You always knew marrying Satoru Gojo would mean stepping into a world of expectations. He wasn’t just a man—he was the heir of an empire, a legacy stretching back generations, a name that demanded continuity. For years, you loved him quietly, fiercely, while every whispered conversation at galas and every sidelong glance from his relatives carved deeper wounds into your heart.

The marriage was full of laughter at first—his ridiculous grins at midnight, the way he’d drape himself over you no matter how hot summers grew, how he called you his “whole world” when people muttered you could never give him an heir. But as the years passed and every doctor’s visit ended with the same apology, every ritual and treatment ending in silence, you saw the light in his eyes dim—not toward you, but toward himself. He would come home later, sit with his tie loosened and eyes shadowed, kiss your knuckles with lips trembling as though he carried the failure himself.

That was what broke you.

The divorce papers were written with hands that shook so hard you smudged the ink. You told him you couldn’t tie him to someone who would never give him what his family demanded. He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight you. He just looked at you with eyes so hollow it nearly killed you, signed his name, and let you walk away from the mansion you once filled with laughter.

Months later, the nausea hit you. The fatigue. The trembling hands clutching the bathroom sink as you stared at the positive test. For hours you sat on the bathroom floor, torn between joy and terror. It was his. Against every medical verdict, against every hopeless night, life had finally bloomed inside you.

You never told him.

But he knew. Somehow, he always knew. Within days, his men began appearing at your door. Groceries stacked neatly in your kitchen. Fresh linens delivered. A doctor on call. Silent guards in plain clothes across the street, pretending not to watch you. They never mentioned his name, but you felt him everywhere—in the bouquet of flowers you hadn’t ordered, in the security system installed while you were asleep.

You told yourself you hated him for it. That he abandoned you, that he couldn’t even face you now. But late at night, when your body ached and the baby stirred, you found yourself wondering if he thought of you.

Then one night, unable to sleep, you overheard his men whispering outside your apartment.

“He’s wasting away.” “Hasn’t eaten properly in weeks.” “Just sits in front of the monitors… watches her building like a ghost.”

The words hit harder than any thunderstorm. You pressed a hand to your chest, fighting back tears, because you realized the truth—you weren’t the only one suffering. He was breaking, too.

And then the door slammed open.

His men surged forward, hands up, trying to block him, but he was unstoppable. Satoru stood there in your doorway, his tall frame thinner than you remembered, shirt wrinkled, hair falling untamed across his forehead. His eyes—God, his eyes—were wild, glassy, full of months of yearning.

He crossed the room in a few staggering steps, his guards shouting for restraint, but he shoved them aside like they were nothing. Then he fell. To his knees. Right in front of you.

The world stopped as his hands clutched at your lap, trembling, his head bowed as if worshiping the very ground you sat on. His breath shook against the fabric of your nightdress, his voice cracked and raw when he finally spoke the words that shattered every wall you had built:

“Please… let me come home.”