I Drank the Love Potion Myself

I got my hands on a magic potion. Whoever drank it would fall hopelessly in love with me.

Without a second of hesitation, I tipped my head back and swallowed every last drop.

This time, I choose to love myself.

[Love you, myself.]

See you tomorrow!

Chapter 1

In my past life. After my husband, Roman, cheated on me, I stumbled upon a small, clear glass bottle. It held a shimmering blue liquid.

A faded label stuck to the glass read

[Whoever drinks this will fall inextricably in love with the giver.]

I treated it like my final lifeline. Like a madwoman, I gambled every last shred of hope on that mysterious liquid. I slipped it into Roman's morning coffee.

The effects hit instantly. He cut ties with his mistress. His eyes locked onto me again. He started remembering our anniversaries and bringing home fresh bouquets.

At night, he would wrap his arms around me and whisper sweet nothings I hadn't heard in years. It felt like we had rewound time back to our honeymoon phase. We were the picture-perfect couple everyone envied. Everyone thought Roman was madly in love with me.

Only I knew the truth. His love wasn't a choice he made. It was a choice I forced on him. I made him drink that potion.

Whenever he pulled me close and kissed me, my mind flashed to the filthy, intimate photos of his affair. Whenever he murmured sweet things against my skin, my brain spun. Did he use those exact same lines on her?

Worse, the terror clung to me like a second skin.

Every time he spoke to a female client. Every time his phone screen lit up on the nightstand. Every time a woman from his past crossed our path. Alarms blared in my skull.

Did the potion wear off? Is he leaving me again?

I morphed into a neurotic mess. I didn't even recognize the woman in the mirror.

Paranoid. Jumpy. Fragile. If Roman zoned out for just a second, if his reply sounded just a fraction too flat, my brain spiraled.

Then, I found out I was pregnant.

The joy lasted exactly one second. A crushing wave of dread suffocated it immediately. What if the magic vanished tomorrow?

What if Roman reverted to the man who looked at me with pure disgust? What would happen to me? What would happen to my baby?

Resting a hand over my flat stomach, the truth finally hit me. I had locked myself inside a gorgeous, fragile cage of my own making.

My hair started falling out in clumps. Chronic anxiety wrapped around my throat, gnawing at my frayed nerves day and night. Even when Roman held me and coaxed me, the warmth felt hollow.

The core of true love is the surrender of free will. It is two free souls colliding and choosing to fall. I had poisoned that possibility with my own hands.

So, when Roman casually glanced at me one morning and said, "Honey, you've got some new fine lines around your eyes."

Those careless words broke me.

Chapter 2

I couldn't focus. I messed up constantly at work. My nerves were stretched so tight they were ready to snap. Eventually, my body caved to the endless emotional whiplash.

The baby I never got to meet slipped away.

Roman held me. He murmured soft, comforting words against my hair. But warmth didn't flood my chest. Only a suffocating, bile-rising regret.

I regretted ever sinking that low. I regretted acting like a starving beggar, using dirty tricks to chain down a man whose heart had already walked out the door.

So, when my eyes snapped open in this life and I saw that familiar glass bottle of blue liquid resting on the counter

I didn't hesitate.

I twisted the cap off, tilted my head back, and downed every last drop. The liquid tasted slightly bitter as it coated my throat.

Why drain my soul trying to keep a cheating husband? I'd rather save all that love for myself.

[Love you, myself.]

See you tomorrow.

I stood there in the quiet room. I waited for my body to change. Nothing. I felt exactly the same.

But remembering how it had rewired Roman in my past life, I didn't doubt the magic. Maybe the best changes aren't the ones you can see in a mirror.

A loud rumble from my stomach shattered the silence.

Right. I hadn't eaten a single bite since I woke up in this timeline.

I walked out of the bedroom. The warm glow of the living room lights revealed a massive, lavish feast covering the dining table. I froze. The memory clicked into place.

I had been reborn on the exact day of my sixth wedding anniversary with Roman.

How did I spend this day in my past life? I had spent hours doing my makeup. I ran all the way to Roman's corporate office. Right there, under the staring eyes of his entire staff, I begged him to come home for dinner.

When I walked out of that building, the pity and mockery in their eyes practically burned holes into my back. But I didn't care. Roman had agreed to come home. I was too high on that pathetic scrap of validation to notice anything else.

I rushed home and cooked a massive feast. Every single dish was Roman's favorite. Spicy Sichuan boiled fish, hearty beef stew, steamed sea bass, stir-fried seasonal greens, and garlic glass noodle seafood. I pulled out every culinary trick I knew, desperate to win him back through his stomach.

Staring at that perfect table, I had actually felt a pathetic surge of pride. I daydreamed about the look of awe and love on his face when he walked through the door.

And the result?

I sat rigid on a cold dining chair all night.

Roman spent the entire night in his mistress's bed. That was his grand sixth-anniversary gift to me. That long, agonizing night of mental collapse was what finally pushed me to spike his coffee with that potion. I just couldn't handle the crushing weight of waiting alone anymore.

Thinking back on it now makes me laugh. Why was I ever lonely? Don't I have myself?

Now, staring at the exact same spread of food, my chest is completely hollow. No desperate hope. No gnawing anxiety.

Just one pure, biological demand. I'm starving.

I walked over to the wine cabinet and pulled out a vintage bottle I bought from a private vineyard. I poured the dark, rich crimson liquid into a crystal glass. It gleamed under the warm lights.

I took a slow sip. The heavy, velvety fruit notes burst across my tongue. I lowered the glass and clicked my tongue in pure appreciation.

Chapter 3

Damn, that is some good wine. I am treating you right, me, myself, and I.

My gaze drifted back to the feast on the table. A frown tugged at my forehead.

Steamed. Boiled. Low sodium. Low oil.

Where were the dishes I actually liked?

To cater to Roman's bland palate, Ia girl raised on pure spicehadn't cooked a single decent dish with a kick.

I slapped my thigh. A sharp smack echoed in the dining room. Right. Why on earth should I cater to him anymore?

It was past eight in the evening. A sudden rush of adrenaline flooded my veins.

I hauled the spicy Sichuan boiled fish back to the stove. I cranked up the heat and dumped a massive ladle of sizzling chili oil and a heavy handful of peppercorns right into the broth. I dragged the steamed sea bass and the garlic glass noodle seafood back to the counter. I buried them under thick layers of extra minced garlic and bright red chopped chilies.

It still wasn't enough. I quickly whipped up a fresh plate of my absolute favoritefiery spicy fried chicken.

A sea of brilliant, blazing red covered the table. The sharp, mouth-watering aroma of chili heat filled every inch of the kitchen.

I topped off my crystal glass with more wine and sat back down. I popped a chili-soaked slice of fish into my mouth. The intense, numbing spice exploded on my tongue. I wanted to stomp my feet in pure satisfaction.

Next came a shrimp, dripping with garlic and pepper. The savory heat shot straight to my brain. The fiery spicy fried chicken was crispy, fragrant, and perfectly numbing. I washed it down with a mouthful of rich red wine.

Pure, unfiltered bliss.

I was sweating from the spice, eating like a starved woman, when my phone lit up on the table. A new message notification popped onto the screen.

It was from Kinsley. Roman's assistant. Also known as one of Roman's mistresses.

Kinsley:

[Hazel, don't tell me you haven't seen my Instagram story yet?]

I picked up a piece of fiery spicy fried chicken with my chopsticks and popped it into my mouth. I chewed slowly, savoring the crunch, and tapped open her Instagram story.

Posted exactly ten minutes ago. A photo of two hands, fingers tightly intertwined. The blurred background was the ambient lighting of my favorite high-end restaurant. The heavy, romantic implication dripped from the screen.

I recognized Roman's hand instantly. I had spent years tracing those lines, measuring my fingers against his.

Slender fingers. Prominent knuckles. And the faint, pale indent of a wedding band that hadn't fully faded yet.

My expression flatlined. I tapped the little heart icon and liked the story.

A minute later, the post vanished. Deleted.

Almost immediately, a brand new Instagram story popped up on her page.

Kinsley's Story:

[Oops, my boyfriend caught me posting that casual picture just now~ He said my punishment is zero sleep tonight. So shy.]

I set the phone face-down on the table. A distinct prick of pain caught right beneath my ribs.

My ravenous appetite instantly shrank back. But the ache wasn't for that pathetic man and his mistress. It was for myself.

I placed my chopsticks down on the porcelain rest. I stared straight ahead at the empty air and began a very serious intervention.

"Listen to me, me, myself, and I," I said out loud. "You worked your ass off in that kitchen. You finally made a table full of food perfectly tailored to your own taste. And you're going to let some cheap Instagram story ruin your appetite?"

"Is that fair to the woman who cooked this? Is it fair to this vintage wine? Is it fair to your own stomach?"

"Eat. Look at how dangerously thin you are. A stiff breeze could knock you over. You're barely eighty pounds, for crying out loud."

"Roman is currently wrapped around his little mistress in a lover's bed, whispering sweet nothings. And you are going to sit here and mourn over a hot, perfect meal?"

Chapter 4

"You can't treat yourself like this, me, myself, and I. Understood?"

Self-pep talk over. I took a deep breath and swallowed the bitter lump in my throat. I picked up a massive chunk of fish and shoved it into my mouth. I chewed hard.

Damn, that is good. That is more like it.

I was almost full when the phone on the table vibrated again. It was my mother.

I tapped answer. Before I could even open my mouth, a barrage of screaming blasted through the speaker.

"Hazel! So what if Roman cheated? Would it kill you to turn a blind eye? What successful man doesn't have casual flings?"

"I don't care what you have to do. Cry, beg, play dumb. Do not let that golden goose go! Do you hear me?!"

"If you keep throwing these tantrums and he actually divorces you, what are you going to do?! He is a CEO now. A major entrepreneur! You just need to cling to the Mrs. title."

"You want him all to yourself every second of the day? Are you out of your mind?"

"Roman is an exceptional man. Isn't it perfectly normal for him to have a few mistresses? Just sit down, be a good little Mrs. Vance, and enjoy your luxury. Why do you care so much?!"

I gripped the phone. My fingertips turned to ice. Pure, suffocating absurdity clogged my chest.

Word of what I did recently must have reached my parents' ears. Honestly, I hadn't even done anything that extreme. At least, compared to what Roman did to me, it was nothing.

I just smashed the car he bought his mistress the day I found out about the affair. I just stormed into his corporate headquarters and trashed his office in front of his entire staff.

Or the time I found out he took her to a charity gala. I showed up in a blinding red dress and slapped them both across the face in front of the entire crowd.

I thought humiliating him would work. I thought making him lose face would teach him that betrayal comes with a price.

But I was wrong.

In his world, in his elite circle, cheating was an unspoken privilege. Nobody judged him. They just looked at me with pity or mockery, patted Roman on the shoulder, and told him to divorce the crazy woman.

I hadn't wanted a divorce then. So my craziness became his perfect excuse to cheat even harder.

He stopped coming home at night. He deliberately paraded the lingering scents and marks of other women just to provoke me.

He couldn't control me. So he fed exaggerated, twisted versions of my outbursts to my parents.

He knew exactly how to manipulate their weak spots and toxic mindsets. He used them to suppress me. To discipline me. To make me face reality.

So, as that sickening advice poured out of my phone speaker again

The rage and grievance I had buried for two lifetimes finally detonated. I yelled back into the receiver.

"What do you mean it's normal to have mistresses?! He cheated! He betrayed our marriage, and somehow he is the one in the right