A Hundred Chances Is Enough, Right?

How rich can a person be?

My wife is incredibly rich. People call her "The Queen of Cloudridge" because nearly half the city's properties are owned by her. We've been married for five years, and every time she goes out to meet her first love, she transfers a property to my name.

By the time I have 99 homes in my name, she suddenly notices that something has changed. I no longer cry, beg, or ask her to stay. I simply choose the finest mansion in all of Cloudridge, bring the property deed with me, and wait for her to sign it.

She signs the papers, and for the first time, she softens. "When I get back, let's go watch the fireworks together."

I quietly tuck the agreement away and hum in response.

But I never tell her what she's really signed this time.

It's not a property deed. It's our divorce agreement.

The office television was broadcasting the story of Cedric Gardner's return. Tiffany Scorsese's eyes remained on the screen the entire time, even when she accepted the property transfer agreement from me and signed it without hesitation.

Parnings Manor, located in the western suburbs, was one of the most sought-after properties in all of Cloudridge. It was nearly impossible to purchase even with money, yet it held no value in her eyes—just like I did.

After the broadcast ended, Tiffany appeared to be in high spirits. She casually twirled the pen between her fingers after signing, then handed the property deed back to me. "I must have transferred over 60 properties to you by now? You're basically a little tycoon," she joked.

The delight in her tone was undeniable, but it had nothing to do with me. It was all because her first love was coming home.

I stood in front of her and simply nodded. "The mansion in the western suburbs has a view of the ocean. I really like it."

Back when she was pursuing me, I had rejected her 99 times. Her persistence never wavered. After her 100th confession, we got married.

But her love didn't last long.

It disappeared the moment Cedric returned to Cloudridge, and that day was also our first wedding anniversary.

I had been basking in the candlelit dinner she had prepared just for me, waiting with quiet joy for her to come home. Instead, what arrived was a property deed and a brief apology.

"I'm sorry, Matthew. I missed our anniversary. Will you forgive me?"

I chose to ignore the heavy scent of an unfamiliar cologne clinging to her skin, and for the first time, I told her I forgave her.

To make things fair, I told myself I would forgive her 99 more times.

Then came the second time, the third, the fourth.

Throughout our five-year marriage, she left me time and again to be with Cedric. Eventually, she stopped offering explanations. Before going to see him, she would simply hand me the deed to a new property.

From