One More Day to Love Myself

I once risked my life to save Jaxson Rourke on a rainy night. He remembered my face. Yet, when he came to propose, he mistook Elena for me simply because we shared a similar appearance. My stepmother forbade me from revealing the truth. Tragically, Elena was frail and passed away from illness before the wedding.

My father couldn't bear to let such immense wealth and status slip away, so he decided to hand the marriage to me instead. He thought that I would surely win the Jaxson’s favor, thinking I closely resembled Elena, enough to replace her.

But, my father was wrong. Jaxson only has hatred for me, "You two look so much alike.” He sneered, “Why did she have to be the one who died, and not you?"

After the marriage, Jaxson remained indifferent towards me, never believing a word I said.

Now, I have been reborn to the time when Jaxson had just gotten engaged…I knelt before my stepmother and pleaded, "To avoid any unexpected trouble, please arrange my marriage as soon as possible.

My stepmother, Carmela, was visibly stunned, "Why did you suddenly bring this up?"

Just a few days ago, I had still held my ground, refusing to bow down. It was only when she threatened my birth mother's life that I had been forced to reveal the details of how I saved that man.

I never expect Jaxson to show up for the engagement himself just two month later. It wasn't until he arrived at our door that I realized the person I had saved was none other than the Mafia Godfather, Jaxson Rourke.

In the study, my father, Paul Koval, paced back and forth, demanding answers, “How did you get to know Jaxson? Why did her propose to you?”

“I…I don’t know him. I don’t know why he comes to propose to me.” I stammered.

My stepmother, Carmela Soprano, frowned with confusion, “Is that so?” She glared at me, her voice dropping to a threatening whisper, “Don’t lie to me. Tell me all the details.”

When she threatened to cut off my mother's medical treatment, I had no choice but to spill the truth.

[Flashback]

The memory of that day remained crystal clear. The rainy season always was pervaded by a lingering and inescapable scent of rust. I sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, unconsciously twirling a scalpel in my hand. Outside, the neon lights blurred into colorful patches in the curtain of rain, reminiscing about the peach blossoms shattered upon the river's surface in New Valetta that year.

Jaxson was hunted by a rival family that night. He was shot and fell into the freezing seawater. It was me who dragged him ashore through the torrential downpour. In that abandoned fishing shack, with trembling fingers, I extracted the bullets from his body and stitched up the gunshot wounds on his chest.

Burning with a high fever, Jaxson still clutched my wrist and glared at me yet carrying a trace of imperceptible vulnerability, "You saved