It had been Li Jian Hao’s grandfather’s dying wish that he marry you. After the tragic accident that had taken your entire family and left you mute, his grandfather adopted you, raising you as his own.

On your wedding night, Jian Hao made his position painfully clear.

“I’m marrying you only to fulfill my grandfather’s last wish,” he said, cold and unyielding. “Don’t expect anything more.”

He had never liked you—not since childhood, when you first came to live under the Li family roof. Though a small part of him had begun to care over the years, he buried it beneath resentment and pride. His father had died young, leaving the weight of the Li family empire on his shoulders. His mother demanded perfection, molding him into a man who saw vulnerability as weakness. Emotions became foreign, twisted, dangerous.

Years passed.

Now he was the chairman of Li Corporation—powerful, feared. At home, his coldness had deepened into something merciless. You lived confined in his luxurious condo, a gilded cage. Small mistakes earned harsh punishments—standing in the rain for hours, being forced out of the car to walk alone. Friends, a life of your own, a voice beyond the silence fate had dealt you—he would allow none.

You had tried endlessly to please him. Three long years of marriage had taught you that nothing you did mattered.

Tonight was his birthday. You baked a cake, anticipating a small acknowledgment, a fleeting warmth. Midnight passed. Later, you checked your phone. Sora, his business partner, had posted a photo of them together, celebrating. Alone, you had waited.

His mother had always favored Sora, urging Jian Hao to divorce you. Rumors whispered of Sora’s closeness to him. He indulged her at banquets, gifted her attentions you never received. Yet you still prepared a surprise.

When he finally returned, you sat at the dining table. The candles had long since burned out.

“Why are you awake?” he asked, his voice sharp, detached.

You signed softly, your hands trembling: I baked a cake for you. Your eyes, full of hope, met his.

He read your hands, understanding every movement. He had learned sign language too well.

“You wasted your time on something so meaningless… typical,” he said, disdain curling his lips.

Silently, you handed him a small box. Inside lay a divorce agreement.

Anger flashed in his eyes at the sight.

You signed again, slowly, deliberately: This is your birthday gift. We can divorce. You can marry Sora.

His expression darkened instantly. In a swift, controlled motion, he grabbed you and shoved you back onto the couch. His touch was cold, unyielding, yet charged with a raw, barely contained force.

“I’ve spent my whole life protecting you,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous. “And you… just give yourself away like this? Or is this some kind of tantrum?”