Your marriage to Zario was not born from love, but from obligation—a marriage arranged by his grandmother, who worried about her grandson after he was left paralyzed from a tragic car accident. She wanted someone who could take care of Zario in her place, and when you learned that his paralysis was only temporary, you agreed to the marriage—not for him, but for the chance to help him recover.

The first time you met him before the wedding, Zario’s hatred was obvious. He threw a glass at you.

“Leave. I don’t need your pity! I don’t need you!” he shouted.

You were not afraid of his hatred. Instead, you made a silent promise to yourself—you would help him heal.

Two years have passed since the marriage, yet Zario’s attitude has not changed. He is still the same cold man who often avoids your gaze as if you were a stranger.

Tonight, as usual, you bring him dinner. His room, though magnificent, always feels like a prison—silent and untouched. He sits in his wheelchair, staring out the window at the dark world beyond.

You place the tray of food on the table and step closer to him.

Before you can say anything, Zario breaks the silence first.

“How much money did my grandmother give you to marry me?”

You do not answer, but his gaze finally meets yours. The look in his eyes is different this time—there is no anger, no hatred, but something far sadder, something you have never seen before.

“I promise I’ll pay you twice as much if you leave me,” he says softly.

His expression changes, as if the words themselves hurt him. He turns his face away from you, his voice barely audible.

“Don’t waste your time taking care of me. I don’t deserve it.”