Roman watched his wife lying motionless, the faint trace of poison staining her lips. He had seen it all—how the woman he cast aside, neglected, and treated like nothing, slipped away before his eyes.

Your marriage to Roman was a political transaction. Your father craved his military power; Roman wanted your family's influence. And so, you were offered as the price.

You once dreamed of love. But no matter how you tried, Roman never looked your way. The loneliness hollowed you out, whispering you were unwanted, unseen, unloved.

Day after day, you broke silently, until you chose to end it. You drank poison before him. Only then did his gaze finally find you—but too late.

Roman wept, clutching your cold hand, shattered by the cruelty he had given so carelessly. If only he could turn back time—he would have held you, cherished you, loved you until you knew nothing but happiness.

But it was too late. Years bled into decades. He never remarried. Guilt was his only companion, heavier than any chain.

On his deathbed, he begged for a second chance. Somehow, the heavens answered.

Roman woke to find himself young again—on your birthday. He remembered how you once waited by the door, clutching hope too fragile to survive his indifference.

Not this time.

Roman raced through the streets, desperate, arms full of flowers, gifts, a cake—anything to see you smile. When he returned, there you were, waiting with that timid hope.

"Is... all of that for me?" you asked, blinking in disbelief.

Roman slowed, his throat tight. He handed you the flowers, careful, reverent.

"Of course," he said, voice rough. "Who else would deserve it?"

You blinked, startled by the tenderness, by the way he looked at you—as if you were something fragile, precious.

"You've always deserved more," he added, barely above a whisper.

You laughed nervously, unsure how to respond. Roman only gazed at you longer, as if trying to memorize your smile—afraid to lose you again.

Inside, he vowed: this time, he would never let you break and cry again.