7 Book(s) Related to kininatteru hito ga otoko jyanakatta

When I realised my lawyer husband couldn’t let go of his first love, a divorcée with a little boy, I started teaching our daughter to call him “Daniel”.
When our daughter ran a fever, one late-night call from his first love was enough to send him out the door. I stroked her burning forehead and taught her to say, “Bye, Daniel.”
He had promised to come to her school’s Father’s Day assembly. Then his first love rang in tears, saying her son had no dad to go with him, and he was gone, just like that.
I didn’t even look up. I handed my phone to my daughter and let her tell the class parents’ WhatsApp group that “Daniel” couldn’t make it.
Every time, she hesitated for a long while.
Eventually, my husband realised how much he owed us.
He suggested, all on his own, that we have a family portrait done.
But right outside the photography studio, his first love rang again, sobbing:
“Daniel, could you come to Toby’s nursery right now? It’s the parents’ sports day, and every other kid has a dad running with them. Toby’s the only one who doesn’t…”
A flicker of pity crossed my husband’s face. He was about to crouch down and explain to our daughter.
This time, she didn’t need me to remind her. She gave him a little wave.
“It’s okay, Daniel. Go and be with your other child. Me and Mummy are enough for the family photo.”

I can see a loyalty score over everyone's head.

When it falls below sixty percent, that person leaves.

The day my father cheated, his score fell from sixty-nine to twenty-three.

The day my sister ran away from home, hers fell to seven.

So when I grew up and started dating, I always left in time.

Then I met Beckett Hale.

His score for me was always one hundred percent. I believed I had finally found something real.

Then, on our daughter's third birthday, he didn't come.

When he walked in that night, the number over his head had dropped from one hundred to eighty-seven.

I understood that it was time to start planning to leave again.

Before my flight to Chicago took off, I saved an old man from nearly passing out from the heat outside Miami Airport.
The moment he swallowed the water I handed him, he suddenly grabbed my wrist and clung to it with surprising strength.
"Listen to me. Whatever you do, do not get on that plane! There's going to be a Category 5 hurricane today!"
I froze for a second and looked up at the cloudless blue sky over Miami.
Assuming his Alzheimer's had flared up, I smiled and told him I'd already called an ambulance for him.
But his eyes suddenly widened, and all the color drained from his face.
"The storm is coming. Hundreds of planes will be ripped apart in seconds, torn into scraps of metal... Everyone will die..."
I thought he was raving and turned away, dragging my suitcase into the terminal.
Then, just before boarding, I went to the restroom with my suitcase.
When I came out, someone had tightly wrapped a discarded boarding pass around the handle of my silver carry-on.
On the back, in thick red marker, were the words:
[HURRICANE LANDFALL IN 30 MINUTES! DO NOT BOARD!]
A chill ran through me.
Boarding was about to close. If I missed this multimillion-dollar deal, I'd be out of a job tomorrow.
And at home, my four-year-old daughter was waiting for me to pay her expensive daycare bill.
Should I step onto that jet bridge or not?

In my past life, I built an ironclad sanctuary in the zombie-infested wasteland, bleeding to keep four thousand people alive.
Yet the very people I risked everything to protect were brainwashed into overthrowing me.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back—right on the eve of that fatal rebellion.
Right now in the control room, my enemy has his arm around my wife. Fourteen rebels have their assault rifles pressed against my skull, laughing mockingly, convinced they've completely crushed this washed-up "Doomsday Tyrant."
What they don't know is that two days ago, I already emptied the bunker's entire stockpile of weapons and food.
You want "freedom" without rules? It's all yours.

I barely spoke a word before I turned six. Behind our backs, he townsfolk whispered that some foul thing had sealed my tongue.
The first time I truly spoke, I was pointing at our neighbor, Emily.
She was flying a kite just outside our fence. Floating right above her head was a stark, blood-red number.
"Three."
My mom poked her head out of the kitchen, asking if I had just spoken.
I nodded and pointed at Emily again.
By the time they looked, the girl had already run off.
Three days later, Emily was struck and killed by a turning delivery truck at the corner of our street.
After the funeral, my parents held me tight and swore it was just a coincidence.
The second time was when my grandmother, Eleanor Hart, was hospitalized for a stroke.
Dr. Grant took off his glasses, his tone brutally calm. "She is in terrible shape. The family needs to prepare for the worst."
I stood at the end of the hallway. Above my grandmother's head, the number flickered like a slow-burning fire.
"Two hundred and forty."
Claire clamped her hand over my mouth.
Daniel went pale. He knelt down, his voice a harsh hiss. "Sophie, shut up! You cannot say things like that out loud."
Grandmother did not die that night.
After being brought home, she miraculously began to recover. She even spent her afternoons listening to the radio in the sun.
Until the two-hundred-and-fortieth day. She passed away in her sleep.
That was when my family finally understood exactly what my numbers meant.

In my last life, the city became a locked-down apocalypse zone.
My “family-first” elite father shoved my older brother into a raider’s shotgun just to survive.
My pampered socialite mother thought I was dead weight—and personally threw me into a tide of infected.
When I opened my eyes again, it was the third day after the world collapsed.
Watching my mother still dilute her luxury face cream with the last half case of water—while my father lectured me about principles—
I drew my tactical knife and pinned it clean through the solid oak table.
“From now on, supplies are split. Rot here and prove it to me.”

A divorce should have been enough to end us.

But the moment I step back into New York, Xander Knight reminds me exactly who he is — ruthless, relentless, and still my husband.
He says I’m still his.
Still his wife.
Still the woman he would burn the world to keep.

But the past won’t stay buried.
His mother wants me gone.
His best friend wants me ruined.
And his cousin is hiding a secret that could shatter everything — the truth about the son Xander doesn’t know is his.

Now I’m trapped between the man I once loved, the man who helped me survive, and the dangerous truth that could destroy us all.