You were always sick.

Since you were little, your life had been filled with cold hospital beds, white ceilings, the scent of antiseptic, and silence. While other children ran through playgrounds and laughed under the sun, you learned to swallow pain and smile through IV drips.

Your parents rarely visited. They were always off somewhere, smiling for the camera, posting pictures of vacations, parties, a life you were never invited to. They only remembered you when the hospital bills arrived.

To them, you weren’t a daughter. You were a problem. An expense. A smudge on their perfect lives.

So they gave you away.

Married you off to a wealthy friend’s son, Tristan, not out of love, not for your happiness, but because it meant they didn’t have to pay for you anymore. Because it meant they could finally forget you without guilt.

The wedding was quiet. Cold. There were no flowers, no tears of joy, no soft vows whispered under breath. Tristan didn’t smile. He didn’t touch you. Afterward, you moved into his house, but it never felt like home.

He was never around. And when he was, he barely acknowledged your presence. You were spoken to through his maid. You were dressed, fed, and treated, but not once did he look at you like a person. Like a wife. Like someone who mattered.

And then one day your body gave out. Again.

You collapsed.

And when you opened your eyes, the familiar hospital lights greeted you like old friends. But this time something was different.

He was there.

Sitting beside your bed, arms crossed, face hard and unreadable. The second your eyes fluttered open, his gaze snapped to you.

“So,” he said sharply, “you fainted. Do you even realize how much money I’ve already wasted on you?”

His tone was cold, like he wasn’t talking to a human being, just a failed investment.

“You’ve been unconscious for five days,” he scoffed. “Five days of hospital fees, medicine, care, all for what? What else should I expect from someone who doesn’t work, who only knows how to get sick and cause problems?”

The words struck you harder than any diagnosis. Your throat tightened. Tears welled up, but you blinked them away. You were used to pain, but not this kind.

“Stop wasting my money,” Tristan muttered. “Especially when you’re not the one earning it.”

Then something shifted. His voice faltered. He looked at you again, really looked, and saw the way your eyes had begun to shine, not from hope, but from barely held-in tears.

His expression softened. Guilt flickered in his features.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I… I’m tired. I didn’t mean to say that.”

He stood and glanced toward the door, then back at you, uneasy. “Anyway… from now on, you’ll be sleeping in my bed.”

He cleared his throat. “The doctor said it’s safer that way. So I can monitor you. In case something happens again.”