Chapter 1

"Men are visual creatures. Just slip on this lingerie and lie in bed—there's no way he'll be able to resist!"

Her best friend had sent her a seductive nightgown.

Elena Reed felt her face flush as she put it on.

It had been exactly one month since that drunken, wild night.

That night, Kian had shed all his cold edges. His voice turned impossibly tender as he called her name, hoarsely whispering for her to help him... and then everything spiraled out of control.

It was her first time. It hurt, but she felt deeply fulfilled.

Before dawn, Elena fled—terrified he'd blame her when he woke up.

But to her surprise, Kian became more attentive afterward.

He remembered she took her coffee without sugar. He had the housekeeper bring late-night snacks when she painted late into the night. When her fingers ached from an old injury, he personally massaged them and applied medicine.

Two nights ago at dinner, Kian suddenly said, "There's a charity gala in three days. Get ready—I'm taking you."

In three years of marriage, this was the first time Kian had offered to bring her to a formal event.

Elena was both shocked and overjoyed. Her years of devotion had finally paid off. She'd finally reached him.

The door opened. Kian Lancaster walked in and his eyes immediately landed on Elena.

She wore a red silk nightgown that was a far cry from her usual modest style. The sheer fabric clung to her curves, revealing just enough to be dangerously seductive.

Kian frowned. "Still awake?"

His sharp features looked even more handsome under the soft light. His gaze lingered on the provocative nightgown for just a second.

Elena looked up at him, hesitantly reaching for his arm. "Kian, I want to talk to you."

Before she could finish, Kian smoothly pulled his hand away. His expression went cold. "I'm tired. Whatever it is, we'll talk another day."

Elena froze. "I—"

She tried to say more, but Kian cut her off coldly. "Go change. That doesn't suit you."

With that, he walked past her into the bathroom.

Elena stood there, dumbstruck. A chill crept over her, followed by an indescribable sense of shame.

After his shower, Kian went to his study.

Elena waited until past midnight. He never came back to the bedroom.

She'd worked so hard to gather the courage. She couldn't give up now. She threw on a robe and headed to the study.

The hallway was dark except for the faint glow seeping from under the study door.

Elena tiptoed closer. She raised her hand to knock, then stopped.

From inside came a low, stifled groan—rough, raw, laced with desire. A sound she'd never heard before.

"Chloe..."

Elena's body went rigid. Her breathing stopped.

Chloe Hart. Kian's first love.

She couldn't believe it. Her husband, whom she'd always thought was frigid, was pleasuring himself while murmuring another woman's name, consumed by repressed longing.

"Chloe..." Another muffled groan echoed, mingled with labored breathing.

It seemed to be over.

Elena took a step back. Her heel knocked against a decorative stand by the wall.

The study went silent. Moments later, the door flew open.

Kian stood in the doorway, his robe hanging open at the collar, his face flushed, his chest still heaving.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was ice-cold.

Elena opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"I..." Her voice trembled. "I wanted water."

Kian frowned, then stepped aside. "Go ahead."

She moved mechanically toward the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of cold water.

The glass bottle was freezing. Her fingertips went numb. She tried to twist off the cap, but her fingers wouldn't cooperate. The slightest pressure sent sharp pain shooting through her hand.

"Let me."

Kian walked over, took the bottle from her, unscrewed the cap, and handed it back.

Elena took it and drank deeply.

"Thank you." She set the bottle on the counter and turned to leave.

Behind her, Kian's voice sounded again. "I'll have Dr. Clark come by tomorrow to check your hand."

Her hand. Always her hand. In three years, that was the only way he'd ever cared for her.

Elena didn't look back. "No need. I'll go to the hospital myself tomorrow."

With that, she returned to the bedroom.

The moment she shut the door, all the strength drained from her body. She collapsed to the floor.

She stared at her trembling hands—the joints slightly misshapen from years of rehabilitation.

These hands had once created artwork that awed her professors and shook the art world.

These same hands had clawed through rubble three years ago during an earthquake, pulling Kian back from the brink of death.

She remembered that day. Aftershocks kept coming. Everyone begged her to give up. She refused. When her shovel broke, she dug with her bare hands. Her nails tore off. Blood and dirt mixed together.

Two days and two nights.

When Elena finally dragged Kian—his face covered in blood—out of the ruins, he opened his eyes. The first thing he said was, "Your hands... how did they get so badly hurt?"

Then he passed out.

The first thing he did when he woke up was search for every doctor who could treat her hands. But it was too late.

Later, Kian married her.

No wedding. No rings.

Kian said, "Elena, I owe you my life. In this marriage, I'll take care of you forever. But beyond that, I can't give you love."

Elena said, "Okay."

Because she loved him.

From the moment she first saw him help a girl being harassed by a drunk man, she'd fallen for him.

Even after his family lost everything, even after he clawed his way back up and became cold and distant, she still loved him.

Elena accepted this loveless marriage. She naively believed that one day, he would see how good she was.

It took her three years to learn the lesson—some hearts are harder than stone. No amount of warmth can soften them.

The next morning, Elena woke up alone.

Maggie knocked and entered, carrying a bowl of oatmeal with milk.

"Mr. Lancaster said you weren't feeling well last night. He wanted you to eat something gentle on the stomach."

The moment the milk smell hit her, Elena couldn't suppress the wave of nausea. She doubled over, dry-heaving.

Maggie's expression shifted. "Mrs. Lancaster... are you pregnant?"