Still refusing to stop.

Each breath burned.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

I reached the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind me.

The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed faintly.

Outside, Dominic watched my retreating figure, his brows drawn tightly together.

For the first time in a long while, there was confusion in his eyes.

He truly didn't understand me anymore.

"Do you have to die again just to be satisfied?" he muttered under his breath.

"Is this another trick to get my attention?"

But I didn't answer.

I didn't have the strength to.

When I woke again, a frustrated sigh slipped from my lips before I could stop it.

The dose had been too small.

I was still alive.

The disappointment was dull but heavy, settling deep inside me.

Turning my head slightly, I noticed a bottle of allergy medication sitting on the nightstand. Beneath it was a small note, the paper slightly crumpled at the edges.

[Take your meds when you wake up. I'll be there in a few minutes.]

There was no signature.

But I didn't need one.

I knew that handwriting too well.

A long time ago, we used to leave notes like this for each other all the time. Back when things were different, back when his care wasn't something I had to question. Before the blood-bound alliance had turned into a cage. Before Celeste. Before the ninety-nine deaths that taught me what this family truly cost.

His reminders would be stuck to the fridge every single day.

[Wear something warm. It's cold today.]

[No ice during your period.]

[Text me if you're out late. I'll come pick you up.]

Simple words.

Small things.

But they had once meant everything.

Then one day, the fridge was replaced.

And with it, those notes disappeared.

No one ever mentioned them again.

"Still upset you didn't die?"

Dominic's voice broke through my thoughts.

He entered the room, his expression unreadable, his gaze steady but distant. He moved the way he always moved through the estate, as though every room belonged to him and every person in it existed at his discretion.

Only then did I realize that I had sighed again just moments earlier.

He walked toward me, his tone curt, controlled.

"Did you take your meds? Next time you run into something you're allergic to, don't be stupid enough to swallow it."

There was a pause.

He reached out, his hand hovering in the air for a brief second, as if he intended to touch me.

But he stopped himself.

Something in his expression shifted, hesitation creeping in. His signet ring was perfectly still on his finger.

It had been too long.

The distance between us was no longer something a simple gesture could bridge.

In the end, he lowered his hand and pulled it back.

"Dominic," I said quietly, my voice calm and steady despite everything, "I'm sorry. I made Celeste vomit again."

The apology came easily.

It always did.

I picked up the bottle of medicine from the nightstand, twisted it open, and poured all the pills into his palm. The small white tablets collected there, meaningless and cold.

Then I looked up at him, meeting his eyes directly.

"You can deprogram me," I said softly.

"Or just kill me."

"That's it. Hand it to me. I'll take it myself."

My voice came out eerily calm, almost detached, the kind of calm that didn't belong in a moment like this. It was twisted in a way that made even me sound unfamiliar to my own ears, steady but edged with something quietly defiant.

Dominic froze.

For several long seconds, he didn't move at all, as if my words had struck him somewhere deeper than he expected. His eyes locked onto mine, searching, trying to understand, but finding nothing he recognized.

"Serafina, are you insane?" he snapped finally, his voice rising sharply. "Do you want to die that badly?"

Without warning, he flung the bottle of pills across the room. It hit the floor with a sharp crack, scattering white tablets across the marble. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscles along his face rigid with barely contained anger. Somewhere beyond the bedroom door, a soldier's weight shifted at the sound, then went still again.

"You want to die? Fine," he continued, his voice raw, almost hoarse with emotion he couldn't fully suppress. "But I won't let you."

The words echoed in the air.

And then, just as suddenly, he went still.

It was as if even he hadn't expected himself to say that.

A flicker of something crossed his face. Surprise. Irritation. Maybe even confusion. He hadn't been this visibly angry in years. Dominic was always composed, always controlled. The heir apparent of the Bellandi Family did not lose his temper. It was a luxury the rank didn't permit.

With a bitter scoff, he loosened his tie, tugging it down impatiently before dropping himself onto the chair nearby. His posture relaxed, but his expression hardened again, settling back into that familiar coldness. His signet ring caught the lamplight as his hand came to rest on the arm of the chair, perfectly still.

"Stop throwing tantrums," he said flatly, as if trying to erase the moment that had just passed.

"You're not going to die. We've checked everything, and we still don't know what's wrong with you." His tone shifted, becoming more calculated, more deliberate. "I recently acquired a black clinic. Private. Off the books. They'll draw some blood. Figure it out."

He paused briefly, his gaze flickering as if weighing his next words.

"Maybe… maybe we can use it for the baby in Celeste's belly…"

Before he could finish, I had already rolled up my sleeve.

Silently.

Calmly.

I extended my arm toward him, pale skin exposed, veins faintly visible beneath it.

"Go ahead," I said softly. "Draw it. The more, the better."

Something in his chest tightened.

He couldn't quite explain it. The feeling was subtle but unmistakable, like a thread pulling somewhere deep inside him. But he had already promised Celeste. He had already decided that whatever secret existed within me would belong to their child.

So he forced that discomfort down, burying it beneath logic, beneath purpose.

Without another word, he called the family surgeon.

When the surgeon arrived, his movements were hesitant, almost uneasy. He prepared the equipment in silence, his eyes darting toward me more than once. He knew what he was. He knew who paid him. And he knew that questioning the Bellandi heir's orders was the kind of mistake a man only makes once.

The needle he used was thick.

Too thick.

Nearly the width of a baby's finger.

When it pierced my skin, it sank deep into my vein with a dull, invasive pressure that spread through my arm. Blood flowed steadily through the tube, dark and steady, as if my body had already accepted what was happening.

I didn't tell Dominic the truth.

From the very first time I died for him, I had known.

I could only die one hundred times.

And once I had died in his hands one hundred times, my blood-vow curse would be complete.

After that, I would disappear.

Gone completely.

To a place no one could reach.

From that moment on, I would no longer belong to love.

Nor to humanity.

Nor to anyone at all.

Dominic's phone rang, cutting through the silence.

He answered without even glancing at me, his attention already elsewhere.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow and take you to the clinic," he said, his tone brisk and efficient.

The surgeon hesitated mid-motion, his hands pausing slightly as he looked up.

"Don Bellandi," he said cautiously, "with the Signora's current condition… she really needs rest."

Dominic paused for a brief second, as if considering it.

Then he replied, curt and dismissive.

"She won't die."

The surgeon's expression stiffened instantly. A thin sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. He lowered his head and said nothing more, not daring to argue. In this house, a medical opinion weighed nothing against a direct order.

But the next day came.

And Dominic didn't show up.

Neither did he the day after that.

Instead, the joint account we shared began lighting up with transaction notifications.

One after another.

Couple's down jackets.

Thermal winter sets.

Wool socks.

A sled.

The list went on.

Without warning, a memory surfaced.

Once, long ago, we had gone to Antarctica together.

It had been one of the rare times when things still felt… almost right.

But somehow, Celeste found out.

And she followed us there.

When she arrived, she was dressed in nothing more than a thin sweater, her entire body trembling violently from the cold. Her lips were pale, tinged blue, her breathing uneven.

Like a man possessed, Dominic had rushed to her.

He pulled off his own coat and wrapped it around her shoulders without hesitation.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, he turned to me.

And stripped the coat from my back.

Without a word.

He gave that to her too.

Celeste collapsed into his arms, sobbing softly.

"Serafina didn't want me to come…" she cried, her voice fragile, trembling. "She threw away all my clothes. But Dominic, I just wanted to see the penguins with you…"

He looked at me then.

Not with doubt.

Not with hesitation.

But with pure scorn.

"You're jealous," he said coldly. "Poisonous. Vicious."

His gaze was sharp, cutting.

"Fine. Taste for yourself what it's like to freeze to death in Antarctica."

And then they left.

Together.

Leaving me behind in the endless white.

I died there.

Alone.

Wearing nothing but a single thin layer of clothing.

The cold had crept in slowly at first, numbing my fingers, my toes. Then it spread, seeping into my bones, until even breathing felt like inhaling shards of ice.

And then…

Nothing.

The memory faded.

I returned to the present.

Silently, I picked up my phone and ordered a pair of couple's snow goggles.

For them.

After that, I canceled the joint account I shared with Dominic.

The confirmation message came through almost instantly.

A short while later, my phone vibrated.

A message from him.

[Just one symbol?]

I stared at the screen.

And didn't respond.

Minutes passed.

Then, from outside my door, I heard the sound of footsteps.

Familiar.

Steady.

The enforcer posted in the hallway shifted aside without a word. The door opened.

"Pack up," Dominic said. "We're going to the clinic."

I lowered my eyes and stood quietly, saying nothing as I followed him.

From behind him, Celeste stepped forward.

Her smile was sweet.

Too sweet.

Sickening. It appeared half a beat too quickly, then softened into something rehearsed.

"Serafina," she said softly, her voice laced with false concern, "it must've been so hard for you, giving so much blood for the baby."

She tilted her head slightly, her expression gentle.

"But if the tests don't yield results… we might need your help again."

Her gaze lingered on me, something sharp flickering beneath the softness.

"You're not going to die anyway," she continued lightly. "Serafina, maybe you could even lie on the operating table and let us deconstruct you."

Her smile widened just a fraction.

"For Dominic's child, of course."

"Alright," I said.

Calmly.

Without hesitation.

The word fell from my lips as easily as breathing.

Dominic's expression darkened immediately, his brows drawing together. Something unreadable flashed through his eyes before his voice cut in, cold and firm.

"We'll talk about that later."

For a split second, a flicker of jealousy crossed Celeste's face.

It was gone just as quickly.

The three of us walked out together and got into the car. An enforcer held the door, eyes forward, seeing nothing. Dominic started the engine.

Then he turned on the music.

Soft.

Distant.

But the silence between us was louder than anything else.

It filled every corner of the space, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on all three of us like something that could no longer be ignored.

Celeste smacked Dominic lightly on the chest, her tone playful and teasing, as if nothing in the world could possibly trouble her.

"Why jazz?" she pouted, her brows knitting slightly in mock annoyance. "You know I hate jazz."

The soft melody continued to flow through the car, smooth and low, filling the quiet space.

Dominic reacted immediately, almost instinctively.

"Sorry," he said, reaching forward to adjust the music, his voice carrying a trace of apology that he rarely showed anyone.

But as his hand hovered near the controls, his eyes drifted upward, caught by the rearview mirror.

For a brief second, his gaze met mine in the reflection.

I sat in the backseat, silent, unmoving.

I like jazz.

The realization hit him all at once.

A faint frown creased his brow, his expression darkening almost imperceptibly. A flicker of irritation passed through his eyes, quick and sharp, like something he didn't want to acknowledge.

But then he noticed my indifference.

There was no reaction on my face. No attachment. No trace of emotion.

It was as if the music meant nothing to me at all.

That was what unsettled him the most.

The shadow in his chest deepened quietly, something heavy and unfamiliar pressing down where nothing had been before.

These days, even with Celeste sitting beside him, chattering endlessly, filling the car with her voice, he found it harder and harder to respond. Her words drifted past him like noise. He nodded when necessary, gave short replies, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Far away. Somewhere he couldn't quite reach.

By the time we arrived at the black clinic, the air inside the car had grown thick with something unspoken.

The lead surgeon was already waiting outside the unmarked entrance, his posture eager, almost overly enthusiastic as he stepped forward to greet us. Two soldiers flanked the doorway behind him, hands loose at their sides.

"Don Bellandi," he greeted with a wide grin, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Then his gaze shifted to Celeste, his smile widening further.

"Signora Bellandi," he added, lowering his voice slightly, "you have no idea how many priceless samples Don Bellandi has sent over these past few days. Each one is practically a treasure worth thousands."

There was admiration in his tone.

Greed, too.

Then, as if unable to resist, he glanced at me.