Chapter 1

In my past life, my parents used me as a substitute, marrying me off to Rowan, a low-level crime boss, to replace my brother Benedict who had run away.

My brother thought she was poor, that she had no future, and vanished without a word. My parents thought I was being "put to good use" and sent me off without a second thought.

Rowan knew the truth. She was ashamed of it; I never existed in her eyes. Her words were cold glances, her silences were contempt. I lived cautiously by her side all those years, like a person who shouldn't exist, managing her affairs, navigating for her, watching her rise from a despised smuggler to the city's most feared matriarch.

Her attitude towards me slowly changed, just a little.

Just as I thought we might have a real future, Benedict returned, with tears and a fabricated story, claiming I had taken his place while he was vulnerable. Rowan believed him, my parents switched sides, everyone stood behind him.

My brother and I were both captured by a rival family. A gun was pointed, only one could live.

That day, Rowan didn't look back. She shielded Benedict in her arms and left me without a second glance.

They tortured me for three whole days. And the woman for whom I had once given half my life never learned the truth.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on that afternoon before it all began.

"Mr. Hartley, the divorce papers are ready," the lawyer, Holden, took off his glasses, "But your wife is the matriarch of the Sinclair family. This document is nothing unless she agrees."

"I'll handle getting the signature."

She hesitated, then stamped the document.

Leaving the law firm, I tucked the agreement deep into my bag and stood on the steps for a moment. The white sun beat down on my face, and I suddenly remembered the last light I saw before dying in my past life—the Vance family aiming their guns at Benedict and me, saying only one could live. My wife, Rowan, didn't hesitate, didn't even glance at me, just walked straight to Benedict and shielded him. Afterward, the Vance family said the Sinclair matriarch herself had denied my identity, calling me an irrelevant man, so they could do as they pleased. They tortured me for three days, broke several bones, and I died on the evening of the third day, my eyes still open. Rowan never knew that the life-saving medicine that saved her back then was paid for with my permanent health and lifespan.

Fortunately, I was reborn. It wasn't too late.

I closed my eyes, called a car, and headed to Sinclair Manor.

The car had just stopped when my mother Josephine's voice sliced through the door. "Where have you been?! It's Benedict's birthday today, I told you yesterday to make the cupcakes for the party! Are you deaf or just doing it on purpose?!" My father, Emmett, walked out from the direction of the dining room, his shoes clacking on the marble floor with each step. "The party starts at three, and you're only coming back now! You're just jealous Rowan is throwing Benedict a birthday party!"

"Today is also my birthday—"

Mother sneered, "Thankfully, I had the driver go earlier, so Benedict's party won't be delayed." She looked me up and down, with the undisguised contempt she'd used for over twenty years. "You think stepping into this door makes you worthy of the Sinclairs?" Father chimed in, his tone dismissive and disdainful, "Let's be honest, Benedict and Rowan were the ones meant to be together. If it weren't for you, Benedict would be Mr. Sinclair now."

I stood there, suddenly remembering how as a child, I also hoped they would celebrate my birthday, wished for a cake on the table, even the smallest one. I stopped hoping later, but every year on this day, something inside me would quietly stand up, waiting, until night fell, until I was sure nothing was coming, and then quietly lie back down.

This was the last time I would wait.

I swallowed that breath, said nothing.

Footsteps came from the stairs. Benedict came down, dressed in a light green casual suit, his hair meticulously styled. His eyes swept over me, then he wore that perfectly practiced, just-right look of heartache. He walked over, lightly holding our father's arm. "Dad, don't talk to Glen like that, it's not easy for him either." He turned to me, sighing, "It's just... if I hadn't been so impulsive and left back then, Rowan wouldn't have..." He didn't finish, nor did he need to. "The hardships I faced outside all these years, no one would believe me if I told them, but I don't blame you, brother."

When those last words landed, there was a nearly invisible curl at the corner of his mouth.

In my past life, hearing this, I chose silence, and remained silent all the way to my death.

"I agree to divorce Rowan."

The hall fell silent for three seconds.

The teacup in Mother's hand hung in mid-air. Benedict froze on the spot, a crack appearing in his expression. Father was the first to recover, snorting with laughter, "Fine, you're being sensible. What benefits have you brought to the Hartley family by staying with the Sinclairs all these years? Not a single advantage." The disdain on Mother's face was now too lazy to disguise. "Divorcing is doing our family a favor. We'll split the family assets with you later, don't say we treated you unfairly." Benedict regained his composure, coldly curling his lips. "Stop playing games. Get it done quickly, then get out of this house, and out of Rowan's life."

I looked at the three of them calmly and said, "You'll get your wish soon."

I went upstairs to pack. The bedroom door was pushed open without a knock.

Rowan stood at the doorway, her expression cold and dark. Her gaze swept over the bag in my hand, pausing for a second. "Where were you this morning?" It wasn't a question; it was an interrogation. "It's Benedict's birthday today. You disappear all morning, thinking I would specially come looking for you?"

I took the document from my bag and handed it to her, my tone casual. "Couldn't sleep, went to the hospital for a check-up, and took care of some bills that needed your signature." She took it, didn't even look, pulled out a pen, signed at the bottom, and threw the document back at me.

"Today is also my birthday," I said softly.

She paused, standing there for a moment, then left.

I stared down at that signature. Three years. She ended it with a few seconds, a signature without even a glance.

I laughed inwardly, so softly I couldn't even hear it myself. As expected. So be it.

The door opened again. Benedict hooked his arm through Rowan's, looking up. "Rowan, help me see if this outfit suits tonight's occasion?" Rowan's eyes lingered on me for a second, then turned to him, her tone noticeably lighter by three degrees. "Go change first." She glanced back at me, indifferent. "Arrange tonight's reception."

Benedict was led towards the door. Midway, he looked back, his tone almost sympathetic. "Rowan, you're a bit harsh on Glen. He is, after all, your husband."

In the hallway, Rowan's voice held no inflection.

"He's not worthy."

Those words landed. It took me a full three seconds to realize what had shattered—it was the last bit of hope I had kept for myself. Like a seed buried in the mud, never watered, yet stubbornly refusing to die completely. Now, it finally rotted in the soil.

She once held me and said keeping our marriage quiet was to protect me. I believed that for so many years, believed it until I died.

I raised a hand, gently pressed the corner of my eye. Nothing came out—perhaps even tears knew some places weren't worth it. Then I lowered my head, fingers unconsciously pressing against my chest—there, the old injury from saving her in my past life still ached faintly.

I smiled. This time, it was real.

Since I'm not worthy, then I won't disturb anymore.