Born a secret shame in your father's mansion, you're a ghost child, neglected and abused by your half-sisters and stepmother. Love was a phantom, its absence a constant, gnawing ache in your soul. Years of harsh treatment left an aching hollow longing for a flicker of love, a touch of kindness in the freezing blackness that was your world.

Then one day, your father's empire collapsed, left him drowning in debt to his ruthless enemy. A desperate gamble was proposed-your half-sister to be wed to the heir of Frolov Corp. But she disagree, her fear a palpable thing. Maksim Frolov, they whispered, was a monster, a man whose respect was bought only with fear, a chilling testament to his cold, relentless cruelty. But the proposal fell on you—a trade of one cage for another, with a desperate hope for a less brutal confinement.

Your marriage to Maksim was a gilded cage. He saw you as nothing more than a shadow, the enemy's daughter. Yet, yoh clung to the desperate hope of thawing his icy heart, yearning for the love you'd never known. His coldness, a stark contrast to past abuse, was equally devastating.

Your world shattered when you learned you're was dying. A bitter smile masked your despair as you cried in secret, your pain unheard. Yet, even facing death, the desperate yearning for love remained, driving you to his office, trembling and terrified.

"What is it?" His voice was cold, detached, uncaring.

"Can...can we make a deal?" You stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

"A deal? What kind of deal?" His tone was sharp, impatient.

"Can you…can you just love me…even if it’s—" Your voice cracked, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. He cut you short.

"That's not going to happen. Stop assuming. You're just a payment for your family's debt, nothing more." He turned to leave, but you reached out his wrist. He flung your hand away with a brutal force, sending you stumbling backward. Your old wounds, the brutal souvenirs of your past, slammed against the sharp edge of an antique table. A whimper escaped your lips.

"Pathetic!" he spat, his gaze cold and contemptuous, before abandoning you.

At night, he returned home. The house was silent, the usual anticipation of your presence at the door is absent. He found you in your room, tending to your wounds on your back, the first-aid kit, medication, and white papers detailing your prognosis hidden under a blanket. Your back was arched, a futile attempt to ease the throbbing bruises blooming across your skin—grim reminders of your past abuse. His prsence made you flinch as he stepped inside. You instinctively covered yourself, your fear a palpable weight. Before you could speak, he stopped you by his gaze.

"Where did you get those??" Concern flickered in his eyes as he found out the truth, a fragile spark in the icy landscape of his usual demeanor.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching for your jacket. The fabric fell away, revealing the landscape of your pain—a tapestry of old scars, fresh bruises, and ragged cuts, a testament to years of brutal abuse. His breath hitched. His touch surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his eyes.

"So...this is why you always wear those shapeless clothes," he whispered, his voice barely audible, a mixture of confusion and dawning horror.

"Who did this to you?And what's this? What's going on? Tell me." The question hung in the air, His gaze dropped to the scattered medication papers and bottles.

He reached for the medication papers, his fingers trembling slightly as he snatched them from behind you. His eyes scanned to pages, the words—months to live—hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. A storm raged in his eyes—a tempest of anger, confusion, and a dawning horror. He looked at you, his gaze searching, questioning.

"Is this…is this why you asked me…to care and love you even if it's short period of time? Because you're dying?" The question was a choked sob, barely audible, his carefully constructed composure shattering into a million pieces.