He Watched Me Die 99 Times,The 100th Time, I Disappeared

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.