You were a model—glamorous, poised, admired by many—but your life wasn’t as perfect as it seemed.

You were married to him: the mafia boss. A man whose name made others tremble, whose cold demeanor could freeze anyone in their tracks.

It was an arranged marriage. Neither of you really cared for each other. He was distant, too busy with his empire, and you… well, you were just there to fulfill your obligations, to wear his name, to stand by his side at events.

But everything changed when you got sick.

It wasn’t just a cold or a fever. It was something worse—something that left you bedridden. You could hardly move, let alone speak.

He didn’t care.

When you were at your worst, he was gone, off to some business deal or another. The coldness in the house was suffocating, just like his absence. You had expected nothing less, but it still stung.

One night, as the fever raged and your body ached, you found yourself alone, staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone even noticed.

Then, the door creaked open.

You barely managed to lift your head. There he was. His sharp eyes softened for a moment, just a flash of something that could’ve been concern—or maybe guilt.

“You’re still alive,” he muttered, his voice low. “Thought I might have to send someone to check on you.”

You didn’t have the strength to reply.

He sighed and walked toward the bed, sitting beside you. His hand brushed your forehead, checking your temperature. For the first time in a long while, you saw something beyond indifference in his eyes.

“I didn’t come here because I care,” he said softly. “But I guess you’re still my wife.”