Blurb：
After dying broke in a slum, I woke up back in the Harrison dynasty mansion with my best friend Ivy. We'd been trophy wives to Cole Harrison and Ryan Harrison—a powerful CEO and a Grand Slam tennis champion—until our disastrous divorce left us destitute. Now, with a second chance, we're refusing to sign those papers. This time, we'll use everything we learned from poverty to secure our place in the Harrison empire. But Cole's cold demeanor and Ryan's bitter silence won't make it easy. Can we undo the cruel words we once spat to earn our freedom? Or will history repeat itself? Dive into this gripping tale of revenge, wealth, and the dark side of being a trophy wife in a world where divorce means death.Content：
In my last life, my best friend Ivy and I were a team. We married into the Harrison dynasty together, and we walked away from it together.The problem was, once we walked, we were broke. Utterly, hopelessly broke.
We had no money, no skills, and no idea how to survive in the real world. Our grand finale? Asphyxiation from a faulty gas stove in a slum apartment.
Meanwhile, our ex-husbands thrived. One of them married his childhood sweetheart, and the other went on to win a Grand Slam.
So when I woke up back here, lying on a massage table in the mansion’s private spa, I just stared at her, my heart pounding in my throat.
Ivy’s eyes met mine. “I’m not doing it,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Are you?”
I thought of the divorce papers I’d once been so desperate to sign, and a wave of nausea washed over me.
“Divorce?” I said, the word tasting like ash. “Not a chance in hell.”
You have to stare death in the face to appreciate life. You have to taste real poverty to understand: the life of a pampered trophy wife isn’t a prison. It’s a goddamn cakewalk.
1
Who can understand the whiplash? One second, you’re in a slum apartment, feeling the strength drain from your limbs as the gas leak claims you, your last conscious thought a blur of regret. The next, you’re blinking awake in an 8,000-square-foot mansion, the scent of lavender oil in the air, the bliss of a deep-tissue massage soothing muscles you’d forgotten you had.
Ivy and I can. We understand it all too well.
We stared at each other from our respective massage tables in the spa room, tears welling in our eyes. A soft knock echoed on the door before it opened.
It was my husband, Cole.
"Ryan and I are waiting in the living room," his voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. "I have a meeting later, and he needs to catch a flight."
Shit. I’d almost forgotten.
In the timeline we’d just escaped, today was the day. After months of demanding a divorce, of navigating schedules and stonewalling assistants, today was D-Day. Ryan was a world-class tennis player, Cole was a CEO. It had taken three months just to get them in the same room.
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The End