Reborn to be Truly Loved

Charlotte scratched her head, a vague sense of unease settling over her. For the past few days, Eric had been coming and going at odd hours, barely leaving a trace of his presence in the villa. Why would he suddenly need to call her?

She didn't return the call—not because she held any grudge, but because it seemed unnecessary. Besides, she couldn't speak.

It wasn't until she stepped back into the Lorvis family's sprawling residence that the young maid came rushing toward her.

"Madam, where have you been? You were gone for a whole day, and Mr. Lorvis was beside himself with worry! He wouldn't eat anything, kept yelling at the chef, and even scolded some of the other maids for talking behind your back."

Charlotte's eyes widened in surprise. Was Eric's tantrum really just about unsatisfactory food? What did any of that have to do with her? She had less than three weeks left, and she didn't owe him anything.

The maid ushered her into the living room, where the air was unsettlingly calm. Sensing no reason to linger, Charlotte made her way upstairs to their bedroom, only to find the curtains drawn tight, casting the room in an oppressive gloom. The acrid scent of alcohol hung in the air. Eric was slumped against the cabinet, fast asleep.

She had no intention of disturbing him, but it was too late. His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and clouded with fatigue.

"Where were you? And what's with the missing clothes from your wardrobe?"

Caught off guard, Charlotte quickly typed out a response on her phone: I went to the orphanage. I gave away some of my clothes and other things to the children there.

His brows knit together, his voice sharp. "Why this sudden charity?"

She found the question strange. She'd been visiting the orphanage for years, but he'd never shown the slightest interest before. She typed another line: Just felt like it.

Eric nodded as he reached out, gripping her chin with unsettling force.

"Fine. But don't you dare leave without telling me again. You're my wife. You'll do as I say."

She nodded, hiding her anger beneath a calm facade. Internally, though, she was cursing him with every fiber of her being.

"Good. Now go make me breakfast."

Her defiance was instant. She shook her head, pulling out her phone again to explain: I burned myself pretty badly. I can't touch water.

Eric froze for a moment, clearing his throat to mask his unease.

"Are you upset because I had the doctor look at Emily first? She's been spoiled since she was a child. She's soft and delicate. You, on the other hand, have thick skin. You'll heal quickly."

His words landed like stones, each heavier than the last. "Fine, I won't ask you to cook for her anymore. But stop making a fuss over such trivial things. You're lucky I married you at all."

Charlotte felt her worldview shatter into jagged pieces. Eric always had an endless supply of justifications, each more infuriating than the last.

She nodded wordlessly, turning away to ask the maid to prepare the guest room for her. She needed rest. More importantly, she needed to face her remaining days with composure. She was finally going to meet Meghan, and she wanted to look her best when that moment came.

The system's voice reminded her of the inevitable. [Host, I've scheduled a full-service lung cancer treatment. Ten days and all this will be over. Endure, and victory will be yours.]

At the hospital, the diagnosis was handed to her with little fanfare: terminal lung cancer. She stared at the paper, her face serene, while the doctor explained options she had no intention of pursuing.

Seeing that the patient nodded no matter what he said, the doctor found it a bit strange. It wasn't until Charlotte handed him her phone with a few words typed on it that he realized Charlotte was mute.

"There's hope," the doctor said, mistaking her calm for resignation. "Chemotherapy can extend your life by a few months. Do you have family who can support you?"

She typed her reply quickly and handed him the phone: No family. I won't seek treatment. Thank you.

The doctor's expression grew heavier, but Charlotte was already walking away. As she turned a corner, she stumbled upon a scene that froze her in place: Eric stepping out of the obstetrics department, his hand hovering protectively over Emily's arm. Her hand rested lightly on her belly.

The three of them locked eyes. An unbearable tension filled the hallway.

Eric's voice broke first, unsteady and tinged with defensiveness. "Emily's pregnant. Brian couldn't be here, so I accompanied her for the check-up. Why are you here?"

Charlotte nodded, her gaze lingering on Eric. The explanation rang hollow, yet she didn't challenge him.

She simply lowered her head and began typing: The orphanage director is ill. I accompanied her for tests. The results were only ready today. Please keep this private. I don't want her to feel worse.

Relief flickered across Eric's face, though it was brief. He glanced at the paper in her hand, his voice faltering.

"That diagnosis—it's not yours, right?"

She shook her head, her eyes betraying no emotion, though her fingers trembled faintly as she typed her reply: It's not mine.

Eric felt an inexplicable pang in his heart as he looked at the redness around Charlotte's eyes.

He must be overthinking it. Charlotte was perfectly healthy. Seven years ago, she had taken three stabs for him and even survived alcohol poisoning. How could someone so young possibly have cancer?