After Reincarnation, I Fulfill My
Husband’s and First Love’s Wishes
Chapter 1
My husband, Mark, is dead.
Because his first love, Lily, killed herself.
Lily left a note: “If only I could be your wife in
the next life.”
Mark seemed fine at the time.
But that night, I heard the water running in
the bathroom and found him collapsed in the
tub.
Next to him was a scrawled note: “Okay, I’m
coming to you.”
Married for five years, I never knew Mark felt
so deeply for her.
I opened my eyes, reborn back in high school.
I looked at Mark, diligently working on his test
under the classroom fan, and said, “Let me
tell you a secret, Lily is your future wife.”
1
1
く
Mark and I were childhood sweethearts,
married for five years.
That night, I hugged him from behind,
nuzzling his neck. “It’s our anniversary, you
promised we’d go to Miami Beach.”
He kissed my cheek. “Okay.”
Just before boarding, Mark became
distracted.
He asked, “Can we not go?”
“What?” I was busy with my travel guide, and
didn’t hear him clearly.
He looked down, touching my cheek.
“Nothing.”
The Miami sea breeze was cool and
refreshing, but Mark was pale, claiming
airsickness, and went back to the hotel.
Worried, I returned to check on him.
He wasn’t resting, but pacing and making
calls, his usually calm face etched with
anxiety. Every call went unanswered.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He jumped, quickly putting down his phone,
forcing a smile. “Nothing, just can’t reach the
HR manager.”
Mark was a workaholic, hadn’t taken a
vacation in years.
I once asked him why he worked so hard.
He’d boop my nose. “To take care of you, my
princess.”
I leaned against his chest. “Don’t work too
hard, I worry.”
He hugged me. “Okay.”
I didn’t notice the slight tremor in his voice.
I dragged him to the famous local BBQ joint.
The aroma of sizzling meat filled the air. I dug
in, but Mark kept checking his phone, barely
touching his food.
I confiscated his phone, putting it in my
jacket pocket.
He chuckled.
A TV screen in the restaurant displayed the
latest news.
The serious news anchor reported: “This
morning at 9:00 a.m., actress Lily Adams was
found dead in her home. The cause of death
was a drug overdose from severe depression.
Foul play has been ruled out. Lily left a
suicide note: ‘If only I could be your wife in
the next life.‘ As we all know, Lily dedicated
her life to her acting career, never marrying
or having children. To think she ended her life
over a lost love…”
Mark’s chopsticks clattered to the floor.
I looked at him. His face was ashen, eyes
wide with shock. His lips moved, but no sound
came out.
I’d never seen the composed Mark like this.
Finally, he seemed to recover. “It’s nothing, just a little dizzy.”
<
He seemed normal afterward, even going on a
boat trip with me and strolling through a
lavender field.
Lost in the moment, I missed the suppressed
despair in his eyes.
That night, I woke to the sound of running
water.
I got up and opened the bathroom door.
I froze.
Mark lay in the overflowing tub, blood from
his slashed wrist staining the water crimson.
His other hand, limp, held a bloody razor.
Sobbing, I pulled him out. He was barely
breathing. He whispered, so faint, yet so loud
in my ears: “Lily, I love you.”
2
Those words echoed in my mind as the
paramedics arrived, rushing him out on a
stretcher. I couldn’t process it.
I sat numbly outside the operating room all
night.
The surgical lights went off. The doctor
emerged, removing his mask. “I’m sorry, we
did everything we could.”
My legs gave way.
Aside from grief, I felt a profound confusion.
Before coming to the hospital, I’d seen a note
that had fallen from Mark’s hand, caught by
the wind.
On it, he had scrawled, with raw, passionate
intensity: “Okay, I’m coming to you.”
Those five words shattered me. Tears
streamed down my face.
Lily had been Mark’s high school sweetheart.
But in all our years together, she’d never
been a part of our lives.
While waiting, I took out Mark’s phone, the
one I’d confiscated earlier. My hands
trembled.
I unlocked it, and discovered the calls he’d
claimed were to his HR manager were to an
out–of–state number.
The contact name: Babygirl.
My breath caught.
Just ten minutes before we boarded the
plane, “Babygirl” had sent him a final
message: “I’m so tired. I can’t bear you being
with someone else. Be happy with your wife.
See you in the next life.”
