I used to be a retired undercover agent for the narcotics division.

The blood on my hands, the drug dens I’d dismantled—it was more than enough to make desperate criminals want me dead.

Nathan knew that.

He knew I needed constant protection, that my address was top secret.

And yet, to give his precious Ariana “peace of mind,” he turned the shield meant to protect me into the knife that stabbed me in the back.

When over a dozen drug dealers armed with machetes stormed the villa, I was standing alone in the middle of the living room.

Unarmed.

But I had once been the best combat instructor in the force.

Using everything within reach—tables, chairs, vases, even the chandelier—I took down seven of them.

The eighth slashed open my left shoulder.

The ninth drove his blade deep into my abdomen.

Blood flowed fast; my strength drained just as quickly.

As I fell, the last thing I heard was the ringleader’s sneer: “You’ll die just like your mother did.”

I died from their brutal dismemberment.

My father, a cop his whole life, called in every favor he had left to gather what remained of me—piece by shattered piece—from a mass grave on the outskirts.

He hired the best mortician, who spent three full days just making me look vaguely whole again.

And in Nathan’s eyes, all of it was nothing but a “scheme”—a pathetic, staged crisis, cooked up to win his sympathy.

My first encounter with Nathan was a matter of life and death.

I was still on the police force at the time. Sent to rescue a kidnapped business magnate from a transnational crime syndicate during a mission, I found my target: Nathan.

He was tied to a chair in an abandoned factory, battered and bruised, yet his eyes held an unsettling calm.

The bomb’s countdown showed less than thirty seconds.

No time for defusal.

I asked him just one question: “Do you trust me?”

He met my gaze and nodded.

Hoisting him onto my back, I leapt from the third-story window. The factory erupted into a fireball the moment we hit the ground.

My back was shredded by the blast, a dozen gashes weeping freely.

He got me to the hospital and stayed by my side for three days and three nights.

When I woke, his first words were, “Kimberly, be my girlfriend.”

He told me he’d never met a woman who carried such light within her—fearless, unstoppable.

He said he wanted to protect that light for a lifetime.

So we became a couple.

Those five years were the happiest of my life.

Whenever I was on a mission and out of contact for days, he would pace with worry. He dressed my wounds gently when I was hurt. He even learned to cook for me, clumsy but determined. Proudly, he told everyone I was Nathan’s woman.

He knew the dangers of my job and urged me again and again to retire.

I explained that my mother had been a narcotics officer. She gave her life on duty. This work was my calling, my destiny.

After a long silence, he finally held me and said, “Alright. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you to finish your calling, and then I’ll marry you.”

I believed him.

For three years, I worked undercover to infiltrate the Golden Triangle’s largest drug cartel. In the end, coordinating with the police, we brought it down in one fell swoop.

During that operation, I took three bullets. I almost died on the operating table.

Yet, I kept thinking of Nathan, waiting for me—and forced myself to hold on.

I retired.

Covered in scars but fueled by hope, I returned to him.

But what awaited me wasn’t the wedding he’d promised. It was his apology.

“Kimberly,” he said, his voice strained. “Nathan’s Group is facing an unprecedented crisis. I need to marry into the Ariana family to survive this.”

The Ariana family—Ariana’s family.

Back then, Ariana had just appeared by his side, introduced as a family friend’s daughter. She always wore white dresses, spoke in a soft, gentle voice, and gazed at me with admiring eyes.

“Kimberly,” she’d say, “you’re so amazing. Just like a movie heroine.”

I thought she was just an innocent, sweet girl.

I told Nathan, “I don’t need any titles. I just need you by my side.”

Touched, he held me close. “Kimberly, don’t worry. This marriage is just business. You’re the only one I love. I’m sorry to put you through this. Once I’ve sorted out all this trouble, I’ll give you the grandest wedding you can imagine.”

I believed him again. I naively believed love was enough.

But I forgot: people change.

Now, his bodyguard was lifting my mother’s urn.

My father scrambled over, clinging to the man’s leg like a madman. “No! Please! Don’t!”

The bodyguard kicked him away.

With a sickening thud, my father’s aged body was thrown against the sharp corner of the coffee table. He went still.

Then the rosewood urn was lifted high and smashed onto the floor with brutal force.

*Crack!*

A sharp, brittle sound.

The box shattered, scattering white ashes mixed with black cinders across the floor.