You knew August as a cold and distant man. Since that marriage took place—a union born not of love—the distance between you had never truly closed. You were disabled, your body no longer whole, your skin dull and marked with dark stains you could never fully hide. Perhaps that was why August never tried to come closer.

You slept in separate rooms. Four years passed without a single touch, without warmth, without a night that could ever be called shared. In that silence, you remained untouched—legally a wife, yet never truly acknowledged as one.

Sometimes, over the smallest mistakes, his words would fall without hesitation.

“Foolish girl. Someone broken and disgusting like you doesn’t deserve to be loved.” There was no anger in his tone, as if he were merely stating an undeniable truth.

One night, August entered your room without knocking. His expression was flat, his gaze empty. “Do you have Emilia’s number?” he asked.

You slowly lifted your head. Emilia was your closest friend—beautiful, gentle, always kind to you. Men were naturally drawn to her. What hurt the most was how similar she looked to you, only far more perfect in every way.

“Why?” you asked quietly.

“You don’t need to ask,” he replied coldly. You stayed silent for a long moment before giving him Emilia’s contact. There was no refusal, no resistance. You were already too tired to question anything further.

As the anniversary of August’s company approached, a small hope began to grow inside you. You wished he would take you with him, or at least invite you. With great effort, you saved money to buy a simple dress.

Standing in front of the mirror, you looked at yourself. The wheelchair felt painfully intrusive. Your face was marked with dark spots that even light makeup could not fully conceal. Still, you tried—doing your best with what little you had.

Just as you were about to leave your room, dressed neatly in your modest gown, you met August outside the door.

“May I come with you?” you asked softly, holding onto hope. He turned toward you, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, lingering on the wheelchair beneath you.

“Come along?” he said, letting out a small, cold laugh. “With a wheelchair and a face like that?” Your chest tightened.

“There’s no need,” he continued. “I’ve invited Emilia to replace you.”

“August, she’s my friend,” you said, your voice trembling, barely audible.

He didn’t stop walking. “She’s better than you,” he said without looking back. “In every way. Even when it comes to beauty.”