I Chose The Stranger Who Mourned Me Novel by Briar Delaney _ Novel





I Chose The Stranger Who Mourned Me Chapter 01

In my past life, I died at thirty-five.
While working overtime, I collapsed at my desk from a brain hemorrhage and was rushed to the hospital.
I spent a week in the ICU, and my husband, Tristen Seymour, never showed up once.
A nurse quietly told me he’d been lingering down the hall, on the phone with another woman.
He kept his voice low, but the nurse caught one sentence loud and clear: "Soon. The doctors say she won't make it through the week."
He sounded downright relieved.
I closed my eyes, and the heart monitor flatlined into one long, steady beep.
When I opened my eyes again, there was a warm latte sitting right in front of me.
Tristen was across the table. Wearing a crisp white shirt and gold-rimmed glasses, he wore a gentle smile.
"I think the most important thing in a relationship is compromise," he was saying.
Sunlight was pouring through the cafe window.
It was March 15, 2024—the day of our blind date.
I checked my phone—I was twenty-eight again.
My heart was thumping in my chest, steady and strong.
I took a sip of my latte and looked past Tristen's shoulder.
There was a guy sitting alone at the next table, sipping an Americano.
In my previous life, I died without ever finding out who he was.
But I remembered that every year, on the anniversary of my death, a single bouquet of white lilies appeared on my grave, always accompanied by a card signed with the initials, "A.R."
***
Tristen kept right on talking. "My mom is super easygoing. You won't have to worry about any drama with her."
I set my cup down and just looked at him.
I had stared at that exact face for seven years in my previous life.
During that time, he drained my savings, put the deed to my house in his name, and slept with my best friend, Bertha Webster.
And yet, right up until the day I died, I genuinely believed he was a good husband.
"Gabrielle? Are you listening?"
"Yeah."
I smiled, grabbed my purse, and stood up. "Mr. Seymour, you have a lot to offer, but we just aren't a good match."
Tristen stared at me, completely blindsided. He clearly hadn't seen a rejection coming.
Then again, the old me would never have rejected him.
In my previous life, I thought he was the whole package—he had a stable job, a respectable family, and that soft-spoken, gentle nature.
But now I knew better.
Just because a guy never got mad didn't mean he had a great temper. It usually just meant he couldn't care less about me.
"Did I... say something wrong?" he asked.
"No, everything you said was perfectly fine."
I walked around our table and stepped right up to the guy sitting next to us.
He was looking down at his phone—black hoodie, slightly long hair, sharp jawline. More than half of his coffee was gone.
"Hi."
He looked up, flashing a brief look of confusion.
"I'm Gabrielle Norris. Can I have your WhatsApp number?"
The whole café went pin-drop silent for two seconds.
Tristen's expression shifted from shock to pure fury.
The guy studied me for a second, then glanced past me at Tristen. "Are you... on a blind date?"
"It just ended."
His lips twitched. "Antoine Rodriguez."
He handed me his phone, his profile already open.
I added him and saved the contact under two words: White Lilies.
As I turned to leave, Tristen called after me. "Gabrielle, are you confused about something?"
I stopped and looked back at him.
In my previous life, at this exact moment, I'd been sitting there blushing while we talked about our future family.
He'd told me he wanted two kids, ideally a boy and a girl.
I'd agreed.
He'd suggested that once we were married, I'd take care of the house while he focused on his career, and I'd hand over my paychecks so he could manage our finances.
I'd agreed to that, too.
It wasn't until later that I found out "managing our finances" actually meant funneling all my money into opening a cafe for his sister, Annalise Seymour.
I gave him a polite, tight smile. "I’m perfectly clear, Mr. Seymour. Good luck finding someone who’s a better match."
I stepped out of the coffee shop, shivering as the bitter March wind sliced straight down the collar of my coat.
My phone buzzed.
It was Mom.
"Gabby, how'd the date go?" she asked immediately. "The Seymours look incredible on paper. His dad's a senior exec, and his mom draws a generous pension—"
"Mom, I wasn't feeling it."
A heavy, three-second pause hung on the line.
"Gabrielle, you are twenty-eight years old."
"I know."
"Do you? Your cousin is three years younger than you, and her baby is already walking!"
"Mom, I'm busy. I gotta go."
"Don't you dare hang up on—"
I hung up.
In my previous life, my mother threw my age in my face constantly.
Every single time she brought it up, it spiked my anxiety, making me feel like being single was practically a felony.
Yet, when I died in the ICU at thirty-five, she never even bothered to visit me.
Instead, she called Tristen to see who was listed as the beneficiary on my life insurance policy.

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