To The Me Who Doesn’t Love You

After eleven regressions, the twelfth life begins the same as always:

“Let’s divorce.”

The husband she’d once loved to the point of madness announced he wanted a divorce.

Max Rouselle, the grandson of a great revolutionary hero and the son of a notorious swindler, had become a young and successful entrepreneur, rising above the shame of his past as a noblewoman’s plaything. And then there was Freyja Rouselle, the only daughter of a Ducal house. She had been obsessed with Max, even giving up her noble status for him.

Their relationship had spanned ten years of engagement and five years of marriage. Before Max’s declaration of divorce, Freyja had clung to him desperately, almost like a madwoman.

But this time, she replied differently:

“I’ll accept it. Yes. Let’s divorce.”

On a bright May day, after fifteen years of consuming obsession, she finally relented and acknowledged Max’s true feelings. She smiled brightly as she watched the flicker of uncertainty in her husband’s eyes at her unexpected acceptance.

“In two years.”

But there was one condition: they had to fully fulfil their marital duties in the time that remained.

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Max believed he could win her back. It wasn’t too late. After all, they shared a long, tangled history—fifteen years of love and resentment entwined together.

“So you’re the man who used to be my husband.”

But the Freyja he once knew was gone. The woman who’d loved him with such reckless abandon had erased every feeling, every memory.

“Go back. The foolish woman who loved you is dead.”

The woman who would have sacrificed everything for him had finally, it seemed, sacrificed herself.

Thud. Something fell to the floor.

He looked down, but saw nothing.