Boyce Collier and I made a promise on our deathbeds: we would find each other again in the next life.

When we were truly reborn, back in our college dorm, a cold voice gave us a choice of one gift for our new life.

Without hesitation, I wanted to give him the choice, but he snatched "The Midas Touch" first, all so he could marry the East Coast socialite he had long coveted.

He grabbed my chin, his hot breath ghosting across my face as he spat out each word, calling me "some broke lab rat." In that moment, I realized our decades of mutual support had been nothing more than a story I told myself. I saw that on his wrist, the constellation tattoo we once shared had been covered by a cursive "S".

A week later, he became the sole heir to a mysterious tycoon; two weeks later, he proposed to his dream girl. He even had my research grant revoked. Later, at a charity gala, he caught sight of me in my waitress uniform and sneered, "How pathetic."

He even sent me an invitation to his wedding of the century, inviting me to see for myself the gap between our worlds.

On his wedding day, I stood in the crowd, my fingertips brushed the faded tattoo on my wrist. I could feel the hum of the new power the system had given me: "The Karmic Trigger."

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1

I loved Boyce for a lifetime. Before we died, we made a vow—if there was a next life, we would find each other again.

When I opened my eyes, we were back at twenty-two, standing in a dorm room at Bridgewater University. A cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind, its words sharp and clear.

[Host detected. You may select one gift for your new life—for yourself or for your partner.]

I didn't hesitate for a second. I loved him. Of course I’d give the gift to him.

But Boyce spoke first.

"I choose 'The Midas Touch'," he said, his voice firm, with a sharp edge of impatience.

"This time, I want to stand on the same level as Sloane Montgomery. I'm going to marry her."

"Move," he sneered, shoving me aside like I was trash. "You're just some broke nobody."

For a second, my brain went blank. The quiet nights, the shared sacrifices, the love I thought we had… It was all just a story I’d been telling myself.

I didn't argue. I didn't question. There was nothing left to say.

I turned and walked away.

The system spoke again, this time only to me.

[Partner has selected 'The Midas Touch'. Available gift for Host: 'The Karmic Trigger'.]

[Once activated, this ability will trigger a cascading collapse of the target's fate at the moment of their peak success.]

[Activation is irreversible. Will only engage at the optimal critical point.]

I almost laughed. What a sick joke. A weapon for someone who'd already lost the war.

But I accepted it.

Because I had no other choice.

After that, things moved shockingly fast.

Within a week, Boyce's life was transformed. A long-lost grandfather—the reclusive billionaire Donovan Blackwood—publicly announced that Boyce was his sole heir. Overnight, he went from an unknown student to the future head of Blackwood Holdings.

One week. A tailored suit. A new sports car. The kind of social circle that only materializes around money.

He strode through campus like he owned the place. In a way, he did now—the Blackwood family had just donated a new building to the business school.

Two weeks later, he proposed to Sloane Montgomery.

Not me. Her.

The Montgomery family was East Coast old money—prestigious, well-connected, and impossibly discerning. Before "The Midas Touch," they wouldn't have given Boyce a second glance. Now, the media dubbed the union of Blackwood and Montgomery the merger of the century: new money meets old.

Sloane said yes. Of course she did.

And I watched. From the back of the crowd, from behind a screen, from every angle imaginable.

I watched, and I felt nothing.

I had already made my choice.

The system's cold voice spoke again.

[Host, do you wish to activate 'The Karmic Trigger'?]

I shook my head. Not yet. This was just the beginning.

Let him have his moment. Let him soar. The higher he soared, the harder he would fall.

That very night, Boyce and Sloane were on every headline.

Blackwood Heir Proposes to Socialite# #A Power Union of New and Old Money#

The financial media called it a merger of dynasties. The fashion pages called it a modern fairytale. Social media was ablaze.

Boyce posted a photo of the two of them—perfect lighting, perfect smiles, a perfectly composed fantasy.

The caption read: "Finally have everything I've always wanted."

The post exploded. Thousands of likes. Endless comments.

I didn't engage. No like, no comment. I just scrolled past.

Instead, I buried myself in the lab, pouring everything into my polymer research.

Professor Alistair Finch was more than a mentor; he was the first person who saw the potential in my work.

"Your research has the potential to reshape the entire industry," he told me one afternoon, reviewing my progress.

He didn't know the real reason I was so far ahead. I had already lived the next forty years. I knew which technologies were on the verge of a breakthrough, which industries would boom, and which research would redefine the future.

This wasn't just a second chance. It was an insurmountable advantage. And I wasn't about to waste it.

A month later, Boyce appeared at the lab.

He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Professor Finch," he said, leaning against the doorframe with the kind of casual arrogance only new money can buy, "I'd like to make a donation. Enough to have the building renamed."

Professor Finch barely looked up from his work. "This building already has a name."

Boyce smiled. "Everything has a price."

Professor Finch set down his pen and met his gaze. "Not everything."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Boyce's face, quickly replaced by cold indifference.

"Fine," he said with a shrug. "I'll just speak with the board of trustees directly."

He turned to leave, then paused.

"Oh, and about Dani Hayes," he added, his tone dripping with condescension. "She's a nobody. Just some broke student. Don't waste university resources on a charity case."

Professor Finch's expression didn't change. He simply returned to his papers.

But he called me that night.

"I have to tell you something," he said. "Boyce Collier pressured the university to revoke your research grant and reallocate the funds."

I froze.

"He spoke to the trustees this afternoon. Given the size of his recent donation… the university is caving."

Silence.

That grant was my life's work. It represented years of sleepless nights, sacrificed weekends, and a social life that had ceased to exist. And now, someone could just wave a check and make it all disappear.

"I fought for you," Professor Finch continued, "but I can't promise I'll win. You need a backup plan."

I thanked him and hung up.

I stood in the silent hallway and let the reality sink in.

In our last life, I had supported Boyce through his rock bottom—the years he was unemployed, depressed, and lost. I had carried us both.

Now, in this life, he wasn't just leaving me behind. He was trying to erase me.

Not because I was a threat. Not because I was in his way.

But because I was a reminder of what he used to be.

And for that, he could never forgive me.

The next morning, the official email arrived.

My research grant was revoked.

The language was polite and bureaucratic. "Due to a reprioritization of funding…" But the truth was blunt: Boyce had bought my future out from under me.

I packed my things in silence. No tears. It wasn't that it didn't hurt. It was that I was already planning my next move.

On my way out, I ran into Boyce. He was standing at the entrance to the newly christened business school, smiling at something on his phone.

He glanced up and saw me. "Leaving?"

I said nothing.

"Good," he said. "You were a waste of the school's resources anyway."

I looked at him—really looked at him—and a cold clarity settled over me.

He hadn't become this cruel because he had money. He had always been this cruel. The money just gave him permission to show it.

I walked past him without a word and went back to my dorm to finish packing.

The system's voice resurfaced, softer this time.

[Host, your emotional state is unstable. Do you wish to activate the trigger?]

I shook my head. Not yet. Boyce and Sloane's "wedding of the century" was still over a month away.

I could wait.

The moment I stepped off campus, my phone rang. It was Professor Finch.

"Dani, I contacted a colleague on your behalf," he said, his voice brisk. "Stellaton Advanced Materials Institute. He owes me a favor. You'll have a place there."

I stopped in my tracks. "Professor Finch… the Montgomery family won't—"

He cut me off with a dry, weary laugh. "I refuse to let a talent like yours be buried by this kind of petty power play."

A pause. "You earned your spot. I'm just making sure you get to keep it."

My throat tightened. "Thank you."

"Pack your bags," he added. "They'll be in touch."

Leaving Bridgewater wasn't a loss. It was a reset. A new city. A clean slate.

Yes, watching Boyce fall would be satisfying. But building my own future was more important.

To make ends meet before the move, I took a waitressing job at a charity gala. And that's where I saw them.

Boyce and Sloane.

They were the guests of honor, holding court in a circle of fawning admirers. The diamond necklace around Sloane's throat was worth more than my entire tuition. Boyce's arm was draped possessively around her waist.