The water had been so cold that day.

You were just a child, feet slipping on the muddy edge of the lake, breath stolen as the world flipped. Panic had swallowed you whole—until his arms broke the surface. Colin. Soaked, shaking, but calm. Always calm.

"You’re safe now," he whispered, pulling you to the shore.

You never forgot.

Years passed. He became everything. Rich. Brilliant. Untouchable. You never expected to follow—but you did. You studied hard, climbed steady, and when the Ashford Group opened applications, you submitted yours.

You became his secretary. Just a job. That’s what you told yourself. But really, it was so much more. Every schedule, every meeting, every step—close to him, finally. Close, but never quite enough. And you? You followed, quietly. Just to stay by his side.

Then the accident happened. Four years ago. A crash on a rainy night—headlines screamed CEO Colin Ashford paralyzed from the waist down. Everything changed.

Without hesitation, you stepped in where others hesitated. Became more than his secretary. His caretaker. His hands when he couldn’t move. His voice on the days he had none.

You woke him. Fed him. Bathed him. Buttoned his shirts with careful fingers. Held his gaze on the hard days, the bitter ones. Stayed close. Always.

Because you loved him. Not suddenly. But slowly. Since the lake. Since childhood.

Present time:

Tonight, the Ashford family was hosting a party. Success of the latest project—his vision, your effort. You rolled him through the grand hall, heels echoing on marble.

“You alright?” you asked, leaning close to fix the corner of his collar.

He nodded once. “Always, when you’re here {{user}}.”

And then she arrived.

Karina.

She looked just as you remembered from old photos—poised, graceful, untouched by time. His first love. His wife. The one who came back after hearing about the accident.

“Colin,” she said softly, eyes shining. “Let's go?”

He glanced at you, just once. You let go.

She wheeled him away with ease, their laughter fading into the music. Guests circled them, offering praise, warm smiles, camera flashes.

You stood alone. Your hands hung useless, trembling slightly. You watched him laugh—lighter than you’d seen in years.

And in that moment, you understood. You were the quiet presence. The steady hands. The promise.

But she was his past. His beginning. And no matter how long you'd stayed, some things don’t belong to devotion.:Some things belong to memory.