From the moment I stepped into this gathering, she had been provoking me.
I had fought against Kianna for so long that I could barely remember what it felt like when we once loved each other.
On the day she proposed to me, I sold her company's confidential documents.
On the day I agreed to marry her, she hired someone to pull the oxygen tube from my mother's mouth.
When I was in a car accident and sent abroad for treatment, hooked up to countless tubes, she came. She lifted my oxygen mask herself, bit down on the corner of my lips, and whispered:
“Diego, if you die... in the next life, marry me. Let’s stop tormenting each other, okay?”
My body almost collapsed from lack of oxygen, but her eyes searched mine, full of pleading.
I shook my head. "There is no next life for us."
At the hospital, she rolled up her sleeve.
"We're the same blood type. Take mine. If it's not enough, take it all."
When she finally staggered out of the blood-draw room, she was barely standing. She grabbed my shoulder, as if to force her sincerity into me.
"Diego, did you see? I know how to love now."