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.

“Diana’s 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, my karmic debt would be cleared. I’d ascend beyond this world.

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

——

When I woke again, I was still lying in the trunk, bleeding.

From the front seat came faint retching.

The car braked suddenly. The door opened and he looked down at me coldly.

“If you’re still alive, get out. Diana’s getting sick because of you.”

I pushed myself up from the bloody mess and wiped the trunk clean with what was left of my shirt.

Diana had a cleanliness obsession.

Last time, she refused to step on the ground in new shoes—so Tristan Jagger stripped me naked to pave her path.

Seeing me behave, Tristan softened his tone for once.

“Be good. When Diana gives birth, I’ll…”

Before he finished, Diana let out another loud gag.

He rushed back into the car to hold her, coaxing her gently.

Then he barked into the phone, ordering the housekeeper to bring another car in ten minutes.

The first time I died for him, he was this nervous too.

A shady diving instructor had pinned him underwater. I dove in to pull him out and died in the process.

My body spasmed. My face turned purple.

Just before I blacked out, I heard him scream.

“Someone, please save her! I’d give my life!”

But that was one time. Then came three times. Ten. Ninety-nine.

Now, he watched me die without blinking.

He even used me as a prop to please Diana.

A gust of wind snapped me back to reality. I stepped out of the car and began walking forward.

Behind me, his voice rang out, cold and sharp.

“Did you forget something?”

“…Sorry.”

Every time I came back, he made me apologize to Diana.

For making her nauseous.

For dying in front of her.

For existing.

I said it calmly, straightened up and kept walking.

Maybe I was too obedient this time. Tristan’s tone shifted again.

“This car is dirty. Clean it. We’ll ride back with the housekeeper.”

He stepped out, shielding Diana’s belly with his arm, his brow furrowed with concern.

I had been pregnant once, too.

But three months in, the dog I raised barked at Diana and frightened her.

Tristan unleashed two mastiffs dog on me. They tore through me—and the child inside me.

He said, “Children can come again. But if I don’t teach you a lesson, you’ll never learn your place.”

Now I’ll never bear a child again. But at least I’m free.

It was a long, painful walk home.

The two of them entered together, clinging to each other lovingly.

But the housekeeper stopped me at the door, looking uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. The young master said Miss Johnson can’t stand the smell of blood.”

With that, he blasted me with a high-pressure water hose.

The pain was searing. I crumpled to the ground, shaking.

Ten unbearable minutes passed.

At last, I dragged myself into the bathroom—head low, body soaked, barely holding together.

There was only one death left.

The final one.

“Tristan,” Diana whispered, “she’s survived ninety-nine times. If our child could be like that too…”

“I know a lab,” Tristan replied darkly. “They specialize in deprogramming people with… unusual body types.”

“Deprogramming?”

Tristan’s voice dropped even lower.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

A heavy silence fell between them, until Diana broke it with a soft, innocent question.

“Is this mango fresh?”

Seeing me step out of the room, she walked over, holding out the fruit with a sweet smile.

“Could you taste it for me, Winda? I’m pregnant, so I can only eat fresh ones.”

Tristan’s chest visibly rose and fell as he looked at my pale lips.

He remembered—I’m deathly allergic to mangoes.

Today had already been messy enough. He was just about to stop her.

But I didn’t wait.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the mango from her hand and shoved the whole thing into my mouth.

Juice spilled from the corners of my lips as I bit into it desperately.

Perfect.

This should be the last death.

Finally.

But before I could even swallow, Tristan rushed over, grabbed the back of my neck and forced me to spit it out.

Then came a slap—hard and unforgiving—lighting up my cheek with fire.

“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?!”

Ignoring the sting on my cheek, I forced myself to swallow what was left in my mouth.

As his footsteps drew closer again, I closed my eyes.

Then, unexpectedly, his hand cupped my face.

His voice dropped to something almost gentle.

“Spit it out.”

But it was too late.

A wave of suffocation surged up my throat. I started gasping for air, my lungs clawing for oxygen.

At that moment, Diana suddenly began to gag. Loudly.

The second he heard it, Tristan dropped me and turned to her in panic.

“This mango tastes awful…” she whined.

The housekeeper came running, took one look at me and blanched.

“Madam is allergic! Call the doctor!”

Tristan hesitated—just for two seconds—then swept Diana into his arms.

“Take care of Diana first.”

“To the rest of you,” he added coldly, “cover Madam’s mouth and lock her in the bathroom. I don’t want even the scent of mango near Diana.”

The housekeeper was frozen, overwhelmed and sweating.

But I didn’t wait.

I dragged myself up, leaning against the wall for balance and walked to the bathroom.

I locked the door behind me.

Tristan watched my fading figure, brows drawn tight.

He truly didn’t understand me anymore.

“Do you have to die again just to be satisfied?’

“Is this another trick to get my attention?”

But I said nothing.

When I woke again, I sighed in frustration.

The dose had been too small. I was still alive.

Turning my head, I noticed a bottle of allergy meds on the nightstand. A small note lay beneath it.

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

No signature.

But the handwriting—I knew it too well.

A long time ago, we used to leave notes like this for each other.

His reminders would be stuck to the fridge every 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.]

Then one day, the fridge was replaced.

And no one mentioned the notes again.

“Still upset you didn’t die?”

Tristan entered the room, face unreadable.

Only then did I realize—I’d sighed again just moments before.

He walked over, his tone curt.

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

He reached out, hesitating for a second, as if to touch me.

But he stopped himself.

It had been too long.

Forget it.

He pulled his hand back.

“Tristan,” I said quietly, “I’m sorry. I made Diana vomit again.”

I picked up the medicine bottle from the nightstand, poured all the pills into his palm and looked him straight in the eye.

“You can deprogram me. Or just kill me.”

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

My tone was so twisted, so calm in its defiance, that Tristan stood there, stunned for several seconds.

"Winda, are you insane? Do you want to die that badly?"

He suddenly flung the bottle of pills to the floor, his voice raw with fury, jaw clenched tight.

"You want to die? Fine. But I won’t let you."

He froze after the outburst, as if even he couldn’t believe what had just come out of his mouth.

He hadn’t been this angry in years.

He was Tristan—he wasn’t supposed to lose his composure like this.

With a bitter scoff, he loosened his tie and sat down, his expression cold and unreadable.

"Stop throwing tantrums."

"You’re not going to die. We’ve checked everything and we still don’t know what’s wrong with you. I recently acquired a lab. They’ll draw some blood—figure it out."

"Maybe… maybe we can use it for the baby in Diana’s belly..."

Before he could finish, I silently rolled up my sleeve and offered my arm.

"Go ahead. Draw it. The more, the better."

His chest tightened inexplicably.

But he had already promised Diana he would uncover the secret in me—for the sake of their child.

So he swallowed whatever discomfort twisted inside him and called the doctor.

The needle was thick, nearly the width of a baby's finger and plunged deep into my vein.

I didn’t tell Tristan the truth.

From the first time I died for him, I knew I could only die one hundred times.

And once I’ve died in his hands a hundred times, my karmic punishment will be complete.

Then I’d disappear—gone to a place no one can find.

From then on, I would no longer belong to love.

To humanity.

To anyone.

Tristan’s phone rang. He answered without looking at me.

"I’ll pick you up tomorrow and take you to the lab."

The doctor hesitated mid-motion. "Mr. Jagger, with Madam’s current condition… she really needs rest."

Tristan paused, then answered tersely.

"She won’t die."

The doctor broke into a cold sweat and dared not speak again.

But the next day and the one after that, Tristan didn’t come.

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

Couple’s down jackets.

Thermal winter sets.

Wool socks.

A sled.

Unbidden, a memory surfaced.

Once, we had gone to Antarctica together.

Somehow, Diana found out and followed us all the way there—dressed only in a thin sweater, her body trembling, lips blue with cold.

Like a madman, Tristan threw his coat over her shoulders. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he stripped the coat off my back and gave her that too.

Diana sobbed in his arms.

"Winda didn’t want me to come… she threw away all my clothes. But Tristan, I just wanted to see the penguins with you."

He glared at me, full of scorn.

"You’re jealous. Poisonous. Vicious."

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

Then they left me behind.

I died there, in nothing but a single layer of clothing.

Snapping out of the memory, I quietly ordered a pair of couple’s snow goggles for them.

Then I canceled the joint account with Tristan.

A short while later, he sent me a message.

[Just one symbol?]

I didn’t respond.

Soon after, I heard the sound of familiar footsteps outside my door.

"Pack up. We’re going to the lab."

I lowered my eyes and quietly stood.

From behind him, Diana stepped forward, her smile sweet but sickening.

"Winda, it must’ve been so hard for you, giving so much blood for the baby. But if the tests don’t yield results… we might need your help again."

"You’re not going to die anyway. Winda, maybe you could even lie on the operating table and let us deconstruct you. For Tristan’s child, of course."

"Alright," I said calmly. Without hesitation.

Tristan’s expression darkened. His voice was cold.

"We’ll talk about that later."

A flicker of jealousy crossed Diana’s face—but it vanished in an instant.

The three of us got into the car.

Tristan turned on the music.

The silence between us was louder than any song.