."

That was all she managed to get out before hanging up.

I watched her face in the aftermath.

There was no fiery anger or even a trace of righteous frustration. Just that heavy, hollow resignation of someone who had swallowed that exact poison her entire life.

…

For the first half-year of our marriage, her mother stayed out of our hair.

During that window, Olivia took care of me brilliantly. She scoured the internet for dozens of liver-healthy meal plans, set blaring alarms in the dead of night to hand me my medication, and took over every ounce of heavy lifting around the house so I wouldn't strain myself.

For a brief, shining moment, I actually believed that as long as her mother stayed far away, our marriage could work out.

…

Month 7 of our marriage.

That illusion shattered the day her mother moved in under the transparent excuse of "helping out".

The second she stepped through the front door, her eyes locked onto the line of pill bottles sitting on the coffee table, and her expression instantly soured.

"What kind of pathetic life must it be for a grown man popping pills like candy all day long? My daughter married you to live comfortably, not to play full-time nursemaid to an invalid."

Olivia stood frozen nearby, her lips parting, but no words ever made it out.

From that afternoon, every promise Olivia made about "taking good care of me" began to fall short.

It wasn't that her heart was not in it. It was simply that the moment her mother stepped into the room, Olivia shrank into a shadow of herself.

During the first week of her mother's extended stay, Olivia spent three solid hours simmering a nutrient-rich chicken soup.

She carefully carried the bowl down the hallway toward my room, only for her mother's freezing voice to cut her off in the living room.

"You're working yourself to the bone as a blue-collar welder, earning pennies, while he sits on his lazy ass all day taking expensive medication. How on earth do you expect to afford that?"

"Mom, his health is really fragile..."

"If his health is that worthless, he shouldn't be dragging down everyone around him! I never should've given this marriage the green light. Being broke is one thing, but hitching yourself to a walking pharmacy is suicide."

Olivia's fingers trembled around the bowl.

Without a word, she turned on her heel and carried the soup straight back into the kitchen.

She set it down on the stove burner, put the lid back on tightly, and stood there in complete silence for a long time. Her palms were pressed flat against the edge of the counter, her entire frame trembling.

Yet she never brought it out to me.

By the second week, her mother had taken it upon herself to confiscate two of my essential preion bottles.

"Taking all these synthetic chemicals every single month costs a small fortune. Just force down some electrolytes instead. That'll cure anything."

The moment her mother retreated behind her bedroom door, Olivia sneaked into the kitchen trash, salvaged the bottles, and quietly stashed them back into my nightstand drawer.

By the third week, the rules shifted entirely. Her mother forced me into the kitchen to cook my own meals.

"My daughter breaks her back working all day, and she's still expected to wait on you hand and foot the second she gets back through that door? Where is your basic human dignity as a man?"

Olivia scrambled quietly to handle the kitchen chores behind her back whenever she could. However, she had to do it like a ghost—stealthy, terrified of getting caught, and hyper-aware of her mother's watchful eyes.

She was living like a trespasser inside her own home.

…

Month 9 of our marriage.

That was when my liver finally gave out, plunging into an acute, violent flare-up. Trapped in a relentless high fever, my body swelling up with fluid, my grasp on reality began to dissolve into a hazy fog.

Panicking, Olivia grabbed her phone to dial 911.

"Have you completely lost your mind calling an ambulance?! A hospital stay could cost tens of thousands! How long do you think your savings would last?"

Her mother lunged forward, snatching the phone right out of her trembling grip.

"He's a broke freeloader whose body is completely shot! Are you planning on draining our entire family safety net just to keep a lost cause breathing? What about your own future? Get a grip on reality!"

Olivia's hand froze mid-air. She looked from my fading face up to her mother's harsh glare. I could practically see two warring forces tearing her apart from the inside out.

Terror versus heartbreak.

In the end, terror claimed a total victory.

Slowly, agonizingly, she lowered her arm. Right before my consciousness finally winked out of existence, I caught one last glimpse of Olivia's expression once the phone was put away.

She wasn't angry anymore.

She was just crying.

Turning her back so I wouldn't have to look at her, her shoulders shook violently with every silent, suffocating sob.

And even after the crying stopped, she never once reached back for that phone.

The flashback snapped shut, plunging everything back into darkness.

"Well, have you made your choice?"

Lucifer's raspy voice cut straight beside my ear.