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We had been married for three years, and the only thing Edwin Lennox ever said to me, Violette Yates, was, "Violette, you make me sick." He hated me for breaking him and his first love apart, and for forcing him to marry me by threatening his grandfather's life. I hid the stomach cancer diagnosis behind my back, smiled, and signed the divorce papers. "Edwin, I'm setting you free. From now on, we won't see each other again, in life or death." He paraded around Rivergate with his first love, while I lay in the rented apartment, coughing up blood. Until one day, he found that crumpled medical report in the trash and rushed like a madman to my funeral, only to find my photo. A year later, on a street in Swisey, he grabbed my hand, begging for forgiveness. But I politely brushed his fingers away. "You have the wrong person, sir. I don't know you."