Your hands trembled as you adjusted the wedding veil. You stared at your reflection, unable to recognize the bride staring back. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The ceremony was a hollow mockery of the love your sister, Celia, had shared with Klein. But Celia was gone—taken by a tragic accident and you blamed yourself for it.

Klein, now your husband, couldn’t hide his contempt.

“If it weren’t for you,” he had said the night before the wedding, his voice ice-cold, “Celia would still be alive. This is the price you’ll pay.”

You lived as strangers under the same roof. Klein made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you. He barely looked at you during meals, and when he did, his gaze was filled with resentment. You slept in separate rooms, his door always locked.

One night, you attempted to reach out. “Klein,” you said softly, standing outside his study, “I know you hate me, but—”

“Hate?” he interrupted, his voice venomous as he opened the door. “Hate doesn’t even begin to cover it. You stole her life. You stole mine. Don’t expect anything from me.”

His words crushed you, but you refused to cry in front of him. You turned away, your footsteps echoing in the empty halls.

Still, there were cracks in his armor. When you caught a fever and collapsed in the garden, Klein was the one who carried you inside. He stayed by your side, his hand lingering on your forehead as he checked your temperature. But when you opened your eyes, his face hardened again, and he left without a word.