Iris Sinclair was the acknowledged ugly woman of the compound.

A bluish-red scar ran across nearly her whole face. On top of that, she kept those heavy blunt bangs and the same two braids year after year. When she walked down the street, people would spot her and avoid her from a distance.

And yet a woman like that had, at twenty, managed to marry Elliot Mercer, the compound’s golden man back then, the youngest and most promising battalion commander around.

For forty years after the wedding, she lived for Elliot Mercer. She ran the household, bore and raised children, served his parents, and did everything a proper, dutiful wife was supposed to do.

Elliot Mercer, for his part, seemed not to fail her either. Step by step, he climbed from battalion commander to the chief of staff he was now.

All these years, no matter how busy work kept him, he never forgot to have someone bring her something.

Sometimes it was a bouquet. Sometimes a packed meal. Sometimes a little trinket he had picked out specially for her.

None of it had to be expensive. The moment Iris Sinclair received a gift, she would know one thing for sure: her husband still had her on his mind.

Their two children were filial too. On holidays and festival days, they would take her out for a little trip, just to make her happy.

She had always believed this life of hers held no real regrets. If there was one, then it was...

Lying in bed, Iris Sinclair slowly raised her withered hand, thinned by illness, and touched her own face. As the years had piled on, the scar there had only grown uglier, more glaring.

"Elliot, I want..."

She had barely called his name when Elliot Mercer quickly took her hand. His eyes were full of grief, so thick it looked like he might break at any second.

"Iris, don’t worry. I’ll take good care of the children from now on."

"After you’re gone, I’ll plant your grave full of daisies. I won’t let you be lonely."

"I..." Iris Sinclair had only just started to speak when a violent fit of coughing seized her. Elliot Mercer hurriedly patted her back.

She quickly grabbed his wrist, her eyes full of pleading, full of one last bit of hope. "Elliot, my face... I want, I want..."

Very few people knew this—she had never truly been ugly. In fact, she had once been beautiful.

All these years of making herself look plain, making herself look frightening, had only been for...

"I know," Elliot Mercer said softly. "Iris, go in peace."

Iris Sinclair never got to finish that last sentence.

When a person has just breathed their last, the brain does not shut down right away. In that hazy stretch between life and death, she heard Elliot Mercer shout, voice bright with excitement.

"Vivian, she's finally dead. Now I can marry you."

"She was too ugly. If it weren't for that favor from back then, why would I have stayed with her my whole life?"

"Life's short. For the rest of my years, I'm giving everything to you."

"That's right, Mom. Our family's finally together."

Vivian. Too ugly. Together.

In an instant, something inside Iris's head seemed to crack apart. Her chest tightened too, heavy and stifling, like a huge hand had grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed.

She was already dead, so why did it still hurt this much?

Before she could think any further, a familiar sigh sounded by her ear.

"If you insist on marrying him, then marry him. As for your engagement with Sebastian Mercer, I'll withdraw it for you."

Iris's eyes flew open. Everything she saw was painfully familiar.

An elderly man sat on the fabric sofa, his hair gone mostly white. Both hands rested on the cane before him. At this time, illness had not yet worn him down. His features were still firm, and there was that unmistakable dignity about him, the kind only an old soldier carried.

"Grandpa..."

The moment she saw Edmund Ashford, tears rushed out of Iris's eyes.

Her mother had died young. Iris had practically been raised by her grandfather alone. After marrying Elliot Mercer, she was always tied up with one thing after another. The Mercer family was big, and there were always people to look after, so she went back less and less.

Every time her grandfather called and said he missed her, something always got in the way. Either there was no one to watch the children, or Elliot's mother was sick and needed tending, or Elliot had gone off on assignment and the house could not be left empty.

One delay after another.

By the time she saw her grandfather again, the old man was already nearing the end.

His whole body was covered in tubes, his cheeks hollow, only a thin layer of skin clinging to the bone.

Even with his mind already slipping, the name on his lips was still hers.

"Grandpa, it's my fault. I came too late..."

Sobbing, Iris collapsed by the bedside and watched helplessly as the old man's hand slowly slid from her palm.

For the next several decades, she was trapped in memories of her grandfather.

"You silly girl, what are you crying for? It’s just marriage," Edmund Ashford snorted, sounding annoyed, though there was more worry than anger in it. "No backbone at all."

As he spoke, he pulled a sheet of paper from the sofa and gently wiped the tears from his granddaughter’s eyes.

"It’s only Elliot Mercer. If you want to marry him, then marry him. With me here, do you think he’d dare bully you?"

"As for the engagement with Sebastian Mercer, I’ll help you call it off."

His fingers were light, careful even, but the touch on her cheek was real.

The man in front of her was warm, breathing, alive.

Iris Sinclair still hadn’t figured out what was going on, yet the words had already slipped out first.

"Grandpa, I’m not marrying Elliot Mercer. There’s no need to cancel the engagement."

Her chest felt so tight it almost hurt. The words she had heard after death came rushing back, squeezing the air out of her lungs all over again.

So the happy life she thought she had was nothing but a joke. All those little acts of care she once treasured were only scraps left over from the gifts Elliot Mercer meant for someone else.

And the child she had raised all her life was not even her own.

What a joke. She had worn herself out for the Mercer family her whole life, and in the end, all she got was one cold line: You’re really ugly.

After she died, Elliot Mercer married Vivian Sinclair, became some shining example of loyalty and devotion, and was even publicly praised for it.

"Really?" Edmund Ashford clearly didn’t quite believe her.

"Iris, your grandpa has already thought it through. You were right. Arranged marriage shouldn’t be forced. As a leader, I ought to set an example myself."

"I can’t just rely on the friendship between us old folks and push you into marrying Sebastian Mercer. Grandpa really won’t stop you anymore."

"As long as Elliot Mercer doesn’t look down on you and truly treats you well, then I’ll agree too."

While he spoke, Edmund Ashford kept looking at Iris Sinclair’s face, concern flickering through his eyes.

Iris Sinclair had smooth skin and fine features. Truth be told, she wasn’t bad-looking at all.

But right from the middle of her brow down to her left cheek, there ran a crooked scar, bluish-red and twisted like a centipede. To cover it, she’d cut herself a thick, heavy fringe.

It was left behind by the car accident two years ago. Because of that scar, she’d been laughed at for two whole years, and she’d even failed the arts troupe exam because of it.

Iris Sinclair raised a hand and lightly touched the scar, something unreadable flashing through her eyes.

She lifted her lashes and looked at her grandfather again. "Grandpa, I really am not marrying Elliot Mercer."

"As for my face, don’t worry about it. Maybe it’ll get better someday."

After she said that, Edmund Ashford still looked only half convinced. The old man gave a low snort, sat back down on the sofa, switched on the black-and-white television, and said nothing more.

If things had followed the path of her last life, today was the day Elliot Mercer was supposed to come.

He would bring people with him, come to the Ashford house to speak to her grandfather about the marriage, and then head to the Sinclair family to settle it properly.

But now that she had been given another life, Iris Sinclair would never marry Elliot Mercer again. She would make herself clear this time.

Then she would take her grandfather for a medical checkup as early as possible, retake the arts troupe exam, and win back everything she had lost.

Grandfather and granddaughter waited all the way until after half past twelve, but Elliot Mercer still didn’t show.

The housekeeper had already come to ask whether she should start lunch. Iris pressed down the strange unease in her chest and told her to go ahead and cook first.

Only after the two of them had finished eating, and after Edmund Ashford had gone off for his noon nap, did Iris finally catch sight of Elliot Mercer.

Only, he hadn’t come alone.

There was someone standing beside him.

It was Vivian Sinclair, Iris Sinclair’s stepsister.