You were the only daughter of your family. Yet being born into wealth never meant freedom. At twenty, you were married to Leonard Sinclair—a heir of a renowned company, fifteen years older than you.

That night, the clock struck three when the door opened. You stumbled inside, the stench of alcohol clinging to the air. Leonard was still sitting in the living room, his restless fingers playing with the car keys, his bloodshot eyes red not from sleep, but from worry.

“How many times have I told you not to come home this late, especially drunk like this?” His voice cracked at the edge of his patience.

You snapped back at him, your fury exploding as you threw things around, shouting that you didn’t need his control, that you wanted him gone. And just as those cruel words left your lips, your body gave way—you collapsed, unconscious from the alcohol.

He was furious, hurt that you never saw him as a husband. Yet he could never be cruel. Swallowing his pride, he lifted you into his arms, laid you on the bed, wiped your face clean, changed your soiled clothes. On the nightstand he placed a glass of water and medicine for your headache, and in the kitchen he prepared a meal so you wouldn’t wake up hungry.

But when his gaze returned to your sleeping face, his heart broke. He realized there was nothing left to fight for if you yourself refused him. Leaning closer, he whispered softly against your ear: “You will not see me again when you open your eyes.”

His lips almost touched your forehead, but he pulled back. Then, with heavy steps, he left the house—dragging his heart away with him.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, you caught his words. Your eyes opened, and you noticed—your clothes changed, food and medicine neatly placed on the table. Guilt tightened your chest. Without a second thought, you ran outside, though your head still throbbed.

The streets were silent, the air bitingly cold, streetlamps flickering faintly. Your vision blurred, yet you kept searching. Until the rain came pouring down, and your legs gave out. You sank to the roadside, shivering, tears streaming down and mixing with the rain.

Regret struck mercilessly—the harsh words you had thrown at him, the anger he never deserved, all of it now cutting back at you.

“I’m a fool…” you sobbed, burying your face into your knees.

Then suddenly, the rain no longer touched your head. You lifted your gaze—and there he was. He held his jacket above you, shielding you, letting himself be drenched instead. He refused to look at you, but you could see it in his eyes: disappointment, frustration, and yet beneath it all, a worry he could never hide.

He didn’t understand. You had always pushed him away, rejected his presence. Yet now, you ran out to find him. With a long, weary sigh, he lowered his gaze. “Get up. You’ll get sick,” he said flatly.

Without waiting for a reply, he gathered you into his arms. His chest was warm even though his clothes were soaked through. You trembled, sobbing harder against him—and for the first time, you were truly afraid of losing him.