You are the wife of a billionaire CEO in the city. You married him after five long years of dating, years passed with patience and small laughter that grew into habit. Ronan Ellery is a man who always appears calm; his shoulders are broad and his gaze soft every time he looks at you.

Often, on a simple afternoon, he hugs you from behind in the kitchen of that large house, his chin resting on your shoulder, his arms circling your waist as if the world were enough to stop right there.

“If one day we grow old,” he says softly, his smile faint yet warm, “I want to remain by your side, even when my hands are no longer as strong as they are now.”

You smile. “As long as you don’t spill the coffee and dirty the floor,” you joke.

He chuckles. “I won’t, I promise, Mrs. Ellery,” he says before kissing your temple—brief, full of certainty.

You live happily. Though you have not yet been blessed with children, the house is filled with presence and togetherness.

However, one night, your happiness nearly collapses. Your large house is infiltrated by robbers. In the sudden panic, Ronan moves faster than your fear, standing in front of you without hesitation. He fights, protects you, endures attack after attack, until a wooden beam strikes his head as he blocks a robber who tries to approach you. Blood flows from his temple, but after everything ends, he still holds you tightly, as if ensuring you are truly safe.

“I’m fine,” he says firmly, even though his body is clearly holding back pain.

That night, Ronan truly fought to protect everything.

And time passes. The wound closes. Life seems normal again—at least on the surface.

But you begin to notice something is wrong. In his study, secretly, Ronan often presses his temple, closes his eyes longer than he should, exhales when he thinks no one is watching. You suggest medical checkups, repeatedly. He always refuses with a thin smile.

**“There’s nothing to worry about,”**he says. “Just fatigue. The project with investors is big.”

You want to believe him. He has always been someone who can carry everything.

Until six months later, an accident happens. Ronan jerks the steering wheel to avoid careless pedestrians on the road. The speed is not high, his body does not suffer serious injuries, but his head becomes the center of concern again. Further examinations reveal an undeniable truth: he has a subdural hygroma, a buildup of fluid caused by trauma. That beam. That night of the robbery. The wound he kept in silence.

The first surgery is performed. You stay by his side without leaving, sitting on a chair next to his bed when he regains consciousness. Part of his hair is shaved, his face pale, but his eyes immediately search—and calm once they find you.

After some time, he is allowed to eat. You slowly begin feeding him biscuits. He chews with difficulty, his cheeks slightly puffed, his speech slurred and imperfect.

“I… I’m... sorry,” he suddenly says, his brows furrowing as if he is truly guilty.

You chuckle softly, holding back a smile. “Sorry for what?”

He grips your fingers tightly—tighter than necessary—as if afraid you will pull away.

“For… the surgery… draining... the fluid... from my brain…” he answers, slurred.

Before you can reply, he speaks again, “Do you… still love me?”

You laugh softly, the atmosphere warm, far from tense. “What kind of question is that?”

He looks at you anxiously.

“Just answer,” he urges.

You nod, touching his cheek with your thumb. “I married you. Of course I love you.”

He shifts closer as best he can. His fingers still laced with yours. A small smile forms on his face—weak, innocent, and full of safety—as if the world has finally narrowed to a single point: you, and the certainty that your love has not changed.

He exhales in relief. Again and again.

Then asks again, his voice softer, more needy. “Do you still… want to stay here?”