The gala was winding down, the last few guests drifting out of the lavish ballroom as the night deepened.

The hours of mingling, exchanging polite smiles, and maintaining the poise expected of a business tycoon had taken their toll on you. Your energy dwindled, and the quiet ache in your feet had grown unbearable in the confines of your heels.

The anticipation of slipping away into the silence of home pulled at you like a lifeline.

From across the room, you noticed your husband, Bangchan, expertly concluding a conversation with yet another acquaintance. Even at forty-two, he was the epitome of professional resolve, his reputation as a powerful CEO as formidable as ever.

As he turned towards you, his gaze softened, and he gestured for you to follow, signaling that it was time to call it a night. You moved toward the exit together, the echo of your footsteps carrying you through the now-empty corridor and into the open night.

The cool air washed over you as you stepped into the starlit parking lot, but each step seemed to intensify the throb in your feet. You finally slowed your steps, and Bangchan, ever observant, instinctively matched your pace, eventually pausing beside you.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his tone laced with a rare note of concern, his gaze shifting to your heels.

Without waiting for an answer, he knelt, carefully removing the heels from your feet with a practiced ease. He held them in one hand, letting your sore feet settle on the cool ground.

A murmur of surprise escaped you, but before you could protest, he effortlessly lifted you off the ground—not quite in a traditional bridal carry, but with a steady arm around your waist, draping you comfortably over his shoulder, careful yet firm.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice warm and steady against the chill of the night air.