My husband had killed me ninety-nine times.

The most recent time, he pushed me in front of an oncoming truck to save his beloved first love.

Casually, he told someone to throw me in the trunk.

"Celeste is pregnant. She can't stand the smell of blood. Don't let her see too much of it."

"You'd better keep it under control. Don't die in our car."

I didn't say a word. Just curled up in the trunk, waiting to die.

Someone tried to stop him. He shrugged.

"She's died ninety-eight times. Every time she wakes up, she just apologizes."

At that, everyone glanced toward the trunk. Someone placed a hundred-million-dollar bet.

A wager on whether my first words after resurrection would be, once again, "I'm sorry."

But they didn't know. After dying a hundred times at the hands of the man I loved, the blood-vow curse would be broken. My karmic debt cleared. I'd ascend beyond the veil.

From then on, I'd have nothing more to do with earthly love.

——

When I woke again, I was still lying in the trunk, my body twisted at an unnatural angle, blood sticking to the metal beneath me as it slowly cooled. Every breath scraped against my ribs, shallow and uneven, as if even breathing had become something my body resisted. The air inside the trunk was thick and suffocating, carrying the metallic scent of blood and the faint trace of gasoline.

From the front seat came the sound of someone retching, soft at first, then more insistent, like waves rising and falling. I didn't need to look to know who it was.

The car braked suddenly, jolting my already battered body. Pain flared sharply through my limbs, forcing a weak gasp from my throat. A second later, the trunk popped open. Harsh light flooded in, stabbing at my eyes. I blinked against it, vision swimming, until his figure came into focus.

He stood above me, looking down as if I were nothing more than a piece of discarded trash. The signet ring on his hand caught the light, perfectly still.

"If you're still alive, get out," Dominic said coldly, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Celeste is getting sick because of you."

No concern. No hesitation. Just irritation.

I forced my arms to move, palms slipping slightly in the blood as I pushed myself upright. My muscles trembled violently, barely able to support me. Still, I said nothing. I dragged what remained of my strength together and began wiping the trunk clean with the torn fabric of my shirt, smearing the blood away until only faint stains remained.

Celeste had a cleanliness obsession.

I remembered it too clearly. The last time she wore a new pair of shoes, she had refused to let them touch the ground. So Dominic had stripped me naked without a second thought and forced me to lie down, using my body as a path beneath her feet.

Compared to that, this was nothing.

Seeing me comply without resistance, Dominic's expression softened ever so slightly, as if I had finally done something worthy of approval.

"Be good," he said, his tone almost gentle for once. "When Celeste gives birth, I'll…"

His words trailed off before they could form a promise.

From the front seat came another loud gag, more violent this time.

His attention snapped away from me instantly. He turned without hesitation, rushing back to the car, his movements urgent. I watched as he wrapped an arm around Celeste, his voice dropping into a low, soothing murmur, coaxing her as if she were something fragile, something precious.

Then, without even glancing back at me, he barked into his phone, ordering the house steward to bring another car to the compound within ten minutes.

Efficient. Decisive. Concerned.

Just not for me.

The first time I died for him, he had been just as frantic.

A hired diver had pinned him underwater during a job off the coast, holding him down long enough for panic to set in. Without thinking, I had plunged in after him, ignoring the danger, ignoring the way my lungs screamed for air. I had forced the man off him and pushed Dominic toward the surface.

And then I died.

My body had convulsed violently as oxygen left me. My vision had gone dark at the edges, my face turning numb, then cold, then nothing.

Just before everything faded, I heard his voice, hoarse and broken with fear.

"Someone, please save her! I'd give my life!"

At the time, I believed him.

But that was only once.

Then came three times.

Ten times.

Ninety-nine times.

Now, he watched me die without even blinking.

Worse, he used me as something expendable, a prop to please Celeste, to keep her comfortable, to soothe her moods.

A sudden gust of wind cut through my thoughts, sharp and cold, snapping me back to the present. My body swayed slightly, but I steadied myself and climbed out of the trunk. My legs felt heavy, each step an effort, but I forced them forward.

I had barely taken a few steps when his voice rang out behind me, cold and sharp as a blade.

"Did you forget something?"

I stopped.

For a moment, I said nothing. Then, quietly, almost mechanically, I replied, "…Sorry."

Every time I came back, this was what he demanded.

An apology to Celeste.

For making her nauseous.

For dying in front of her.

For existing at all.

The words came out calm, stripped of any emotion. I straightened my back, as much as my battered body allowed, and continued walking without looking back.

Perhaps it was my obedience this time that pleased him. Or perhaps he simply hadn't had enough.

"This car is dirty," Dominic said after a pause. "Clean it. We'll ride back with the steward."

I heard the car door open and close behind me. When I turned slightly, I saw him stepping out, one arm carefully shielding Celeste's belly, his brows drawn together in concern, every movement gentle, protective. Two soldiers materialized from the follow car and flanked them without a word, hands loose at their sides, eyes scanning the road.

I had been pregnant once too.

But at three months, the dog I had raised barked at Celeste, startling her.

That was enough.

Dominic had unleashed two mastiffs on me without hesitation. Their teeth tore into my flesh, ripping through skin and muscle alike. I could still remember the pain, sharp and endless, the way my body collapsed under their weight.

And the child inside me…

Didn't survive.

He had looked at me afterward, expression cold, almost bored.

"Children can come again," he had said flatly. "But if I don't teach you a lesson, you'll never learn your place."

Now, I would never bear a child again.

But at least…

I was free.

The walk back to the estate felt endless. Each step dragged, pain radiating through my entire body. The road blurred in and out of focus, but I kept moving, driven by nothing more than habit. The iron gate of the Bellandi compound rose against the dark sky long before I reached it, flanked by cameras that watched everything and forgave nothing.

By the time I reached the house, they were already there.

The two of them walked in together, close, intimate, as if the world existed only for them. His hand rested protectively on her, his posture soft in a way I had never seen directed at me.

I stepped forward to follow.

But the house steward blocked my path.

His expression was awkward, almost apologetic, but he didn't move aside.

"I'm sorry, signora," he said hesitantly. "The young master said Miss Russo can't stand the smell of blood."

Before I could react, a high-pressure water hose was turned on me.

The force hit like a blow. Ice-cold water slammed into my wounds, tearing through already damaged flesh. Pain exploded instantly, sharp and merciless, ripping a broken cry from my throat.

My body gave out beneath me. I crumpled to the ground on the stone courtyard, shaking uncontrollably as the water continued to pour over me, washing away the blood along with what little warmth I had left.

Every second stretched into eternity.

Ten unbearable minutes passed.

By the time it stopped, I could barely feel my limbs.

I lay there for a moment, trembling, before forcing myself to move again. Slowly, painfully, I dragged my soaked, broken body toward the bathroom.

Head lowered.

Clothes clinging to me.

Barely holding together.

There was only one death left.

The final one.

The thought settled in my mind with a strange, quiet clarity, like the last flicker of a dying flame. After everything, after all the pain and the countless times I had crossed that line between life and death, there was only one more step left to take.

"Dominic," Celeste whispered softly, her voice light and almost dreamy, "she's survived ninety-nine times. If our child could be like that too…"

Her words floated in the air, gentle on the surface, but heavy with something darker underneath.

"I know a black clinic," Dominic replied, his tone low and shadowed, as if even speaking about it required caution. "They specialize in deprogramming people with… unusual body types."

"Deprogramming?" Celeste tilted her head slightly, her brows knitting in innocent curiosity, as though she were asking about something harmless.

Dominic's gaze flickered briefly in my direction before he lowered his voice even further.

"We'll talk about it later."

A thick silence followed, pressing down on the room. The kind of silence that lived inside the walls of the Bellandi estate, where even the guards outside the door knew when to stop breathing. It lingered, uncomfortable and heavy, until Celeste suddenly broke it, her tone turning light again, almost playful.

"Is this mango fresh?"

The shift was so abrupt it felt unreal.

As I stepped out of the room, my movements slow and steady despite the weakness still clinging to my body, she walked toward me, holding the fruit out with a soft, sweet smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her smile appeared half a beat too quickly, then vanished just as fast when she remembered she was supposed to look concerned.

"Could you taste it for me, Serafina?" she asked gently. "I'm pregnant, so I can only eat fresh ones."

Her voice was syrupy, coated in false innocence.

Dominic's chest rose and fell visibly as his eyes landed on my pale lips. For a fleeting second, something flickered across his face.

He remembered.

I'm deathly allergic to mangoes.

Today had already been chaotic, messy, out of control. I could see the hesitation in his posture, the slight tightening of his jaw. His signet ring turned once along his knuckle. He was just about to stop her, just about to say something.

But I didn't give him the chance.

Without a moment's pause, I reached out, grabbed the mango from her hand, and shoved the entire fruit into my mouth.

The motion was sudden, almost violent.

Juice burst between my teeth as I bit down hard, spilling from the corners of my lips, sticky and sweet as it ran down my chin. I chewed desperately, swallowing the taste that would soon turn into poison.

Perfect.

This should be the last death.

Finally.

Relief, faint but real, flickered through me.

But before I could even swallow properly, Dominic rushed forward. His hand clamped around the back of my neck, fingers digging in as he forced my head forward.

"Spit it out!"

His voice cracked with something dangerously close to panic.

He forced my mouth open, making me spit out what I hadn't yet swallowed. The next second, a sharp slap landed across my face, loud and unforgiving, the impact sending my head snapping to the side as heat exploded across my cheek.

"Are you trying to die?!" he shouted, his voice trembling with fury. "You know you're allergic to mangoes! Dying once a day isn't enough for you?!"

The sting on my face pulsed, but I ignored it.

Instead, I forced myself to swallow whatever remained in my mouth, pushing it down despite the instinct screaming at me to stop.

His footsteps approached again, heavy and urgent.

I closed my eyes.

For a brief moment, everything felt still. The estate went quiet around us, the way it always did when Dominic's anger filled a room. Even the low hum of the surveillance feeds seemed to hold its breath.

Then, unexpectedly, his hand came up and cupped my face.

The touch was warm.

Familiar.

His voice dropped, losing its sharp edge, softening into something that almost sounded like the past.

"Spit it out."

But it was already too late.

A sudden wave of suffocation surged up my throat, violent and overwhelming. My chest tightened as if an invisible hand had wrapped around my lungs, squeezing the air out of them. I gasped, my body instinctively fighting for oxygen, my fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve.

The world tilted.

My breathing grew shallow, broken.

At that exact moment, Celeste suddenly gagged.

Loudly.

The sound cut through everything.

The second Dominic heard it, his grip on me vanished. Without hesitation, he let go and turned toward her, panic flashing across his face.

"This mango tastes awful…" she whined, her voice trembling.

The house steward rushed in, took one look at me, and his face turned deathly pale.

"The Signora is allergic!" he exclaimed urgently. "Call the family surgeon!"

Dominic hesitated.

Just for two seconds.

Two seconds where his gaze flickered between us.

Then he made his choice.

He swept Celeste into his arms, holding her close as if she might break.

"Take care of Celeste first," he ordered quickly.

Then, turning to the others, his voice hardened again, cold and commanding. The voice of the Bellandi heir who gave orders that no one in the household questioned.

"To the rest of you, cover the Signora's mouth and lock her in the bathroom. I don't want even the scent of mango near Celeste."

The house steward stood frozen, clearly overwhelmed, sweat forming along his brow.

But I didn't wait.

I pushed myself upright, my body swaying as dizziness washed over me. Leaning against the wall for support, I forced one step after another, dragging myself toward the bathroom. My thumb pressed against the pulse in my inner wrist. Still there. Still beating.