Good Grief Crossword Clue

I did three years in prison for my wife, Lilian Parson. The day I got out, she handed me an envelope for her company's grand opening. Inside was a single dollar bill. For a second, I thought it was a mistake. Then I saw her colleague, Nathan Ramsey, holding his envelope—his also contained a single dollar. Relieved, I pushed my doubts aside. I smiled, stood by Lilian's side through the entire ceremony, the picture of a proud, supportive husband. That night, scrolling through Instagram, I saw Nathan's latest post. A photo of a check. [Congratulations to Lilian Parson on the grand opening! So generous—100 million as a gift!] The comments section exploded with envy and blessings, congratulating him and "the boss" on finally becoming a couple. Lilian offered no explanation. Instead, she hurried to draw a line between us. "You just got out of prison," she said coolly. "It's not a good look to go public right now. Let's keep our marriage a secret. In front of others, just call me your boss." Then she turned around and liked Nathan's post. I wiped the tears from my eyes, picked up my phone, and dialed the number of her greatest rival. "From now on, I work for you," I said.

My name is Eleanor Keating. In my past life, my older sister—Alice Keating—and I were entrusted to the McKellen family in Arborhill by our parents for arranged marriages. I married John McKellen, the eldest son. While he might not be conventionally handsome, his calm demeanor and unwavering reliability stood out. Alice married Xavier McKellen, the younger son. Handsome as he was, he was equally carefree and unpredictable in his actions. Eager for a grandchild, the family patriarch—Henry McKellen—made a promise. The first to bear a child would have their offspring named the next heir of the family. After our wedding, John and I conceived. Our child was naturally declared the next heir, and with that, John and I gained influence and power within the family. Tensions between Alice and Xavier escalated into frequent fights. Eventually, both had affairs, and their marriage ended in a bitter divorce. Believing they had dishonored the family, John banished them from the household. Blinded by jealousy, Alice poisoned me and my child, ending both our lives. When I open my eyes again, I find myself back on the first day I arrived at the McKellen residence. But this time, Alice makes the first move and sleeps with John. In that moment, I realize she, too, has been given a second chance at life. Unfortunately, she has no clue that John is a twisted man. Not only is he devoid of love, but he also sees women as mere stepping stones in his relentless pursuit of power.

When I visit my girlfriend's house during the Christmas holidays, her cousin, Antonio Esposito, humiliates me in front of everyone because of a scar on the back of my hand. "This scar looks like a remnant of the crossfire with the mafia! Bianca, why did you think that bringing an ex-convict home was a good idea?" The entire Romano family stares at me in a mixture of horror and shock. My girlfriend, Bianco Romano, even shakes my hand off while staring at me in disgust. Not only does Antonio flip the table, but he also calls over a few hooligans in an attempt to take me to the local police station. "We must teach scumbags like him a lesson!" he declares. After that, Antonio and the hooligans strip off my jacket and strap me to the tree in the courtyard. They then attempt to force me to admit that I'm working for the mafia. I can only gnash my teeth together stubbornly, refusing to yield no matter what. What they don't know is that the scar is a medal from my time in a peacekeeping war as a soldier!

My sister-in-law is eight months pregnant. One day, she gets pushed to the ground and starts bleeding heavily. She's then taken to the hospital right away. As I drive by, I quickly roll up the window and pretend not to notice. I step on the accelerator and speed away. In my past life, though, things were different. The moment I saw her collapse, I sprang into action and took her to the hospital without delay. She was in critical condition. After the heavy bleeding, she developed amniotic fluid embolism. My husband was the city's top obstetrician. Thus, I called him urgently, pleading for him to come straight to the hospital. However, he accused me of jealousy. He was having dinner with his first love's family, after all. He claimed that I was exploiting my sister-in-law's accident to force him to come back. By the time my in-laws arrived, my sister-in-law had already succumbed to the amniotic fluid embolism. Her family blamed me for her death, convinced I had stirred trouble with my husband and brought about her demise. Having just returned from out of town, my brother-in-law believed their accusations without question. Overcome with grief, he stabbed me to death at the funeral. Opening my eyes again, I realize I've been transported back to the very day my sister-in-law is knocked down.

According to company policy, anyone who achieves the feat of being the top salesperson for three years in a row will receive a thousand-square-foot apartment as a bonus. To achieve this goal, I work day and night, chasing every order I can find. But once I finally meet the criteria, I'm told that the policy has been abolished. Saul Hurst, my direct superior, brushes me off with a bonus of 500 dollars instead. Smirking at me, he says, "Being good at sales is all well and good, but you still need to improve your understanding of the company's rules and values. "Young people need to stay humble and know their place. Don't keep trying to show off. It isn't good to constantly hog the spotlight." I don't lose my temper. Instead, I manage to stay unusually calm as I took the "massive bonus" I got in exchange for three years of hard work. Two days later, our company headquarters conducts its annual sales evaluation. When one of our clients offers me a sales deal worth eight million dollars, I turn it down on the spot. After all, I believe that part of what it means to be professional is to do as my superior says. Since I'm supposed to stay humble and know my place, I've chosen to keep a low profile and not do anything that puts me under the spotlight. Besides, even if our branch fails to meet the total sales target, I'm not the one who's going to be held accountable for that.

I worked at a sales job and felt pretty good about my work. Then, Vivian appeared. She was a new intern with an insatiable curiosity for others’ private affairs. On Valentine’s Day, my husband, Henry Ambrose, bought a million dollars’ worth of bags from me to help me meet my sales target. Just as I left work to meet him for a date, Vivian sent a snide message. [Your Fitbit just logged an extra thousand steps. That’s literally the exact distance to the hotel next door. Nice work, Lily! You close a million-dollar deal and immediately head to the hotel with the client?] I coldly fired back, [If you’re this desperate to stalk people, you should’ve just joined the K-9 unit.] That very night, parcels of adult toys appeared on my doorstep. Vivian had written a nasty post that had gone viral, and things turned out like this! [This Salesgirl Slept With My Client and Stole My Million-Dollar Commission on Valentine’s Day!] A pair of my ripped silk stockings, which I had tossed in the trash, became her “proof” that I had seduced a client during work hours. Vivian was painted as the victim, while I was viciously smeared as a “salesgirl who slept with clients for commissions.” What Vivian did not know was that Henry was actually a leading researcher worth billions. I only took the sales job because I was bored and wanted to experience something new.

In my previous life, my husband suffered a sudden brain hemorrhage and died instantly in his office. When I arrived at the hospital, all that awaited me was his lifeless body. Overwhelmed with grief, I coughed up blood and was bedridden ever since. On my deathbed, I happened to see a news report—my husband had won a $15 million lottery. Standing beside him at the prize ceremony was none other than my best friend. The shock killed me on the spot. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day my husband had just died.

At the bachelor party the night before the wedding, the truth-or-dare penalty was brutal—show the most hidden photo on your phone. Gina, Peter's so-called "girl bro," lost. She just grinned and cast her screen onto the big TV. A marriage license filled the screen, stamped by the county clerk. Names: Peter Cooke and Gina Draper. Date: yesterday. The room went dead silent. I stared at Peter's drained face. Gina didn't flinch. She patted his shoulder. "Oops. Guess you found out. Joey, don't take it seriously. Just a dumb bet. I wanted to see what the county clerk's office looked like, so I dared Peter to register a marriage with me." She leaned in, eyes on me like I was the joke. "You're still getting your wedding tomorrow. The vows, the ceremony. I just borrowed your fiancé for a stamp. Don't tell me you're jealous of his buddy." Peter jumped up and pulled me in. "Babe, listen. You're the only one in my heart. It was just a joke." He pulled out the diamond ring, dropped to one knee. "I'll file for divorce first thing tomorrow. It won't mess up our noon wedding. Invites are already out. Don't make this a scene in front of my friends. Once we're married, all my money's yours, okay?" I smiled. He had no clue how any of this worked. Didn't even know divorce came with a thirty-day wait. I didn't take the ring. I pulled out my phone and blasted a group text canceling the wedding.

When my colleagues find out that I'm pretty good at cooking, they start organizing dinners at my place. Lucy Holt, one of the junior accountants, suggests that we split the groceries evenly between us. As a result, I don't think I can reject their request without being rude. On my last day of work, the group gathers at my place for one last meal. "You're such a good cook, Jess! We'll all be transferring you 500 dollars later. It's just a token of our appreciation," Lucy declares with a bright smile. But the very next day, she sends me a message. "Hey, Jess. You know it's illegal to operate an unlicensed catering business from your home, right? Your house will get sealed off for further investigation. More importantly, the value of goods has passed the threshold of 10,000 dollars, which means the fine you'll have to pay is probably going to be about 20 times that amount. "Since we worked together, we decided not to report you to the authorities. We'll just settle this matter privately. All you have to do is give us the fine you would've had to pay instead." This is how I realized that, combined with yesterday's meal, the total amount they've given me for groceries thus far is exactly 10,001 dollars.

In my previous life, everything I do to care for myself somehow ends up benefiting my new housekeeper instead. I apply expensive skincare, yet dark spots and fine lines spread across my face, whereas the 45-year-old housekeeper's face becomes silkier. I jog every morning, yet my body only grows heavier and bulkier, while hers becomes slender and toned. When my husband notices the stretch marks on my abdomen, his face twists with disgust, and he never touches me again. "I genuinely can't bring myself to touch you. How can you look worse than Mirabelle when you take such good care of yourself?" My housekeeper looks at me with a sinister smile. A chill crawls up my spine, and the strange feeling makes me fire her on the spot. Yet, as soon as she leaves, I start aging at lightning speed, entering menopause 20 years early and developing diabetes and high blood pressure. I see every doctor I can, but after hanging on for a week, I die from a stroke. When I open my eyes again, I'm back on the day she first reports to work. This time, I push away the royal jelly she sets in front of me with a pleasant smile. "I've been avoiding certain foods lately. You can have it instead."