Last Life She Killed Me for My Rich Husband, This Life I Let Her Have Him Chapter 11

Last Life She Killed Me for My Rich Husband, This Life I Let Her Have Him Chapter 11

Time flew. Four or five years passed in a blink. 

Charles and I got along well. On the surface, I was his sweet, obedient little wife. Behind the scenes, I was a businesswoman 

making multimillion–dollar investments. 

I slipped between the two roles effortlessly, keeping him 

happy and content. 

It was so much easier than my last life, grinding away to build 

everything from nothing. 

My sister’s life, though, wasn’t going so great. 

She couldn’t understand why, years later, Benjamin’s career 

hadn’t taken off the way it had when he was with me in the 

last timeline. 

She started complaining nonstop. Complaining that life was unfair. Complaining that Benjamin didn’t work hard enough. 

The couple everyone had envied started fighting constantly. 

While they argued and blamed each other, I was hauling a truckload of sanitary supplies to rural middle and high schools in the mountains, personally handing the supplies to the 

female principals. 

I had my own reasons. One principal took the donation list, stood there without moving, and kept looking impatiently 

behind me. 

“Where’s the camera crew? The reporters? Hurry it up. Don’t 

waste the students‘ class time.” 

That was when I realized why everyone was lined up so neatly. 

“There’s none of that,” I said. “These are just gifts from me. To help the kids live better.” 

The principal froze for a second. Then she wiped her hands on her skirt and shook mine with an embarrassed smile. 

“I thought you were one of those groups that takes pictures and then takes everything back. I’m so sorry.” 

“The girls here have such a hard life. Thank you. I’ll make sure every single one of these gets used properly.” 

I’d seen a lot in my last life, traveling all over the place. 

Donated sanitary pads often never reached the girls. They’d 

get used as insoles for the boys‘ shoes or sold off. 

Donated clothes went to the boys first, sometimes ending up with forty- or fifty–year–old bachelors. Funds created to help young girls ended up buying cameras for twenty–year–old 

boys. 

I’d seen it so many times. It was enough to make anyone 

furious. The most ordinary things could ruin a girl’s entire 

future. 

“Is everything ready?” I asked my assistant. 

“Yes.” 

“Then let’s begin.”