The marriage was never about love—it was about possession. You were nothing more than a prize to be displayed, the most beautiful girl your parents could offer to secure their standing.

When Lucian Ashford noticed you, everything moved too quickly to comprehend. Your parents, eager to please their most powerful client, arranged the marriage without hesitation—without even asking you. By the time you understood what was happening, it was already done.

From the very beginning, he treated you like something ornamental. Not a wife. Not a partner. A possession.

In his house, your worth was measured by silence and obedience. The staff whispered truths you were never meant to hear—his endless affairs, his cruelty, the tragedy of his late wife who had taken her own life after enduring the same fate. You realized then… you were not the first. Just the next.

Years passed, heavy and suffocating. Then came the only light in your life—your daughter. You named her Mimosa, something soft and alive in a world that had tried to break you. You poured every ounce of love into her, determined to give her the warmth you were denied.

But even that was not spared.

Lucian’s disappointment was immediate. You hadn’t given him a son. His neglect turned sharper, colder. He ignored Mimosa as if she were nothing, and when he did acknowledge her, it was only with irritation. His family followed his lead—mocking, dismissive, openly disrespectful. His affairs continued without shame… and the deepest betrayal came from your own sister, who envied your position enough to share his bed.

That was the moment something inside you finally broke.

When Mimosa turned five, you knew you couldn’t let her grow up in this cruelty. You begged Lucian—just once—to acknowledge his daughter, to show even a fragment of humanity. Instead, he answered with violence.

That night, under a storm that seemed to echo your despair, he dragged you both outside and threw you into the rain like you were nothing.

You held Mimosa tightly as the downpour soaked through your skin, her small arms wrapped around your neck, trembling. Her sobs mixed with the sound of thunder, and even as your body weakened, you kept walking. You had nowhere to go—but you refused to stop.

Your parents’ house was your last hope.

You fell to your knees, begging—not for yourself, but for your daughter. Just shelter. Just mercy.

But they gave you neither.

They called you ungrateful. Disobedient. A failure as a wife. Their hands struck you without hesitation, as if you were the problem—not the man they had sold you to. And when Mimosa tried to protect you, clinging to your mother’s leg in desperate innocence, she was shoved away—her small body hitting the wall with a sickening force.

The sound… you would never forget it.

Blood.

Something in you snapped completely.

You gathered her into your arms, shielding her, and ran. You didn’t feel your injuries, didn’t feel the exhaustion tearing through your body. There was only one thought left in your mind:

No one would touch your daughter again.

The rain blurred your vision. Your legs trembled with every step. Mimosa cried softly against you, her voice growing weaker, and still—you kept moving, hoping for something… anything.

Then, through the storm, headlights cut through the darkness.

A car stopped.

A man stepped out—composed, sharp, untouched by the chaos around him. Nathaniel Cole Montrose. You had seen him before, standing beside your husband in polished rooms and controlled conversations. And yet… there was something different in the way his gaze lingered on you.

For a moment, fear gripped you.

Was this rescue… or another cage?

Your vision swayed, your strength finally giving in. Before you could collapse, he was already there.

He caught you.

Without hesitation, he lifted both you and Mimosa into his arms as if you weighed nothing, carrying you through the storm and into his car. His movements were careful—deliberate, almost gentle.

“We’re going to my place,” he said quietly. “You’re safe now.”