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Every time my assistant booked a private room for me, he brought his girlfriend along. I let it slide. The room was on his way home anyway. Then today I pushed the door open and found a sticky note slapped on the head chair: "Freeloaders not allowed." I peeled it off and turned to him. "What's this about?" His girlfriend was already sitting in the head seat, glaring at me. "Can't you read?" she snapped. "Mooching off my boyfriend every damn day. Have you no shame?" "If you can't afford Michelin, don't show up. I can't stand cheap old hags like you. Honestly, if I lived your life, I'd kill myself." I just stared at her, baffled. Justin rushed over and lowered his voice. "Boss, I'm so sorry. She thinks I'm paying for this dinner." "She's a bit of a princess. Doesn't like sitting with people who can't keep up. Tell you what. Let us eat first, and you can order after we leave." Then he took my black card and handed it to the server. I stood there for a second. Then I picked up my phone and called the restaurant manager. "Send security to the private room. Someone stole my card. Call the police."

"Hey, what's your laptop's specs?" My colleague, Dexter Grant, pushes my laptop back to me with a deep frown on his face. I'm busy editing my blueprints, so I respond to him without lifting my head. "It's the latest model. The motherboard is i7 12-Gen, and I have a 64-GB ram installed in it. What's wrong?" "That's impossible!" Dexter shakes his head. "All I did was open Photoshop earlier, and yet the laptop was stuck for three whole minutes! Not even my own laptop, which has lasted me for three years, is as slow as yours! "Also, there are scratch marks left behind by a screwdriver on your laptop's casing. It's clear that someone has cracked your case in the past before installing it back on." My heart sinks at Dexter's observations. I quickly flip over my laptop and take a look at it. It's true that there are two fresh scratches near the laptop's vent. The edge of the casing was slightly jutted upward as well. The sight leaves me shell-shocked. The thing is, my laptop was still fine when my cousin, Joe Clinton, borrowed it from me three months ago…

At the entrance of the airport, as I watch my best friend, Jenna Bryant, taking the initiative to accept a passerby's request to help bring a USB drive back to the country, I know that she's gotten reborn as well. In my previous life, the passerby had sought us out and requested us to bring the USB drive with us to the country we were flying to. "Once you get off the plane, someone will meet up with you. Don't worry, we'll make sure to reward you for your help. "When we're sure that the USB drive has made it to the safe hands without a hitch, I'll give you a monetary reward." The passerby looked very anxious, not to mention there was money being promised as a reward. It was only natural for Jenna to feel very tempted to accept the request. But I quickly shook my head and turned him down. Then, I whisked Jenna through the security customs and made sure to explain the danger of such requests to her. What I didn't know was that the USB drive belonged to the richest man in the city, and that the one who helped deliver the USB drive would receive tens of millions of dollars as a reward. After finding out about the news, Jenna was enraged. She rushed to my house and stabbed me immediately with a blade. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be the one receiving that reward!" I could only look at my husband, Ricky Manning, in hopes that he'd save me. But he merely replied mockingly, "You lost our ten-million-dollar reward, Valerie! Death is just an easy way out for you!" After I died, Jenna moved into my house and lived a romantic life with Ricky. When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the day that passerby has stopped me and Jenna. I just chuckle as I look at how greedy Jenna is. What she doesn't know is that this is actually a deadly USB drive.

My girlfriend had always been drawn to powerful men, yet she was perfectly content to keep a useless intern on her payroll. She said she loved me with her whole life. When a routine health screening showed that the intern and I shared a rare blood type, she chose to keep him close. She claimed it was just a precaution, a backup source of blood in case I ever needed it. She cooked for him, took him on trips, made him gifts by hand, and fussed over him at every turn. She insisted it was all for my sake. To build good karma for my future. Then I was in a car accident. She arranged for blood to be brought in from over 60 miles away rather than let the intern donate a single drop. She said he had a cold and worried his blood might make me sick. The next day, the intern was diagnosed with uremic nephropathy. My girlfriend drugged me and had me wheeled into the operating room to donate a kidney before I could say a word. Her voice was gentle when she explained it afterward. "Daniel is our trump card. He has to stay healthy. He can only be used when your life is genuinely on the line, not wasted on every small setback. I had you donate the kidney for your own future, so you would stop overthinking everything. Once you are out of surgery, I am marrying you." What she did not know was that I already had mid-stage leukemia. The surgery accelerated its spread. I was dying, and I would never have the chance to marry her.

After five years of building a business with my wife, Jane Fletcher, our company finally goes public. Right after I close a big business deal, I head home in high spirits, ready to take her to meet my family. She transfers me 100 dollars with a hint of annoyance and says, "Buy yourself a decent shirt to wear for the financial conference on the day after tomorrow." The next day, Ansel Meyer—the underprivileged student she sponsors—shows up in a custom suit worth two million dollars. He says apologetically, "Mr. Crane, please do not be mad at Ms. Fletcher. She just wants to give me the best. Maybe she thinks you are used to these things, so she only gave you 100 dollars." I call Jane, but she replies impatiently, "It is just a suit. Why are you being so petty?" All of a sudden, I no longer want to continue this marriage. So, I make two calls decisively. "Hey, Mitch. I am not going to go through with that 50-million deal." "Mom, hold on to the 300-million wedding gift you prepared for your daughter-in-law."

[This month’s property management fee is $1,500. Please make the payment on time.] My wife, Grace Anderson’s phone screen lit up. I glanced at it and then took the phone. “Did the management office miscalculate this? Our management fee should only total up to $28 a month.” Grace stood up abruptly and tried to snatch her phone back. “He must’ve miscalculated! Let me talk to him.” However, I had already clicked on the link and read the page. [Cloud Mansion, property owner: Ken Smith.] The young male nanny cooking in our kitchen had the same name. Something snapped in my brain. The three of us were living in a very small house, but Grace had bought a mansion for our manny!