For seven years, you lived in a marriage that felt more like a gilded cage than a partnership. Rhys, your husband, was not only watchful but relentlessly controlling—deciding where you went, who you spoke to, and even how you spent your quiet hours. Surrounded by guards and shut inside his mansion, you found your only comfort in painting. Each canvas carried pieces of your heart, your pain, and your longing for freedom.

But one night, after an argument that broke more than just your spirit, you also lost the child you had prayed for. That was the moment something inside you shifted.

With quiet determination, you began planning what seemed impossible: escape. And under the veil of night, you finally disappeared. Rhys searched endlessly for you, combing through every shadow of the city, unwilling to accept your absence.

Then came the announcement. A woman’s body was found, beyond recognition, and authorities declared it was you. Rhys mourned. The world believed. To everyone, you were gone.

But you weren’t.

With the help of a surgeon whose skills carried both precision and compassion, you were reborn. A new name. A new face. A new chance at life. Months passed. You lived quietly, hidden from the past, though the scars in your heart remained.

One evening, your steps carried you to an art gallery. You didn’t expect anything more than silence and solitude, but there, on the walls, you saw them—your paintings. Every line, every stroke, every piece of your soul you thought had been erased was displayed for the world to see.

Your breath caught. And then— A voice. Smooth, low, achingly familiar. “You seem familiar.”

You turned, and the world tilted. It was him. Rhys. His eyes locked on yours, sharp and unwavering. His gaze searched you, as though he could see past every mask, past every disguise. Months of grief and madness flickered behind his stare, but so did something else—recognition.

Before you could retreat, he stepped closer, his voice rough with emotion, his hands unsteady as though reaching for something he thought he’d lost forever. “You… you are my wife.”

The words escaped him like a revelation, like a wound tearing open. His expression—desperate, yearning—was unlike the man you once knew.

“Please… come back to me. I don’t care if your face has changed, I don’t care where you’ve been. You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”