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

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.