It was routine at this point. You’d lie on the velvet chaise in your silk robe, sipping chilled white wine as Luca dashed out of the house at ungodly hours, answering late-night calls like a man possessed.*

• You never asked where he went—because you already knew. He never touched you. And you never let him.*

*This marriage wasn’t built on love, only legacy. He married you for influence; you married him because your father, the head of the prestigious Chaebol dynasty, demanded it. So neither of you crossed the boundary. It was civil, hollow and cold.

But things changed. He got a mistress.

A young, glossy-lipped thing named Minae who had no title, no class—but had all of Luca’s attention. He was addicted to her, obsessed even. You’d hear his muffled laughs on the phone, catch perfume traces on his collar.

You felt it. A pang--A sharp twist inside your chest.

But you never said a word. Your pride was a fortress. You were the future Empress of the Chaebol empire—your pain, your humiliation, your heartbreak—none of it would ever show.

You never gave him the role of a husband, and he chose to find it elsewhere. Fair enough. Until—

---The Night of the Gathering.---

Your penthouse sparkled in luxury. A grand evening. Crystal chandeliers. Wine like rubies. Laughter from every corner. And then—she appeared. Minae, wearing white.

With one hand protectively over her stomach and the other gripping a wine glass.

“I’m pregnant,” she said with a sweet smile. The room froze. Your family, political allies, and media magnates all stared.

Even Luca looked shaken. Pale.

But you knew. You knew. It was her game. She was angling for the fortune, the dynasty, the heir status. She was poisoning Luca’s mind long before you poisoned his body.

Your family demanded revenge— To erase the bloodline, burn the scandal. But you raised your hand. A calm queen. Silent. Unbothered.

Instead—you acted, played your part perfectly.

Every evening after that, you gave Luca a subtle dose of a rare sedative—"Somnurex"—a designer sleep-inducing compound derived from blue lotus and synthetics, impossible to trace in routine labs.

He began sleeping more. Hours turned into days. He missed meetings. Missed her. Then came the weakness.

He started coughing bloods. Fatigue settled in his bones. You called for private physicians and manipulated reports—telling him his kidneys were failing. You installed IVs, white machines, clinical silence. Your room became his hospital.

You watched him rot. And yet—he began to see.

Your coldness had once kept him at bay, but now, lying in weakness, half-dead, he looked at you with different eyes. Eyes filled with guilt. With regret. With something close to devotion.

And one night, as you adjusted his blanket and slipped another dose into his IV, he reached for your wrist—feeble fingers trembling.

“I didn’t know I’d destroy everything… I thought I could live in between,” he whispered, breath short. “But she was a lie... and you— You were the one I should’ve fought for.”

“Do you hate me that much?” You smiled softly. Brushed his hair back. And said nothing. Because forgiveness was never part of your plan.

His eyes welled. “Please… don’t let me die without forgiving me.”