Killed By My Husband Thrice

When the cold barrel pressed against my temple, I caught the scent of Tristan Sewell's cedarwood on his cuff. That scent—I have smelled it twice before. In my first life, I was the legitimately married young mistress of the Sewell family — Tristan Sewell's rightful wife. On the day our marriage vow was fulfilled, when he lifted the red veil, a fleeting indifference flashed in his eyes, but I mistook it for the shyness of our first encounter. Three years of love and mutual respect, we lived as an ideal couple; I believed I had found my true match. Until the gun was pressed to the same spot, he said, "Jane, I'm sorry. If it hadn't been for you standing in the way, Hailey would already be by my side." Only now do I realize that all the warmth of these three years was a lie. I was the shield for the one he loved, a pawn he used to deceive others. In this second life, reborn with memories of the past, I returned to the third month after marrying into the Sewell family. This time, I sought out Hailey Miller—the dancer he spoke of before his death in the previous life. I personally arranged her dowry and urged Tristan to marry her. I believed that if I fulfilled his wish and let Hailey take my place, I could endure. But I was wrong. Half a year later, it was still that secret chamber, still that gun. He stood in the shadows, his voice cold: "Jane, Hailey, you know too much." This time, I saw clearly the ruthlessness in his eyes, without a trace of hesitation. The gunshot rang out again; as the searing pain struck, I had only one thought: If there is a next life, I will make him pay blood for blood. In the third life, I opened my eyes on my wedding night. The red candles flickered, casting light on Tristan's handsome yet deceitful face. This time, I neither shyly evaded as before, nor hurried to find Hailey. I calmly told him, "Tristan, this marriage was never my wish. Now I ask to be dismissed; from this moment on, we can find our own true love and we are strangers to each other." His expression instantly darkened; the warmth in his eyes shattered, replaced by a sinister coldness. In the next moment, that familiar gun appeared again, pressed against my temple. At the exact same spot. My heart pounded wildly, yet I forced myself to calm down. I must not panic; I absolutely must not die again. My eyes suddenly reddened, my voice trembling deliberately: "Tristan, do you have someone else outside?" He froze, the muzzle of the gun shifting slightly. Seizing the moment, tears streaming down, I cried, "I know I don't deserve you. I don't want to see you troubled, yet you point a gun at me!" I broke down in tears, disguising all my resistance as a woman's jealousy and hurt. Tristan's gaze softened slightly. After a long pause, he lowered the gun, his voice gentler: "What nonsense are you talking about? I have no other woman. Rest assured—be the young mistress of the Sewell family." He turned away, the scent of cedar gradually fading. I collapsed onto the wedding bed, my back already soaked with cold sweat. The perilous move just now has finally been carried through. Yet the doubts in my heart only deepen. If Hailey truly was his beloved, how could he so easily strike a fatal blow? Could it be that Hailey, like me, is merely a shield to take the arrows? Then, who exactly is the true love in his heart?