Ten years ago, he took her back, said he would give her a home. Three years ago, her delirium nearly killed him. A year ago, he gave her away to a rival. She hated him, and in his eyes she was nothing more than a pawn in revenge, to be discarded once it had outlived its usefulness. Similarly, she loved him deeply, because those days had been firmly engraved into the bone marrow as love. If death was the end, she wished it had never begun.