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.

His eyes sharpened, assessing. Curious.

Lowering his voice even more, he asked knowingly, "Is this the new experimental subject?"

The words lingered in the air.

Dominic's expression stiffened instantly. His signet ring went still against his knuckle.

A trace of displeasure flickered across his face before he masked it completely.

"How's the blood sample I sent earlier?" he asked instead, cutting the conversation short.

The surgeon seemed to understand immediately. He nodded and turned, his tone shifting into something more professional.

"The results are in," he said. "The reanimation factor inside is slowly degrading…"

He gestured for Dominic to follow him deeper into the clinic.

Concerned about exposure, Dominic turned slightly toward Celeste, his voice softening again.

"Wait outside," he said gently. "It's not safe in there."

Celeste nodded obediently, her expression sweet and compliant.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then followed the surgeon inside.

The moment he disappeared through the doors, everything changed.

Celeste's expression snapped.

The softness melted away like a mask breaking apart, revealing something cold and sharp beneath.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a small bottle of pills, her fingers steady, her gaze fixed on me with quiet malice.

"Serafina," she said slowly, her voice no longer gentle, "you're really hard to kill."

Her lips curled slightly.

"After everything… you're still alive."

There was no warmth left in her tone. Only contempt.

"Let's make a bet," she continued, tilting her head slightly, her eyes gleaming. "Let's see who Dominic really cares about."

She stepped closer, her presence suffocating.

"Whoever loses… vanishes."

There was nothing to bet on.

I already knew the outcome.

I was destined to lose.

"I bet Dominic will deconstruct you himself," she said with a soft, cruel laugh. "Don't worry. Once it's done, I'll have the clinic declare you dead."

Her voice dropped lower, almost a whisper.

"Then you can disappear forever. Never show your face to us again."

"Alright," I said.

Without hesitation.

The word came out effortlessly, calm and steady.

Celeste paused. Clearly surprised.

For a split second, her smile appeared half a beat too quickly, then vanished just as fast when she remembered she was supposed to look stricken. Something like confusion flickered across her face, as if she hadn't expected me to agree so easily.

But it vanished just as quickly.

Her grip tightened suddenly.

Before I could react, she grabbed my hand and forced it up, pressing it hard against her throat.

In the same instant, she swallowed the pills hidden in her palm.

Everything happened too fast.

Her body convulsed almost immediately. Foam bubbled at the corners of her lips, white and thick, spilling down as her knees buckled beneath her.

With a loud thud, she collapsed onto the floor.

I stumbled back instinctively, shock surging through me, my legs weakening as the scene unfolded in front of me.

My heart pounded violently.

My thumb found the pulse at my inner wrist. It was racing.

Footsteps thundered from the hallway.

"Celeste!"

Dominic's voice echoed sharply as he rushed into the room.

His eyes landed on her instantly. On her trembling, convulsing body.

Panic overtook his expression.

"Celeste! Wake up! Celeste!"

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to lift her, his voice breaking through the tension.

Then he turned to me.

His gaze was sharp, accusing.

"What did you do?!"

Before I could answer, the clinic director arrived, his face pale, sweat forming along his temples as he quickly assessed the situation. He knelt down, checking Celeste's condition with practiced efficiency. His expression darkened.

"The signora's vitals are unstable," he said urgently. "She's suffocating. If we don't act fast, we'll lose the child."

The words hit like a hammer.

His next sentence came even faster.

"We need to deconstruct the subject now to determine the survival potential."

Silence fell.

Heavy. Suffocating.

The fluorescent lights of the black clinic hummed above us, the only sound in a room where no one breathed.

Dominic's chest rose and fell violently as he stood there, his eyes fixed on me.

There was something in his gaze.

Conflict. Hesitation.

But it didn't last.

"…Prepare the operating table," he said finally.

His voice was firm. Decisive.

That was his answer.

Moments later, I was strapped onto the clinic table.

Cold metal pressed against my back, seeping through my skin, anchoring me in place. My wrists were secured. My legs immobilized. There was no escape.

The final death was coming. I could feel it.

My thumb had gone still against my wrist. I wasn't checking for a pulse anymore.

As the anesthesia began to flow into my veins, a cold numbness spreading slowly through my body, Celeste leaned in close. Her face hovered just above mine, her breath warm against my ear.

Her voice was sharp. Like a blade.

"Don't worry," she whispered, her lips curling slightly. "Once you're dissected, I'll personally send your ashes to the crematorium."

Her eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction.

"No matter how powerful you are… you can't come back from dust."

I saw Dominic standing nearby.

Still. Silent.

His brow furrowed slightly, his chest tight, something unreadable flickering across his face. His signet ring sat motionless on his finger. He had already decided.

But he didn't move.

Didn't stop anything.

Didn't say a word.

I closed my eyes.

This was the hundredth death.

The final one.

From this moment on, Dominic and I had nothing left between us.