Rebirth: The New Bride Wants A Divorce-Chapter 522: How did you die in your previous life

"One more..."

Anna slammed the glass on the table with far more force than necessary and turned to face Daniel, her eyes unfocused but stubbornly determined. She lifted the empty glass toward him, silently demanding that he refill it.

Daniel did not move.

"Enough," he said firmly. "You already had two when we agreed on one. I am not giving you more."

Anna’s lips trembled instantly. Her brows furrowed, and within seconds, tears welled in her eyes.

"Bad husband," she accused, her voice breaking as she pointed at him weakly. "You will not allow my one wish."

She looked like a child who had been unfairly denied something precious, her expression filled with exaggerated hurt.

Daniel remained unmoved.

He had expected this.

Even one glass was enough to loosen her restraint. Two had already pushed her beyond the careful composure she usually carried.

"No more," he repeated calmly.

Anna sniffed, her scowl deepening.

"Then I will not let you touch me tonight," she declared stubbornly, crossing her arms as if she had delivered the harshest punishment imaginable.

Daniel raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

He was not intimidated.

He knew her.

He knew this version of her, the one who spoke without barriers, who reacted without guarding herself. And he knew that by morning, she would remember none of this clearly.

"Come on, wifey," he said gently, standing and reaching for her hand. "It is time to sleep."

But Anna pulled away immediately.

"No," she said, shaking her head stubbornly. "My birthday is not over yet."

Before he could stop her, she climbed onto his lap again, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, refusing to let him move.

Daniel sighed quietly.

She was impossible.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and glassy, her warmth pressing against him in a way that made it difficult to think clearly.

Still, he did not push her away.

His hands rested at her waist, steadying her carefully.

"Anna," he said softly.

She did not answer.

Instead, she rested her forehead against his shoulder, her fingers gripping his shirt tightly, as if grounding herself.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, unexpectedly, her voice came out quieter.

"I did not jump."

Daniel stilled instantly.

His heart skipped.

"What?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

Anna pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his. There was something unfamiliar in them. Something fragile. Something real.

"I did not jump," she repeated. "I was pushed."

The words struck him like lightning.

His grip on her tightened unconsciously.

He remembered her death.

He remembered the balcony.

He remembered believing she had chosen to end her life after seeing those photographs Kathrine had sent her.

He had believed she died because of him. Because of the betrayal she thought he had committed. Because he had failed her when she needed him the most.

But now...

Now everything felt different.

Suddenly his chest tightened painfully.

"What are you saying?" he asked quietly.

Anna’s eyes glistened, but this time it was not from childish frustration.

It was something deeper.

Something older.

"In my past life," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "I did not jump on my own."

Her fingers tightened against his shoulders.

Daniel felt his heartbeat quicken.

He remembered his past too. But only in fragments. Pieces of regret. Pieces of pain. Pieces of guilt he had carried into death.

But this part...

This part had never come to him.

He had died believing he was the reason Anna chose to end her life.

That losing their child had broken her beyond repair.

That his distance had pushed her toward that edge.

He had believed that living with regret was his punishment.

His atonement.

But he had been wrong.

His Anna had never chosen death.

She had been robbed of her life.

She had been murdered.

The realization hollowed him.

Suddenly, Anna giggled softly, the sound fragile and misplaced against the weight of her confession. She leaned forward, resting her head against his shoulder again, her body relaxing against his.

Her grip loosened.

Her breathing grew slow.

Steady.

She had fallen asleep.

Daniel sat there in silence, his arms still around her, his mind no longer in the present.

It raced.

Every memory. Every moment. Every unanswered question now felt different.

Someone had pushed her.

Someone had been there.

Someone had taken her from him.

His jaw tightened.

A quiet rage settled deep inside his chest.

He lowered his head slightly, resting it against hers as if trying to ease himself and it helped.

After sometime, he picked her up in his arms and carried her to their bed with the thought talking about it with Anna the next day.

***

The next morning, Anna woke with a mild headache.

A soft groan escaped her lips as she shifted beneath the covers, her head heavy and her thoughts slow to gather. The faint sunlight filtering through the curtains made her squint, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes.

She had felt this before.

That dull ache.

That unfamiliar emptiness that followed whenever she drank more than she should have.

Her heart sank instantly.

Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes fully.

And froze.

Daniel sat on the chair across from the bed, his posture straight, his elbows resting lightly on the armrests. His eyes were fixed on her, watching her with an intensity that made her heart skip.

He had been there for a while.

Waiting.

Anna jolted upright immediately, the blanket falling to her lap.

"What happened last night?" she asked quickly, panic creeping into her voice. "Did I misbehave?"

Her mind raced through endless possibilities.

She knew herself.

Or rather, she knew the version of herself that appeared when alcohol stripped away her restraint. The version that spoke without thinking, acted without caution, and remembered nothing the next morning.

Her fingers tightened around the blanket.

"Did I say something stupid?" she asked again. "Or... did I do something?"

Daniel did not answer immediately.

Instead, he reached for the cup resting on the bedside table and held it out to her.

"Have the tea first," he said calmly. "Then we will talk."

Anna blinked.

His tone was not angry.

But it was serious.

Too serious.

Her stomach tightened.

She nodded slowly and accepted the cup from his hands. The warmth seeped into her fingers, grounding her slightly. She lifted it to her lips and took a careful sip, her eyes never leaving his face.

He watched her silently.

She felt like a child waiting for punishment.

She did not argue.

Did not complain.

She drank the tea exactly as he asked, finishing it without protest.

Once she was done, she placed the empty cup back on the table and looked at him cautiously.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Now tell me... what did I do this time?"

Daniel stood and walked toward the bed.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

He sat down in front of her, close enough that she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. Close enough that she could feel the weight of whatever he was carrying.

"You did nothing," he said softly.

His hand lifted instinctively, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Anna frowned immediately.

"Nothing?" she repeated, confused.

That made no sense.

She was certain she must have done something.

She searched her memory desperately, but there was nothing. Only fragments. Laughter. Warmth. Then darkness.

She looked at him suspiciously.

"I did not kick you, did I?" she asked cautiously.

Daniel blinked.

"No."

"Did I call you something embarrassing?"

"No."

Her frown deepened.

She had been absolutely certain she must have acted out of character. She had expected anger. Or annoyance. Or at least mild irritation.

But he looked neither angry nor amused.

He looked... thoughtful.

"You did not do anything," he repeated.

Anna stared at him.

Then why was he looking at her like that?

Before she could ask again, he spoke.

"But you did say something," he added quietly. "Something I was not aware of."

Her breath caught.

"What did I say?"

Daniel did not answer immediately.

He studied her face carefully, searching for any sign that she already remembered.

There was none.

Only confusion.

Only innocence.

"You told me," he said slowly, "that you did not jump."

Anna’s heart stopped.

Her fingers stiffened against the blanket.

Daniel’s voice remained calm.

"You said you were pushed."

The words echoed in her mind.

Fragments of memory surfaced instantly.

Anna recalled telling Daniel that she had been reborn, but she had never told him how she had truly died.

She had told him about the pain.

About the betrayal she believed she had witnessed.

About the fall.

But never the truth behind it.

Never the hands that had pushed her.

A cold realization crept into her mind.

Does that mean... even in her past life, no one ever discovered that she was murdered?

Her heart sank.

If no one knew, then the truth had died with her. The world had accepted her death as suicide. Her pain had been reduced to weakness. Her silence had protected the person who had taken her life.

The thought made her chest tighten.

She looked up slowly.

Daniel was still watching her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held questions just as heavy as her own.

And suddenly, something else struck her.

If she had died believing he betrayed her...

Then how had he died?

She had never asked.

She had been so consumed by her own memories, her own pain, that she had never stopped to consider his ending. Though he told her how he lived his life after she was gone.

"Daniel..." she called softly.

His gaze sharpened slightly at the sound of her voice.

"How did you die in your previous life?"