Melodramatic

My husband's childhood sweetheart is gravely ill. She says her only wish is to die in his arms. So, she boldly moves into our marital home. I demand an explanation for this, but my husband only snaps at me. "Why are you holding this against her when she already has one foot in the grave? Can't you be more magnanimous?" I sneer at that. Half a month later, the paparazzi catch me coming and going from Novak Group's heir's villa. My husband demands an explanation with bloodshot eyes. I imitate his previous response. "Why are you holding this against him? Can't you be more magnanimous?"

My wife, Ariel Sweeney, would always buy me a new watch every time she cheated on me. We'd been married for four years, and I'd already collected 99 watches. That also meant I'd forgiven her 99 times too. This time, she went on a business trip for three days, and returned with a Patek Philippe watch worth ten million dollars for me. I then knew that it was time we got a divorce.

I’d just wrapped up a short trip with my daughter, Elara. On the way back, I figured I’d swing by the Hale, our family’s casino, to check in on my son, Cassian. Maybe grab dinner together. I didn’t expect to be mistaken for his latest fling. Correction: not mistaken—accused. Violently. “You think you can just waltz in here like some queen?” she hissed. “I’m the woman Cassian loves! What kind of whore are you? And is this your bastard daughter with him?” She locked us in the basement. No phone. No light. Just concrete walls and the stench of mildew and madness. Then came the fists. She slapped me across the face—again and again—until my skin stung and my ears rang. When that didn’t satisfy her, she pulled a gun and aimed low. The bullet tore through my knee. I bit back a scream, shielding Elara with my body. “You need to die, whore,” she spat. One of her men hesitated, “We should at least tell Mr. Hale first. If we are going to kill these two in his casino.” Lila of course said no. But that man brought Cassian anyway. My son stepped into this dark little room like it was any other Tuesday—until he saw me. His whole body went still. The blood drained from his face. And then, in the smallest, most broken voice I’d ever heard from him, he whispered, “Mom? What are you doing in my basement?”

My sister, Bella, had a baby in a back-alley shithole. Then she disappeared. A midwife tracked me down using an address Bella left behind. She shoved the newborn at me like a sack of garbage. My parents fell to their knees. Crying. Begging me to take her bastard. Just like that, my future as a promising artist was gone. The neighbors, the priest, my landlord… they all called me a whore. A sinner who had disgraced God. They ran me out of the neighborhood . My life was over. Eighteen years later, Bella waltzed back into my life. A cheap thug with a fake Rolex dangled from her arm. She held my son, crocodile tears streaming down her face. She called me jealous. Accused me of stealing her flesh and blood. Of keeping a mother from her child. And my son? The one I bled myself dry for? The son I poured every last cent into, turning him into a brilliant painter? The son I starved for, so much that I ended up in a hospital bed? The moment he saw his "real" mother, he cast me aside without a second thought. "You pathetic, broke bitch!" he spat. "You stole everything from us! All the happiness that was supposed to be ours!" My parents threw me out like a dog. Bella's thug husband had his men corner me in the red-light district. They pinned me against a wall, their threats vile and clear: Never come back. I had no way out. I threw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Eighteen years in the past. Then came the knock. Hell had found my door. I wasn’t going to be the fool who gave everything and got nothing. This time, I took control.

Right before I hit forty, my husband hit me with: "I want a divorce." For the past ten years, I had been driving a truck outside every day to support my family, while he had been cheating on me at home. Even our child was no longer close to me. "Bad Mom! You hit Jenny! Bad Mom!" Willy cried. "I don't want Mom. I want Jenny. I wanna stay with Dad and Jenny!" Jenny. The neighbor. Single mom. Her kid and ours were tight. Ten years of grinding, running myself ragged—for two ingrates? All right! Wish your family of four a happy life! I didn't want my husband or son anymore.

I, Cassandra Channing, don't stop my fiance, Hades Emerson, from rushing into the flames to save his non-biological niece, Olivia Emerson, this time. Instead, I watch as the fire swallows him whole. In my past life, a fire broke out at the hotel on our wedding day. Hades and I escaped in time, but Olivia was trapped inside. Seeing the flames grow bigger, I did everything I could to stop him from charging in to save her. When the fire was finally extinguished, Olivia was dead. Hades claimed he didn't blame me for the incident, and purchased diving tickets for me and our son on our third wedding anniversary. When we were 300 feet below sea level, he ripped out our oxygen tank and snarled, "You're the reason I couldn't save Olivia back then. Now, a life for a life." Crying, I begged him to understand that our son is innocent, but he swam away without looking back. In the end, my son and I suffocated to death. After dying, I learned that Hades had always been in love with Olivia. He hated me for stopping him from saving her. He blamed me for causing him to lose the love of his life. I am back on the day of the fire when I open my eyes again.

The new colleague at my company is a stingy mother. On her first day, she shows up with a huge pile of expired snacks that her son refused to eat and hands them out to everyone. Once we're done, she pulls out her PayPal and says, "These are all imported snacks for my son. I'll need 50 dollars from each of you." During a company team-building event, she refuses to participate, saying she has to go home to take care of her child. The day after, she comes over holding her phone and asks me for money. "I didn't eat with everyone yesterday. Since the company is footing the bill, just hand me the cash equivalent for my meal." Furious, I rejected her request immediately. What I fail to realize is that she would bear a grudge against me over it. One night, her son comes down with a high fever, so she calls me and requests a ride to the hospital using the company car. Once again, I refuse without a second thought. Because of the delay, her son suffers severe cognitive damage. She blames me for everything that happened. In a fit of rage, she ends up running me over with her car. As I open my eyes again, I find myself transported to her first day on the job.

After being forced to give my wife's first love my heart, I died in the hallway of the private hospital she had personally founded. My six-year-old son, Ash, had already begged her thrice by the time I had drawn my last breath. The first time was when he tugged on her hand, saying I was coughing up blood. Sneering, she claimed, "So he's finally learned something—teaching his kid how to lie." Then, she had the bodyguards throw him out of the room. The second time was when he clung to her sleeve, insisting that I rambled nonsense due to the pain. "It's just a heart transplant," she opined with a frown. "The doctor already said he won't die." At that, the bodyguards stepped in again and dragged him away. The third time was when he fell to the ground, clutching her pant leg with all his strength, crying that I had already passed out. She finally lost her temper by this point, grabbing Ash by the throat and hurling him out of the room. "I have already said it—Howard isn't going to die. Dare to disturb Skye's rest again, and I'll throw both of you out of this hospital," she warned. To save me, my son pawned the most precious thing he owned—his St. Christopher medal—to a nurse. "Ma'am," he said. "I don't need to live a long life. I just want my dad to live." She accepted the medal and was about to arrange for me to be transferred to the last available room. However, my wife's first love, Skye Whitley, had someone block the doorway with his pet dog. He mentioned, "Sorry, kid. Your mom's worried I'll get bored if I can't see my dog. This room is reserved for him."

I was with Ivan Knowles for seven years. Despite the rumors that always swirled around him, he never gave me a reason to doubt his loyalty. He let me check his phone and even welcomed me to join him on business trips. I never found anything suspicious until our engagement day. The host had just shared how Ivan flew in my favorite white roses from abroad when the big screen, meant to play a video celebrating our seven years together, instead showed a hospital room. The cry of a newborn rang out. Ivan sat on the bed holding the baby. His secretary, Alba Lawson, leaned on his shoulder, wearing the same diamond ring as mine. Tearfully, she explained to me that it was a misunderstanding. "Alba is a single mom," Ivan excused. "I'm just helping her out as her boss. Don't make a big deal out of this." The room went quiet, everyone waiting for me to flip out. I didn't. Instead, I calmly slipped off my ring and handed it to him. "Of course not. I just wish you happiness."

Zachary Quinn suddenly develops a fondness for going to a massage parlor after I'm discharged from the hospital—I was in an accident. He excitedly tells me that the masseuse there has the best skills he's ever experienced. "They even have free food and fruits! I bring my laptop there with me to work when I get tired at the office." I don't know why he's telling me these things. He knows my father got caught cheating at a massage parlor. I hate those places. It's only later that I learn the relaxation he describes isn't what I imagined. He's long since gone bad in places that I can't see.