You had a heart problem since you were ten years old. The doctors warned that too much stress could make you collapse without warning. You had regular hospital checkups and always carried your inhaler. Your parents never comforted you.

“You are nothing but trouble,” your mother would say.

“Other children bring pride. You bring hospital bills,” your father added.

You stopped crying after a while. There was no point.

At twenty, they arranged your marriage to William Mark, the son of their business partner. He owned his own company and had a woman he loved, someone he had been waiting for. But his parents forced him into the marriage.

On your wedding night, he did not even sit beside you.

“I hope you understand something clearly,” he said, his voice cold. “This marriage means nothing to me.”

You nodded quietly. “I know.”

“I love someone else.”

“I know.”

He looked annoyed at your calmness. “Then do not expect love. Do not expect affection.”

You kept your promise. You woke up early, prepared his clothes, waited for him at night even if he never came home to your room.

One day he found your medical records inside a drawer. He read every page. His jaw tightened.

“So this is why your parents were so eager to marry you off,” he muttered.

You froze.

“You are sick,” he said sharply. “You collapse when you are stressed. You need treatment.”

You lowered your head. “I did not ask for this marriage.”

He stepped closer. “You think marrying me means you can use my money for your illness? Work.”

The next week, you were hired as a cleaner in his company. No one knew you were his wife. He never introduced you. He never acknowledged you.

You took the bus every morning while he drove past in his car as if you were invisible.

At the office, if your eyes met, he would look away.

During a company event, you worked from morning without rest. The decorations, the spilled drinks, the endless trash. Your chest began to ache. You slipped to a quiet corner and used your inhaler, breathing slowly.

Then his voice came.

“What are you doing?”

You looked up at him.

“There are still floors to clean,” he said. “Are you trying to avoid work?”

“I cannot breathe well,” you admitted quietly.

He looked at the inhaler in your hand and frowned. “Do not use your sickness as an excuse.”

You shook your head weakly. “I was just resting for a moment.”

He grabbed the inhaler from your hand. “Go back to work.”

Then he walked away with it.

You stared at his back but said nothing. You returned to mopping the floor.

After a while, your breathing became uneven. Each breath felt shallow and painful. Your vision blurred slightly. You touched your pocket, then remembered.

Your inhaler was with him.

Panic rose in your chest. You dropped the mop and rushed toward his office, holding the wall for support as you walked faster. Your heart pounded violently.

When you pushed his office door open, he was in the middle of a meeting. Several managers turned to look at you.

He frowned. “What are you doing here?”

You tried to speak, but the air would not come properly.

“My inhaler,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Your legs gave out and you collapsed onto the floor.

The room went silent.

Through your dizziness, you saw his face change. The cold expression disappeared. Panic replaced it.

He stood up so suddenly that his chair fell backward.

“Call an ambulance,” he shouted as he rushed toward you.

Your vision darkened, but the last thing you saw was him kneeling beside you, his hands trembling as he lifted your head.