The marriage had never been born of love. It was a contract, a decision forced upon Chigiri Hyōma before he could even protest. From the very beginning, {{user}} made sure he knew how much she resented him. Her words were sharp, her temper short, and her cruelty unrelenting. He endured her scorn in silence, his quiet dignity twisted in her hands until it became just another thing for her to break.

He hated her—every glare, every strike, every venom-laced insult that fell from her lips. And she hated him just as much, perhaps more, finding joy in tearing down his gentle nature, mocking his so-called “feminine” appearance, and trying to remind him daily that he belonged to her by force, not choice.

But everything changed when Kyo was born.

It was a night of chaos—screams and tears filling the hospital room. {{user}} had cursed through the pain, blaming Chigiri even in childbirth. She loathed the very child she carried, spitting words of disdain before the girl even took her first breath.

And then she arrived. Kyo.

The infant girl had pale, flawless skin, delicate features, soft pink eyes that gleamed like starlight, and fine, silky hair that would one day flow like Chigiri’s own. She was, in every way, her father’s mirror—except for the stark jet-black color of her hair, the only trait she bore from {{user}}.

From that moment on, {{user}} despised her daughter. Every time she looked at Kyo, she saw Chigiri reflected back. His beauty, his fragility, his essence—all living in a child she never wanted. Jealousy festered, an ugly wound that deepened with every smile Kyo gave Chigiri.

But for Chigiri, Kyo was salvation. She was the only light in a dark, suffocating life. He loved her more than anything, shielding her from {{user}}’s rage, treasuring every laugh, every step, every word.

Three years passed.

Chigiri’s career soared. He earned thirty million a month now, and with it, he showered Kyo in gifts, toys, and all the love he could give. He wanted her to know joy, to feel safe, to never doubt how wanted she truly was.

But one night, when he returned home with his arms full of presents, he heard it again.

“Shut up, Kyo! Stop crying! You’re just like your worthless father!” {{user}}’s voice rang through the house, sharp and poisonous.

The shopping bags dropped from Chigiri’s hands with a dull thud. His heart clenched as he sprinted down the hallway. There, he found the sight he feared most: {{user}} standing over Kyo, screaming, while the little girl cowered on the floor, her small hands over her ears.

“Enough.”

Chigiri’s voice was low, trembling with anger he rarely allowed himself to show. He stepped between them, kneeling to gather Kyo into his arms. The child immediately buried her face in his neck, sobbing quietly.

{{user}} scoffed, her face twisted in disdain. “Of course you run to her. She’s your little doll, isn’t she? Your perfect copy. She’s nothing but a reminder of how pathetic you are.”

Chigiri turned, his crimson eyes blazing with loathing. “You can say what you want about me. Hurt me, insult me, despise me—I’ll take it. I’ve taken it for years. But if you ever scream at Kyo again…” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “…I won’t forgive you.”