The deadly heatwave was coming, but I had stocked up on enough supplies to last for months. My husband, however, decided to “rescue” our frail female neighbor and invited her to stay with us. “We’ve got plenty of supplies,” he said. “How much can one woman possibly eat? She’s all alone—we’re neighbors, what’s the harm in helping her out?” But later, I found out they were enjoying themselves in my bathroom, steaming it up like a sauna and taking bubble baths together. The neighbor, blushing and smiling, said coyly, “The ice cream you gave me is the best—it really cools me down.” After I caught them red-handed, they panicked and locked me out on the balcony to roast under the blazing sun. I died of dehydration in the unbearable heat. When I opened my eyes again, it was the first day of the heatwave. My phone buzzed with a heat warning: [ALERT: Temperatures in the city will reach unprecedented highs tomorrow, exceeding 108°F. Stay indoors and avoid unnecessary outings.] As I read the message, my body jolted with the memory of the unbearable pain. The dehydration, the agony, the suffocating heat—none of it was real anymore. In my hand was a cold iced Americano. Trembling, I tilted my head back and gulped it down, savoring the icy relief like someone who had been dying of thirst. In my last life, I had died of thirst. I’m a well-known risk assessor, and I had seen the warning signs of global climate change long before the heatwave hit. I’d prepared for it meticulously: our standalone villa was stocked with supplies, equipped with cooling systems, and had its own independent power grid. It was a self-sustaining fortress capable of lasting more than a year. It was supposed to be the perfect refuge for me and my husband. But last time, Ryan had a sudden, misguided sense of heroism. He took pity on our neighbor, Molly, who lived alone next door. She was frail, he said, and wouldn’t survive the heatwave on her own. So he insisted on bringing her into our house. “She’s just one person,” he said. “It’s no big deal. Her husband’s abroad and can’t help her. We’re neighbors—it’s the right thing to do!” I had been against it from the start. Molly had only moved in a few months ago, and we barely knew her. “She’s a married woman,” I said. “What would people think? If you’re worried about her, I can check on her every day instead.” But Ryan ignored me and dragged Molly into the house himself. She stood there, tears streaming down her face, pleading with me. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” she said. “I have fainting spells—I can’t handle the heat. If I pass out at home alone, no one will even find my body.” Ryan frowned and turned to me. “See? How can you be so heartless? We’ve got plenty of supplies and space. It’s just for a few days!” Helpless, I gave in. Before the water and power were cut off, Molly moved under our roof. Then came the day Ryan decided he wanted fresh vegetables. By that time, temperatures outside had hit nearly 122°F. Going out required wearing full protective gear. Ryan, claiming he was getting nosebleeds from a vitamin deficiency and might develop sepsis, begged me to make the trip. Reluctantly, I drove miles to a national cold storage facility to buy him fresh vegetables. When I returned, I walked into my house to find Ryan and Molly in my bathroom, enjoying an air-conditioned 75°F haven. They were together in the bathtub. Molly was completely naked, her hands resting tenderly on Ryan’s chest. “Where’s the cucumber I asked for?” she whined. “I need it for my face mask!” Ryan, unconcerned, stroked her arm and replied, “I sent Ann to get it. That woman’s obsessed with me anyway—she’s like a dog. Let her play housekeeper while we relax.” They were using my home, my supplies, my life—and they didn’t even bother to hide their affair. Furious, I stormed into the bathroom and caught them in the act. But the pair of them, like cornered rats, turned on me. Before I could react, they stripped off my protective gear and locked me out on the south-facing balcony. The temperature outside was over 122°F. Under the relentless sun, I collapsed, my skin burning and my throat parched. I’d never known such despair. In a matter of hours, I was reduced to a dried, lifeless corpse. After I died, Molly convinced Ryan to dismember my body and dump it down the sewer. She took over everything I had worked so hard to build. Now, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. It was Ryan, his voice hurried and breathless: “Honey, can you bring me the valve wrench from 3044? Quick!”
Apartment 3044 belonged to none other than Molly. On a scorching 104°F day, my husband decided to skip his usual afternoon nap and help our dear female neighbor fix her air conditioner. When I got there, Molly was lounging in a skimpy crop top and shorts so short they barely qualified as clothing. Her legs were on full display, leaving little to the imagination. She was sucking on a banana-flavored popsicle, not biting it, letting it melt slowly and drip down her lips, making them glisten. Meanwhile, Ryan was standing on a chair, sweating profusely as he fiddled with the central AC unit. “So cool! But not as refreshing as having you here to fix my air conditioner,” Molly said with a bright, flirtatious smile. When she turned and saw me, she stuck out her tongue in mock surprise, pretending she hadn’t noticed me walk in. It was only in this second life that I realized her carefree demeanor was nothing but an act—a carefully crafted performance designed to lure men. I ignored her and looked up at the sweat-drenched back of my husband. “Excuse me, sir. What’s your profession again?” Ryan scratched his head sheepishly. “Oh, honey, when I was a kid back in the countryside, my dad used to fix appliances. I picked up a few tricks back then—this is nothing.” Funny. At home, he couldn’t even be bothered to change a lightbulb, always leaving it for the housekeeper. But now? Suddenly, he was eager to play handyman. Ah, the power of a pretty face. It can turn a man into the most obedient servant. “Did you bring the valve wrench?” he asked without looking at me. I shook my head. “We don’t even own one. You’ve never done a single repair at home, remember?” Molly chimed in, crossing her arms as the sheer fabric of her top clung to her skin, leaving little to the imagination. From Ryan’s angle, he had a perfect view of her cleavage. “It’s fine, big bro. You should head back with your wife. I’ll call someone else to fix it—don’t worry about me!” Years of marriage had made me an expert in reading Ryan’s body language. And as I glanced at him, I noticed it—he was turned on. He quickly averted his gaze, trying to cover it up, but I’d already seen enough. “All right,” he stammered. “If you need anything else, just let me know.” I scanned the room, taking in the chaotic scene. The dining table was covered in empty instant noodle cups, while the window sill was decorated with an elaborate dessert stand. On the old plastic clothes rack, a pair of Gucci spring collection black stockings hung delicately. The mix of sloppiness and luxury was almost comical. Molly was a private model—someone who made her living posing for exclusive clients. There was no way she could normally afford to live in a neighborhood like ours. She had only rented this apartment for her photoshoots. Her social media was filled with posts showcasing a glamorous life, paired with poetic captions meant to evoke sophistication. And Ryan? He was always in her comments, leaving little gems like “Such beauty deserves admiration.” Every single post. Rain or shine. It was so over-the-top that it practically oozed infatuation through the screen. I’d never paid attention to his behavior online, so I’d been completely unaware of his little crush until now. Molly glanced at me, then at Ryan, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. “You’re so lucky, Mrs. Harris! Financially independent, with a husband who dotes on you every day. Unlike me…” Molly had been married for three years, but her husband worked overseas and rarely came back. My eyes caught on something new sitting on her table: a pristine Hermès handbag. I didn’t need to guess who had bought it for her. Molly noticed my gaze and tilted her chin up proudly. “Beautiful, isn’t it? A gift from one of my biggest fans!” “Women have to rely on themselves,” she added smugly. “You can’t depend on a husband alone. The real skill is getting other men to happily spend money on you.” Ryan stood there, perfectly composed, as if her words didn’t implicate him. “Honey, do you like that bag?” he asked me casually. “If you want one, I can get you one too.” I nearly laughed out loud. What a hypocrite. Spending my money to act generous and charming for someone else. When I first met Ryan, he was a fresh-faced college athlete, full of youthful energy. I was already working at the Social Sciences Institute and had a bit of a reputation in my field. Occasionally, I’d return to my alma mater to teach guest lectures, and that’s where I’d first seen him—on the basketball court. He was magnetic on the court, his jersey clinging to his sweat-soaked body as he dunked the ball effortlessly. His sharp abs flexed as he moved, and his fiery gaze seemed to burn through everything in its path. Whenever he saw me, his ears would flush red, and he’d stammer, “Miss Shaw.” There was a six-year age gap between us, and while I was charmed, I never took it seriously. Later, he started working part-time at the gym where I swam. He offered to coach me in diving, and one thing led to another—we ended up together. I’ve never been one to romanticize relationships. From the beginning, I was clear about what I wanted. Before we got married, I told him plainly: “As long as you keep up those abs, I’ll take care of everything else. You won’t need to work or worry about money.” I had a steady income from my work at the institute and my investments in U.S. stocks. Every month, I gave Ryan $20,000 as pocket money. My only two conditions were that he stay fit and stay faithful. But he still managed to fall for someone else. And now, a man who’s already tainted has no place in my life anymore.
The streets were already blazing at a terrifying 113°F these past few days. Like in my past life, I had meticulously stocked up on supplies, preparing for this catastrophic heatwave with calm precision. All outdoor work had stopped, replaced with remote jobs for those lucky enough to work from home. Only a few essential workers remained, gritting their teeth through the unbearable heat. The neighborhood chat group buzzed with constant anxiety. Even a one-hour water outage was enough to send everyone into a frenzy. The latest trending news told of a homeless man who collapsed on the asphalt. His skin had melted onto the pavement, and he passed away from severe burns caused by the heat. People online offered prayers and condolences, but no one used the candle emoji anymore. It was just too hot for even that. As the heatwave persisted, power grids in multiple cities began to fail. Stories of people literally dying from the heat became more and more common. Meanwhile, in my little villa, I remained vigilant despite the relative comfort of my surroundings. I saved electricity, stayed cautious, and never let my guard down. Thankfully, my parents lived up north, where the heatwave hadn’t yet spread. “Annie, it’s only in the mid-80s here,” my mom reassured me over the phone. “We’ve got enough supplies. Don’t worry about us—just take care of yourself!” I made sure they wouldn’t skimp on air conditioning by sending them $1,000 for their electricity bill. After that, I turned my attention back to my plan—my perfect plan to take revenge on my husband and his mistress. The heatwave had already caused Molly to faint several times in her home. Each time, she’d call Ryan to take her to the hospital. I didn’t stop him. Instead, I lounged on the couch with a chilled watermelon in my lap, smiling at the TV as if nothing was wrong. Finally, Ryan couldn’t hold back any longer. He came to me with a familiar request. “Annie, why don’t we let Molly stay with us? She’s not doing well on her own, and it’s not like she’ll use up much of our supplies. She’s just one person, and we’re neighbors—it’s the right thing to do.” This time, I didn’t even pretend to hesitate. “Of course, honey,” I said with a sweet smile. “Neighbors should help each other out.” Ryan blinked, stunned by how quickly I agreed. Then, looking flattered, he nodded. “I knew it—you’re the kindest, most generous wife. I knew you wouldn’t mind.” What he didn’t know was that I had upgraded the villa’s entire system. How could I possibly mind? I was counting on both of them to come here so I could send them straight to hell. On her first day in the house, Molly helped herself to my walk-in closet. When I called her for dinner, she strutted out in one of my dresses. Ryan’s eyes lit up with admiration he didn’t even bother to hide. “Why are you wearing Annie’s clothes?” he asked, though his tone was more curious than upset. “Oh, I saw her wardrobe and couldn’t resist trying something on,” Molly said with a coy smile. Ryan chuckled, his voice full of praise. “It looks great on you. Annie has so many clothes anyway—why don’t you keep it?” He didn’t even glance in my direction for permission. It was like I wasn’t there. I just shrugged. It was only a dress, after all. A good hunter knows how to be patient. Even during the heatwave, Molly refused to give up her “career.” She insisted on continuing her modeling work from home. Ryan had a hobby for photography, so of course, Molly begged him to take pictures of her. She’d even come up with a title for the shoot: #HotAndSultry: Heatwave Goddess Edition “I’m planning to submit this to Men’s Magazine,” she said smugly. “I can already tell it’s going to go viral.” I glanced at the outfit she was wearing for the shoot and realized it was one of my $2,000 dresses—now cut into a tattered, revealing mess that barely covered anything. In my past life, it was during one of these photoshoots that they ended up in the bathtub together. Ryan, thinking I had gone to bed early, assumed it was the perfect opportunity. I had even told him I wasn’t feeling well because of my period, which gave him an excuse to sleep alone. How convenient for him. That night, I sat at my desk, staring coldly at the live feed from the security cameras. Sure enough, Ryan and Molly had snuck into the largest bathroom in the house. While people outside were dying in the heat, they had the audacity to set the AC to a cool 75°F and waste precious water on a bubble bath. Ryan was gently washing Molly’s back, running his hands over her skin as he massaged in the soap. The sound of flirtatious laughter and moans echoed from the bathroom. Molly’s voice was sweet and teasing. “What if your wife finds out? She’d probably kill me!” “Don’t worry about her,” Ryan said dismissively. “That old hag’s obsessed with me. We’re just using each other—she wants my looks, and I want her money. She’s nothing to be afraid of.” He tilted Molly’s chin up and smirked. “How about tonight, you take charge? I’ll let you do whatever you want.” “Ugh, you’re so annoying!” Molly giggled, playfully hitting his chest. I could barely contain my disgust. How had I ever fallen for such a sleazy, pathetic man? Fifteen minutes later, they finished their little escapade and began rinsing off under the shower. They still hadn’t noticed that the bathroom door had automatically locked. “Still feeling hot?” Ryan asked with a grin. Molly, her face flushed, mumbled something incoherent. “…The ice cream you gave me earlier was the best way to cool down.” They turned on the rain shower, laughing as the water cascaded over their bodies. Watching them through the security feed, I smirked. The bathroom’s sauna system was controlled remotely. I could adjust the room temperature and water settings with just a few taps. The sauna mode could reach temperatures of up to 212°F. At such extreme heat, the human body couldn’t survive for long. I thought of my past life—how I had been left to die, roasting under the relentless sun. This time, it was their turn. Without a second thought, I pressed the button.
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