Perfect Encounter

It was eight years into my marriage when I, blinded by a chance encounter with my first love, asked my billionaire husband, Mark, for a divorce. I walked away with a cool 20 million – my share of Mark's fortune – and remarried for "love." Little did I know, "love" would lead me to a gruesome death overseas, orchestrated by the very man who swore to cherish me. He'd then return to the States and inherit everything I owned. On the seventh day after my burial, my grave was desolate, visited only by Mark, who brought a single white rose. Then, I opened my eyes, and it was the day I ran into my first love all over again.

1.

“Mrs. Hamilton, which one for tonight? The Chanel suit or the Hermès silk dress? I’ll get it pressed,” my housekeeper’s voice pulled me from my slumber.

I was sprawled on the living room sofa, still draped in the throw Mark had tucked around me before he left for work. Mark, my husband of eight years, was still as attentive and tender as the day we met. In those eight years, he'd built his tech company into a multi-billion dollar empire, enough to keep me in the lap of luxury for ten lifetimes.

I had a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce Phantom, a closet overflowing with designer labels, and even two body doubles for fittings when I was "too busy." Four of the twelve rooms in our mansion housed my belongings, three Michelin-star chefs rotated culinary duties, and a team of six housekeepers plus a butler catered to my every whim. On my wrist, a jade bracelet, worth a small fortune – Mark’s birthday gift from just yesterday. I didn’t want kids – the thought of childbirth terrified me – and Mark, content with our life together, readily agreed.

And yet, here I was, cocooned in comfort, planning to ask him for a divorce tomorrow.

2.

Yes, planning. Because I'd lived this day before. I remembered it clearly.

My regular driver had called in sick, and the butler had arranged a temp. That night, Mark and I were attending a charity gala, and this temp driver was tasked with taking me.

That driver was Jason, my high school sweetheart. Back then, I was a naive, bright-eyed girl, drawn to his rebellious, brooding nature – a stark contrast to the sheltered life I'd always known. Our little romance was short-lived. My parents and teachers, horrified by my "bad boy" phase, promptly transferred me to another school, severing all contact.

Mark, on the other hand, was my father's choice – a suitable, stable match. He was good, really good, but he didn't make my heart race the way Jason did.

So, after years of separation, that unexpected reunion sparked something in me. A fire I thought long extinguished. At 30, with my parents gone, I felt a reckless urge to follow my heart, no matter the cost.

In the dim, underground parking garage of the gala venue, I kissed Jason in the back of the Phantom, a stolen moment of forbidden passion. Ten minutes later, I was upstairs, composed and elegant, on Mark’s arm.

Back home, Jason’s image, now etched with a...