Swapping the Targeted Diamond Ring

After I came back to life, the first thing I did was hand that five-carat diamond ring—yes, the one my husband gave me—to his mother. The very woman who spent years picking me apart like it was her favorite pastime.

In my last life, that ring was a custom New Year's gift. He paid a ridiculous amount for it. I actually thought it meant something.

One afternoon, I was out shopping when I walked right into a bridal party taking pictures. The bride glanced at my hand, saw the ring, and her entire expression changed.

She stormed over and slapped me, accusing me of being a shameless mistress trying to steal her man.

I stood there, completely stunned. She was wearing the exact same ring.

Before I could explain, her friends grabbed me. They dragged me aside, tore my clothes, hit me, and stomped on my hand until I couldn't move my fingers.

They carved the word "mistress" into my face and paraded me through the street like some kind of public disgrace.

I died there on the pavement.

When my husband finally appeared, he didn't fight for me. He just signed off on a settlement, as if my life were nothing more than a piece of paperwork.

Widowed that morning, married to the bride by nightfall.

His mother instantly welcomed the new woman, all because she was pregnant.

And then I opened my eyes again… back on the very day he first placed that diamond ring in my hand.

A Five-Carat Rewind

"Hmph. Useless, lazy, and still no baby after all these years. But taking million-dollar gifts? That you're good at," my mother-in-law, Victoria Grant, said this with her lips puckered as if she'd caught a foul smell.

Lucas Reed—my husband—had just slid a five-carat diamond ring onto my finger when she cut in.

A strange chill ran through me. My hand, whole and unbroken, rested in front of me as if nothing had ever happened.

That was the moment I knew I was back.

In my last life, Lucas spent an outrageous amount on having that ring custom-made by a famous designer. And on the very day he gave it to me—this exact day—Victoria stood by, hurling the same tired insults.

She called me a "wannabe trophy wife," a pretty decoration who burned through her son's money and couldn't give him a child.

Back then, I kept calmly explaining that Lucas and I were planning to start a family—we were just swamped with work. Honestly, a million-dollar New Year's gift wasn't even unusual for him. He spent triple that on his mother every single year.

Not that she cared.

In her world, my greatest sin was an empty nursery. Her golden boy was flawless; everything wrong in the universe had to be my fault.

And Lucas? The ever-dutiful son?

He never pushed back.

He later told me not to take it personally and suggested I buy her something nice, emphasizing that we shouldn't ruin the holiday mood.

So,