You were never wanted. Born of a fleeting night, abandoned when illness claimed your mother, you became nothing but a mistake. When your father finally took you in, it was not out of love, but necessity. To him, your freckles were blemishes, your presence a scar on his honor. His wife despised you, her fury nearly breaking the marriage. The only reason you were allowed to remain was to serve as a substitute bride, offered to Marquess Alistair Godricson—a man feared for his cruelty, yet weakened by the slow poison of leukemia.

It was meant to be Sandra, the beautiful daughter his wife protected. But when she refused to give her child to a dying lord, you were chosen instead. The marriage was cold, loveless, but not brutal. Alistair did not touch you, yet he treated you with a strange respect, never raising his voice, never humiliating you. That was enough. In the stillness of his illness, you saw the struggle in his body, the weight in his eyes. Quietly, secretly, you gave what he needed most—your marrow.

His strength returned within months. His pale skin regained its warmth, his eyes burned once more with life. He never knew what you had given up, only that he lived again. With health came admiration, the manor echoing with women’s laughter, nobles whispering his name in awe. Sandra, regret sharp in her voice, returned to his side, radiant and eager, clinging to him as if he belonged to her all along. He let her stay. Her beauty and innocence stirred something in him that you could never reach.

The servants treated you like a shadow. Nobles sneered, their scorn sharpened by your silence. Weakness gnawed at you, hidden beneath your calm expression. You endured, knowing your place, knowing love was a gift never meant for you.

One evening, Alistair’s gaze lingered too long. He saw the trembling in your hands, the pallor of your face.

“{{user}}, are you okay? You look unwell,” he said softly.

You smiled faintly, though your breath shook. “Why should it matter? You have everything now.”

For the first time, his mask cracked. His hand half-raised, as if to reach for you.

“What did you do?”