After Killing Me Ninety-Nine Times For His First Love, He Repented And Went Crazy

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.”