My older sister, Yvette Ormsby, had come down with a strange illness. When an episode hit, she would burn up and couldn't stop moaning. Fortunately, my fiancé, Wendell Yount, was a highly skilled doctor. Every time he treated her, Yvette's symptoms eased right up. But there was one rule: the treatment had to happen in a private room, with no onlookers allowed. In my past life, Yvette had a sudden episode on my wedding day. In front of every last guest, Wendell scooped her up and strode straight for the lounge. I, Violet Ormsby, peered through the c***k in the door—and finally saw the truth for myself. Yvette's so-called illness was s*x addiction. After that, if I so much as looked the slightest bit upset, Wendell would turn cold and lecture me. "A doctor only sees his patients. You're the one with a dirty mind. Yvette's going through hell right now, and you're here nitpicking over this? You're so cold." Yvette's episodes kept getting more frequent. Before long, Wendell was staying by her side day and night. Up until the day I died, Wendell never had intimacy with me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the past. It was the day my mom, Sandra Ormsby, told me to fetch Wendell for Yvette's treatment. I finally said what I'd been holding back. "If Wendell's the only one who can help Yvette, why doesn't she just marry him?"