Nouvelles Tragic Love Imagination & Romans Regret

When Penelope Lawson opened her eyes, her brother was already drugged. "Penny… I'm so hot..." Her brother—a man who was usually ice-cold and completely untouchable—was driven out of his mind by the aphrodisiac. Throwing all restraint to the wind, his ragged breath brushed against her neck as his lips pressed desperately against her skin. In her past life, she would have let the mistake happen. But this time, she shoved him off with all her strength and immediately dialed his first love’s number. Because in her last life, every single tragedy began on this exact night. A night when she had allowed herself to fall for the brother who shared none of her blood.

Led by my ex-boyfriend, the police raid the base of the major crime syndicate. The antagonist takes his own life, and the only person who could prove my identity as a top-secret undercover operative died two weeks ago. My ex-boyfriend drags me into court. He wants my memories extracted so I can face public judgment and sentencing. Nevertheless, I have no intention of explaining myself. "I plead guilty. Grant me a swift death." The masses are outraged, despising me with every fiber of their being. "Ha! You despicable traitor! You monster! You're a rat who exposes undercover journalists, yet you dare ask for a swift death? "This is the world of a novel. The maximum penalty for a guilty plea is euthanasia, but if judgment is passed by the court, you will suffer endless torment until your last breath!" "You don't deserve euthanasia. You belong in hell!" Rotten eggs and stones pelt me mercilessly. Even with my face now covered in blood, I make no effort to avoid the assaults. I only longed for death. My ex-boyfriend glares at me coldly. "You betrayed me. What right do you have to ask for a swift death? Your memories must be extracted and judged in court. Death will come only after your torment!" They are the ones who demand my memories be extracted and judged, yet after seeing them, why are they also the ones who go mad with regret?

In the tenth year of my marriage to a genius pianist, I came down with a strange illness. A month ago, my husband missed my birthday party to care for his ailing sister-in-law. Night after night, I had waited for him to return home. But that night I forgot to wait at all and went to bed early. Half a month ago, he attended an important performance with his sister-in-law. I had always been petty and prone to jealousy, yet this time I didn't get angry. I simply went home in silence. Three days ago, I fell seriously ill with a burning fever. My husband rushed back from out of town in a panic—but only to tend to his sister-in-law, whose hand had been scalded. When we ran into each other at the hospital, I was strangely calm. I, who used to be fiercely jealous, felt nothing at all. I forgot the promise we had made to grow old together. I even forgot how he once fretted over me for days when I'd scraped a bit of skin. It wasn't until he said he wanted to bring his sister-in-law home and take care of her for the rest of his life that I—my memories riddled with holes—summoned the system at last. "I want to go home."

Five years after our divorce, I saw my ex-husband, Noah Whitmore, beneath a magnolia tree. He had grown much thinner, but clothes looked more than twice as expensive as they used to be. "It's been a long time. How have you been?" [I've been fine, just a little bored. What about you?] "My company went public. Things have gone fairly smoothly, though I've been a little busy." [Oh, that's good.] After a long silence, he let out a sigh. "Belle, the magnolias in our hometown have bloomed again. Where did you go?" I looked down at my transparent body and answered his words once more. [I'm right here.] Unfortunately, he could no longer hear me.