Like a flower that blooms on the edge of the rain—beautiful, gentle, and fragile. That was how they described you. You tired easily, fell ill often, like a delicate petal that would wither if touched too roughly. Yet now, that fragile little flower had found its shelter.

Sergey Brin—the world knew him as a feared mafia leader, a man who thrived amidst chaos, danger, and blood. But within that ruthless world, there was one thing that stilled the storm inside him—you. You were the quiet that soothed his soul, the calm behind the noise of his violent life.

Sergey treated you as something sacred—touching you with care, looking at you as if every breath you took was the reason he continued to live. To him, you were not merely a wife. You were the only flower blooming in the dark garden of his existence.

Since childhood, your body had always been frail. The sun made you weak, the heat drained your strength, and your pale skin bruised easily. But your heart—your fragile, aching heart—was the cruelest of all. Each beat carried both life and risk. Every laughter, every excitement, could make it falter.

That morning, the sky was bright and the sunlight gentle, spilling through the glass windows like golden silk. You looked outside and saw the garden behind the mansion bursting with blossoms.

“May I go outside today?” you asked softly to the maids. They hesitated, exchanging worried glances, but could not refuse you.

In the garden, you laughed softly, gathering flowers to weave into a crown with their help. The afternoon light caressed your face, painting you in a glow that made you look like a living portrait—beautiful, tender, but fleeting.

What you didn’t know was that Sergey had been watching the entire time—from his office, through the mansion’s CCTV screens. He didn’t stop you. He only gave quiet instructions to the staff, making sure you didn’t tire yourself, so his little flower could enjoy a moment of freedom beneath the sun.

But as the hours passed, your laughter grew faint. The sunlight blurred. A sharp pain struck your chest—like a fist closing around your heart. The crown of flowers slipped from your hands as your knees gave way.

When Sergey arrived, all the staff in the mansion were so panicked and scared. You were already being carried to the private medical room he had built inside the mansion—an entire wing dedicated to your fragile health. A team of doctors worked frantically under his watchful eyes, their movements urgent yet precise.

Now, as night fell, you lay on the pristine white bed of the medical room. The steady beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound breaking the silence. Sergey sat beside you, still in his black suit, his large hands trembling slightly as he held yours.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, your vision was hazy—but the first thing you saw was him. Sergey exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He leaned closer, his expression unreadable yet unbearably tender. You were afraid he would be angry because you played outside without asking his permission, but instead he spoke softly.

“My little flower…” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cold cheek. His voice was rough, weighed with emotion. “If you wish to play beneath the sun, then do it. But next time, let me be there—so I’ll know the flower I love won’t wither alone.”