Chapter 2

The wind outside the Civil Affairs Bureau was chilly.

Ethan Sinclair clutched the brand-new marriage certificate, his knuckles turning white. He dialed for the seventeenth time, but the mechanical female voice on the other end repeated, "The number you have dialed is currently unavailable..."

He glanced down at his pale wrist, the needle marks still bruised purple. The nurse’s alarmed voice echoed in his memory: "Sir, you can’t donate any more blood!"

Back at his apartment, he collapsed onto the couch and fell into a deep sleep.

The next day, the sharp scent of hospital disinfectant made his temples throb. Behind the glass window of the VIP ward, Victoria Montgomery stirred a bowl of plain congee, blowing on it gently before lifting the spoon to Lucas Whitmore’s lips.

Ethan leaned against the wall, suddenly remembering the time in his past life when he’d spiked a fever of 39°C—she’d only said over the phone, "You’re bothering me with something this trivial?"

The sharp rap of his knuckles against the door startled the occupants inside.

Victoria turned, the warmth in her eyes freezing over instantly. She strode out, shutting the door behind her, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you stalking me now?"

Dark circles hung under her eyes, her lips chapped and peeling.

Ethan simply held out the beige handbag. "I came to return this."

"You’ve seen me. Now leave." She reached for the bag, but he pulled it back.

"And this." He flipped open the marriage certificate—inside was a photo of Victoria and Lucas.

Her pupils constricted. "Have you lost your mind? Lucas can’t handle any stress right now!" She snapped the document shut. "If he finds out I married you to save his life—"

"You married him," Ethan corrected. "I just picked up the certificate for you yesterday."

The elevator dinged open, nurses’ hushed whispers drifting out.

"Ms. Montgomery is so devoted. Rumor has it she flew in a medical team from Switzerland..."

"The blood donor was even more impressive—800cc in one go..."

Ethan pressed the button for the first floor. In his past life, he’d donated 1200cc and passed out in the blood bank. Now, his phone displayed an acceptance letter from a prestigious European design institute.

Fourteen years’ worth of "treasures" finally saw the light of day—stalker photos of her, discarded hair ties, candy wrappers she’d casually handed him... twenty-eight boxes in total.

As the housekeeper directed movers to haul them out, a black Maybach screeched to a halt at the gate.

The window rolled down, Victoria’s gaze sweeping over the boxes. "I told you—getting married doesn’t mean you can move in with me."

Ethan bent to pick up a fallen photograph. "These are for disposal."

"Get in the car," she said abruptly. "We’re filing for divorce."

When the rear door clicked open, Ethan caught the glint of the diamond on her ring finger—the rare pink stone Lucas had won at auction last year.

He smiled faintly. "Not possible."

"What do you mean?"

"Divorce requires a one-month waiting period after marriage." He shut the car door gently. "Perfect timing. My visa comes through next week."

As the Maybach’s taillights vanished around the corner, the housekeeper murmured, "Sir, these boxes—"

"Burn them."

Ethan pulled out his phone and deleted the contact pinned at the top for fourteen years. A light drizzle began to fall, but the flames stubbornly flickered in the rain—like the love he’d carried, unextinguished, until death in his past life.