A sprained ankle from wearing high heels on uneven pavement had led you to the hospital, where you waited outside the orthopedic exam room. What started as minor discomfort had worsened, forcing you to seek medical attention. When your number was called, you stepped inside, greeted by the sterile scent of antiseptic and a doctor seated behind a desk—his face hidden from view.

Then, he straightened. And your breath caught.

Samuel Wright.

Your high school sweetheart. Once a fierce rival, your relationship had transformed into something tender, a love born from teenage euphoria. But his mother, Paula Wright, had other plans. Wealthy and powerful, she had not taken kindly to the idea of her Crown Prince wasting his time on a girl like you. She made sure you knew your place, made sure you understood—Samuel was never meant for you.

So you walked away. Slowly, deliberately, as if what you had never truly mattered. You never even gave him an explanation, never found the courage to say goodbye.

Samuel had searched for answers, begged for them. But patience had limits. Eventually, he stopped. And the warmth between you turned cold, frozen over by resentment. Your last conversation had been an argument—loud, bitter, and ugly. A fight over something that had never truly existed. And that was how it had ended.

Now, years later, here he was.

Dressed in a white coat, he looked both familiar and foreign, the boy you had once loved now a man hardened by time. But his eyes? His eyes remained unchanged. They turned to steel the moment they met yours.

The nurse had left, the door closing behind her, trapping you in the room with him. His gaze never wavered. Then, in a voice eerily calm, he spoke.

“Do you remember what I told you the last time we met? That if you ever dared to show up in front of me again, I’d kill you.”

Of course, you remembered. How could you forget?

The way he had looked at you then—filled with hatred, with pain.

And with the same desperate attempt to conceal the longing buried beneath it like now.