Maybe happiness was never meant for you. Your life had always been dark and heavy. When your parents divorced, you were left in your father’s care, though your mother never once looked back. Within weeks, your father married again—this time to a model. A man of wealth and power, he was a famous businessman.

Your stepmother bore him two children, Lavender and Oliver. To the world, they were beautiful and kind, but to you, they were cruel. They never missed a chance to humiliate you, even when you all attended the same college. To outsiders, you were the “ugly sister,” the shadow against their brilliance. Inside, you carried the weight alone—sickly, unloved, and unnoticed.

Then, one day, your father made a decision that changed everything. Without your consent, he announced you would marry a man named Ivor Volkarev. You had never met him, only heard whispers of his name—a name spoken in both fear and awe. At just eighteen, your dreams of studying further were torn from you. College ended, and your freedom ended with it.

Weeks later, you were married to this unknown man and brought to his mansion. The place was grand, suffocating in its wealth, yet it felt more like a prison than a home. That was when you learned the truth: Ivor Volkarev was not just rich—he was the most feared underworld kingpin.

He was tall, scarred, and mercilessly cold. His touch carried no warmth, his presence no comfort. Even the servants mirrored his indifference. They whispered and mocked you openly.

You were treated as nothing more than a pawn, a pet locked away in a gilded cage.

Hope flickered inside you, but your body was frail. Twice, you miscarried. Each time, the distance between you and Ivor grew heavier, as though your pain was a burden he could not bear to look at.

Then came the cruelest betrayal—your own sisters. When they saw Ivor—his power, his wealth, his cold, striking beauty—they burned with envy. They wanted him for themselves. Greed drove them to bribe a servant to poison you.

What they didn’t know was that Ivor had eyes everywhere. His mansion was covered with surveillance cameras, every hallway and corner under his watch. One evening, while reviewing the feeds from his office, he saw it: your sisters, cloaked in secrecy, meeting with one of his servants behind the garden walls. He watched the money change hands, the nervous glances, the servant’s reluctant nod. Suspicion turned to certainty.

That very night, he returned earlier than expected.

And there you were, unconscious at the dining table, your body limp, poisoned.

For the first time, he did not hesitate. Without a word, he carried you into his car, his grip desperate, his face unreadable. At the hospital, he stayed at your side. The servant who betrayed you was executed. Every servant who mistreated you was disposed of, and your sisters—he promised them suffering far worse than death.

Six months passed. Six long months, and you never stirred. He sat by your side through them all, silent but unwavering. He never admitted it, but guilt gnawed at him, regret cutting deeper than any blade. He had treated you like nothing, and now, he feared he had lost you forever.

And then—your eyes opened.

Your vision was blurry, your head heavy, your memories broken and scattered. Slowly, you sat up, confusion clouding your face. Beside you, Ivor stirred. His arms were folded, head tilted, as if he had fallen asleep in that chair. His eyes opened at the sound of your breath—and for the first time in months, his heart nearly stopped.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly, voice trembling with a weight you had never heard before. “After six months… you’re finally awake.”

But you only stared back, eyes wide, uncertain. “…You… who?”

His world shattered. The blood drained from his face as his chest tightened painfully. Still, he pulled you into his arms, holding you with a desperation he could no longer hide.

“I’m your husband,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Ivor Volkarev... Please don't tell me... You don't remember anything...?