My Ninth Life: Breaking Free

I' d died eight times already, each a brutal end, all thanks to Caroline Hawthorne. Now, I was on my ninth life, cold in a dusty attic room, a flat digital voice repeating its impossible command inside my head: "Secure Caroline Hawthorne's genuine, exclusive romantic devotion."

But this wasn' t just about winning her love; it was about survival itself. This time, the System' s chilling ultimatum echoed with no emotion: "Failure in this iteration will result in permanent dissolution." No more chances.

My tormentor, Caroline, then entered, pregnant with her fiancé Derek' s child, and immediately imposed her latest cruelty: I was demoted to the gardener' s shed, while Derek' s prize-winning show dog got my warm room. She kicked me.

Memories of my past deaths, stark and agonizing, flooded me: freezing in a wine cellar, drowning after being pushed overboard, a shank in prison, botched medical procedures where she watched me bleed out. I' d endured skin grafts from my own thigh because Derek faked an injury, been forced into life-threatening blood transfusions for his "recovery," and suffered public humiliation at her hands. Her blind devotion to Derek was absolute, her cruelty towards me boundless.

I was broken, tired of the endless loop of torture and failure. Why did I have to suffer endless agony for a devotion she clearly didn't deserve, a woman who treated me as less than human? I just wanted it all to end, for oblivion to claim me. My silence became defiance against her rage.

That yearning for freedom, once a desperate wish for death, hardened into something cold and resolute: revenge. If the System demanded her "devotion," or her "permanent removal from the equation," then I would choose freedom. After her last threat-to harm the only person who cared for me-I knew what I had to do. This time, I wouldn't just survive; I would ensure her downfall, and finally, truly break free.

The attic room was cold, the same peeling yellow wallpaper greeted me. I knew the dusty smell too well.

This was my ninth life.

A voice, flat and digital, echoed in my head, not my ears, but inside, a cold presence.

"Objective: Secure Caroline Hawthorne's genuine, exclusive romantic devotion."

I lay still on the lumpy mattress, what was the use of moving?

Eight times I had tried to win her, eight times I had failed, and eight times I had died.

The memories were sharp, not like dreams, but like fresh wounds.

My first death: Caroline found my diary, the one where I' d stupidly written down my feelings for her. She locked me in the old wine cellar on the estate. It was a harsh New England winter, and the cold seeped into my bones until I stopped feeling anything. Hypothermia, they called it.

The second: She pretended to soften, took me sailing on the Long Island Sound. Derek, her new favorite then too, feigned jealousy, threatened to leave her. To appease him, she pushed me overboard. The water was freezing, my clothes dragged me down.

The third was more elaborate. Derek framed me for leaking Hawthorne Corp. data, I was actually trying to show Caroline his sabotage. She had me arrested. Derek' s contacts in prison made sure I didn' t last long. A shank in the yard.

And the eighth, the worst. Caroline, in some twisted game, agreed to a sham engagement with me. At our party, Derek cried, accused me of manipulating her. Caroline, her eyes glinting, said she wanted to "see the truth of his heart." Her security guards sedated me. I woke up during some illicit, botched medical procedure. She watched, her face unreadable, as I bled out. The pain was immense, the betrayal absolute.

"Failure in this iteration will result in permanent dissolution," the System' s voice added, devoid of any emotion.

Permanent dissolution. No more chances.

This time, I was broken. I just wanted it to be over, to die and stay dead. I ignored the System.

The attic door creaked open. Caroline Hawthorne stood there, beautiful, powerful, her presence filling the small room. Derek Vance, her much younger fiancé, was beside her, his arm possessively around her waist.

Caroline' s eyes, cold as the Connecticut winter, scanned me. She was pregnant, her hand resting on her stomach. Derek' s child.

"Derek's moving in permanently," Caroline announced, her voice crisp.

"You'll prepare his meals. Low-sodium, organic, four times a day. His prize-winning show dog, a delicate creature, needs your room. It' s warmer. You'll sleep in the old gardener's shed from now on."

She paused, her gaze dismissive.

"And get out of Derek's sight. You're an eyesore."

She then kicked my leg, a sharp, deliberate motion. It wasn't hard enough to break bone, just enough to humiliate.

I slowly got up, my body aching from the memory of past pains as much as the kick. I started packing my few belongings into a worn duffel bag. There wasn't much. Old clothes, a couple of worn paperbacks.

My fingers brushed against a small, framed photograph. It was of Caroline, taken years ago, shortly after she' d adopted me. She was smiling, a genuine, warm smile, her eyes soft as she looked at me, a ten-year-old orphan. She had been my savior then.

That kindness vanished the year I turned eighteen. I' d confessed my feelings for her, a stupid, hopeful teenage crush.

"Disgusting," she' d said, her voice laced with contempt. That was the before. This cruelty was the after.

The memory was a raw ache. I stared at the smiling woman in the photo, a ghost of someone who no longer existed, or perhaps never had.

I threw the photo into the dusty trash can in the corner. The glass cracked.

"Warning: Abandoning the objective will accelerate permanent dissolution," the System' s voice cut in, sharp and urgent.

I ignored it. Let it accelerate. I wanted out, even if out meant oblivion. I zipped the duffel bag and headed for the door, ready to walk away from the Hawthorne estate, from Caroline, from the System, from everything.

As I reached the bottom of the attic stairs, the sweet wind of near-freedom on my face, Caroline's voice stopped me.

"Running away again, Leo? How pathetic."

She stood in the grand foyer, Derek smirking beside her. The hope I felt moments ago turned into a familiar abyss.

"Derek's been having trouble sleeping," Caroline continued, her tone deceptively casual. "That silver locket your parents left you – it's supposed to be calming, isn't it? Give it to him."

My hand instinctively went to my chest. The locket was the last thing I had of them. In past loops, I' d clung to it, a tiny anchor. Now, it felt like another chain.

Reluctantly, I pulled the locket from under my shirt and handed it to Derek.

He took it, his fingers brushing mine, a cold touch. Then, with a theatrical "oops," he let it slip. It clattered onto the marble floor, the clasp breaking, the two halves springing apart.

"Oh, Leo, I'm so sorry!" Derek exclaimed, his voice dripping with false remorse. "It just slipped. My goodness, were you trying to give me something broken? To bring me bad luck?"

Caroline exploded. "How dare you try to curse Derek! You ungrateful brat!"

Her face was contorted with rage. She signaled to two burly security guards who materialized from the shadows.

"Take him to the stables. Teach him a lesson. The usual discipline."

The "usual discipline" was a brutal beating with a riding crop. My stomach clenched.

The guards dragged me away, Derek watching with a faint, satisfied smirk. Caroline turned her back, already cooing over Derek, fussing about his "shock." Her blind favoritism was a wall I could never scale.

In the stables, the familiar sting of the riding crop met my skin. Each strike was accompanied by Caroline's voice in my memory, or sometimes her actual voice if she decided to watch, listing my supposed transgressions.

"For being ungrateful." Strike.

"For upsetting Derek." Strike.

"For existing." Strike.

I lost count. Eventually, I blacked out.

I woke up on the damp, cold floor of the gardener's shed. It was dark, smelling of earth and decay. This was my new home. My body throbbed with a dull, pervasive ache.

Derek's prize-winning show dog probably had a softer bed. He was just a dog, an animal, but in Caroline's eyes, he was worth more than me. I was less than a dead dog to her.

This place felt like hell, a cold, damp corner of it. I closed my eyes, a wave of hopelessness washing over me. Maybe permanent dissolution wouldn't be so bad.

The next morning, the shed door creaked open, light flooding in, blinding me. Caroline stood silhouetted against it, her expression icy.

"Get up."

I slowly pushed myself to a sitting position. My head spun.

"Derek was sick all night," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "He thinks you put something in that broken locket, something to harm him."

Derek, the master of feigning innocence, had faked it, of course. I didn't even have the energy to deny it. My silence only confirmed her suspicions.

"You really want to die, don't you?" she hissed. "Fine. I'll help you."

Before I could react, she grabbed my hair, yanking my head back.

"No mercy for you," she whispered, then slammed my head against the rough stone floor.