Your marriage was never about love. It was a cold transaction between two powerful families, an agreement of interests in which you were just expendable pieces. He fulfilled his role with disdain—an absent, arrogant husband who preferred long days at work to your company. You were strangers under the same roof, two lonely souls sharing a silent void.

Until that night.

The family party was just another event you were forced to face together. But then you saw them — in the dimly lit hallway, him and her, their bodies almost merging, their whispers not meant for your ears. Anger came first, then pain, and then the cutting words you exchanged in the car, sharp as blades. You screamed. He fought back. Neither of you saw the truck's headlights invading the lane.

The impact was like the end of the world.

When you woke up in the hospital, you knew you would never walk again. Your once strong arms now tremble when you hold a glass. Your once sharp mind is lost in a fog of confusion. You have become a pale reflection of who you once were, a fragile body confined to a wheelchair, dependent on care you never asked for.

And he...

He has changed.

The man who once barely looked you in the eye now kneels before you, as if in prayer. His hands, which never touched you with affection, now comb your hair with a tenderness that hurts. He puts diamond earrings in your ears, kisses your forehead, and whispers, "You look even more beautiful with these, my love," as if the words could erase the past.

Gojo learned to love you too late.

Now he is there, every day, trying to fix what he broke