Rebirth Into My Second Chance

"Suit yourself. Now, please, leave."

But he just gave a cool, slight smile and said, "Just so you know, the Hiltons would never take someone like you as their daughter-in-law." My laughter was even more desolate than his.

His mother had married a struggling artist, and the Hiltons had looked down upon her for it.

So, he was warning me that I'd get the same cold shoulder from the Hiltons that he did.

But Maximilian, I was determined to win you over!

After Claude left, I glanced at my digital lock. When setting it up, I was too lazy to think of a new code, so I used Claude's birthday.

If he was brave enough to try, he could have opened the door himself.

But he didn't believe my feelings for him, carved deeply into my bones, lasted ten years.

Time for a change.

The code was now set to 6088, the number of the hotel room on the night of my rebirth. Stepping inside, the elevator doors closed behind me.This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

I caught one last glimpse of Max. He looked so tired, carrying a forensic toolkit in his hand.

Had he been at the detective bureau again? Was there another burnt body case?

He should probably just have a glucose drink and hit the sack.

After my shower, I vigorously scrubbed the area Claude had touched.

Dressed in my pajamas, I curled up on the couch to watch TV, but then the doorbell rang.

Peering through the surveillance, I saw Max in fresh casual clothes, holding a crockpot at my doorstep.

I didn't rush to open the door, just quietly watched him on the monitor.

Anxiety showed on his usually unflappable face.

He pressed the doorbell again. But I still didn't open the door. If he knew that because of him, indirectly, I died once, and so did my child, in this life that child didn't come looking for me either. Should I hate him?

In this life, finding a precise target for my hatred proved difficult.

On the monitor, he left the crockpot at my door, then tried to call me on his phone.

My phone was with me, through the security door, he might slightly hear it if I was nearby.

On the monitor, indeed, he hung up, gave a serious look at the camera, and then turned back to his own apartment.

I clicked the lock.

Secured the door and didn't go out to pick up what he'd brought.

Maybe I was truly embracing depression, fluctuating between drawing him in and pushing him away.

Or maybe, who could really understand the struggle of being on the edge of death, feeling completely alone?

A sleepless night followed.

In the morning, as I headed to work, the crockpot was gone from my doorstep.

Glancing at his apartment door, I pressed the elevator button to head downstairs.

I planned to meet Ms. Tracey before work, as she sent me another threatening message this morning: Don't pass on the wine only to be forced to drink the penalty

Had she installed a camera somewhere? Did she see Maximilian deliver food, and me not opening the door?

Suddenly, living in this apartment felt unsafe, as if I was being monitored at every turn.

But just as reached the ground floor, there was Max, not heading to the basement to get his car but holding a thermos. Seeing me come out, he handed it over.

"Made a fresh batch this morning."

His demeanor was indifferent, but his obstinacy surpassed everyone else's.

I couldn't help myself, tiptoed to give him a peck on the lips, and boldly accepted the thermos. "Thanks."

This act, surely Ms. Tracey monitoring me would be infuriated.

Suddenly, lost interest in confronting her. Perhaps intentionally keeping things

ambiguous with Max would

her to make the next move