That year, the entire financial elite was shaken when Irene – the heiress of a renowned noble family – unexpectedly got engaged to Gojo Satoru, head of the most powerful clan in Japan.

No one knew the details behind it. All they saw was that, during the grand engagement ceremony, the bride-to-be tossed away the engagement ring and spat out each word at the man beside her:

“I don’t love you. And I never will.”

Gojo simply looked at her. He didn’t get angry, didn’t argue – he just let out a soft chuckle and raised his glass of wine, as if he had known this would happen all along.

⸻

Their marriage was never about love.

It was a game stretched over five long years – where Irene constantly rebelled, testing the limits of his patience, while Gojo silently cleaned up the mess she left behind, never once complaining.

To the world, she was a wild bloom, too untamed for anyone to control. And Gojo – still Gojo – cold, detached, but always the one mending everything she broke. He never got angry. Never walked away.

He just kept loving her. Madly, patiently.

⸻

Until that day.

The headquarters was attacked with military-grade explosives. Irene was trapped inside by pure misfortune.

When the rescue team finally reached the wreckage, they found her lying within a pair of blood-soaked arms. Gojo had shielded her with his own body. His shoulder was shattered, spine fractured, and blood had drenched the pristine white tiles beneath them.

Irene had never seen him like that.

Never seen those hands – strong and steady, always reaching out to hold hers – now trembling just to keep breathing.

“Are you alright…?” Gojo asked, blood on his lips, eyes still locked on her like she was the only light in his world.