Six years ago, when he left without a trace, I found myself pregnant and alone. I gave birth to my daughter by myself, determined to give her a complete family someday. I channeled my energy into my career, hoping to eventually marry a good man. When I saw him again, it was across the negotiation table. He was now the head of Ross Enterprises, while I was just a modest supplier. Years ago, he was ill, secluded in his room, and now he didn’t remember me at all. My eyes lingered on the faded friendship bracelet on his left wrist. At the gala that night, his fiancée stood beside him, gazing at him with a face eerily similar to mine. Watching their harmonious and tender interaction, I quietly turned to leave. His voice stopped me in my tracks, "Don't you dare walk away!"

Before the negotiation started, my assistant quickly looked up the latest news about him for me. "Zahir Ross, a relative by birth, returned to the family six years ago. There's a rumor he suffers from a health condition and has always been sidelined. He came to power a year ago. He's about to marry the Ross heiress." Hearing his name was a shock that left me frozen, my mind blank. The paparazzi photos were crystal clear. What should have been financial news was dominating the entertainment headlines. Not one for celebrity gossip, words like 'elite,' 'prodigy,' 'heiress' felt like needles stabbing my eyes.

The negotiation took place at a five-star hotel. The hallway was narrow, and my assistant nudged me several times, drawing my attention away from the news on the tablet to the far end of the corridor. Zahir Ross strode toward us, no longer the frail, hunched figure from six years ago; now he was strong and upright. His sharp features and cool aloofness sent chills down my spine. Waylon Franklin, my top supplier, tried to introduce me, maybe to give me a leg up in front of the client. His eyes lowered indifferently; he clearly did not recognize me. I nodded stiffly and entered the conference room, my heart pounding so loudly it threatened to betray my composure. His faint, fresh cologne was unchanged.

Back then, he was diagnosed with ankylosing spondylitis, spending his days hunched over. Sensitive to light, he lay in a dim room. Alongside his illness, his father refused to acknowledge him, while his mother abandoned him. From the moment we met until we parted, he never really left that room and never saw my face clearly. Meanwhile, I've come to know the world for what it is—far removed from the naive girl I once was. Not recognizing me was a blessing. It spared me the complications and allowed me to focus on providing for my daughter.

Throughout the negotiation, he absentmindedly touched the friendship bracelet on his left wrist, just like before. Once the meeting concluded, we headed to the banquet hall for a buffet, eager to satisfy our hunger. As we entered, a woman in a light blue dress skipped toward him. "Zahir, your stomach isn't good; you shouldn’t eat outside food, so I brought you some oatmeal." She held his hand publicly and took a seat next to him. I was already internally reeling from the striking similarity between her and me—or rather, the me from six years ago. Not just her features; even her speech echoed my youthful innocence.

Pain throbbed in my chest, but I fought to keep my discomfort at bay, attacking a piece of spiced honey cake with my fork to distract myself. Once the drinks flowed, the room buzzed with gossip, and someone teased, "Mr. Ross, why not introduce us to this beautiful lady next to you?" With a casual glance, he replied, "She's my fiancée." His gaze briefly, almost imperceptibly, landed on me, sparking murmurs around us. "It's said that before Mr. Ross reclaimed his family status, Miss Elliott stood by him through his treatment, never leaving his side." "It's rare to see a couple withstand such trials from a young age."

Waylon nudged me, gesturing toward the pair opposite us. "Doesn't the heiress look a bit like you?" I set down my drink and forced a businesslike smile, "I’m not that lucky." I have to earn for my daughter and save for my own future—no room for romantic daydreams. Just as I stood to leave, I overheard someone ask, "Mr. Ross, when's the wedding? At your age, my kids were already running errands." The sentiment struck a chord—indeed, my child could be running errands by now.

He wore a slight smile as he reached for the woven bracelet again. It was deep winter, and he had been brooding for days, sitting there with a vacant, emotionless expression.

To cheer him up on New Year’s Eve, I slipped the handmade bracelet onto his left wrist, wishing him a happy new year. Only then did a flicker of warmth appear in his eyes. Now, the bracelet was worn and frayed, clashing with his designer clothes, looking awkwardly out of place.

He glanced at me, and to avoid drawing attention to myself, I quietly sat back down. His gaze shifted to something else in the room.

From Macy Elliott's perspective, the entire banquet hall seemed to revolve around Zahir Ross. Her eyes lingered intensely on him as she resumed the conversation: "Soon, when my beauty salon opens, we'll finally have our engagement party."

Someone quickly chimed in with praise, "Mr. Ross has invested in the most prestigious beauty salon in the city for you. It's truly enviable."

She smiled lightly, as if it were a trivial matter. Her long hair flowed over her vintage-style dress, and she appeared as serene and composed as a flower, earning admiration from those around her.

The guests continued to gossip. "To have stood by Mr. Ross through life's ups and downs is quite remarkable. Your story could be turned into a book!"

Macy's face briefly showed a hint of embarrassment, which she quickly concealed by serving Zahir some pulled pork and pouring him a coffee. Compliments, if ignored, would just lose their impact.

Zahir chuckled softly, and after a brief pause, he said slowly, "Our story is a long one, something only the two of us truly understand. It's not really something to share."

The crowd burst into laughter, and the atmosphere became more intimate. I felt a lump in my throat, almost bringing tears to my eyes. I quickly bowed my head, afraid anyone would notice my discomfort.

Yes, back then, it was just us. His mother had discovered his biological father wouldn’t acknowledge him and brought him back to the town, renting a small house before leaving abruptly. Before she left, she found me, the former top student who had dropped out, to tutor him. In truth, she just needed someone to look after him and leave him in his illness.

My foster mother, always greedy for money, readily agreed, took the money, and left, without leaving any money for living expenses. All things considered, we were both abandoned and forced to rely on each other, supporting one another through it all.

He was young and proud, yet ill. Life's challenges had made his moods unpredictable. One day, he suddenly screamed and ran out into the pouring rain, falling and rising repeatedly, undeterred.

I chased after him, losing my shoes in the process, and helped him up from the ground. Mud mixed with blood was running from his forehead down his face. He stood there, silent and still, like a ghost.

That night, we both came down with a high fever. He had a large gash on his head, and my foot was cut open. I thought we wouldn't make it through the night.

I was shivering uncontrollably. Stripping off my wet clothes, I lay beside him. Delirious with fever, he clung to me with all his strength and said, "Don't leave me. Even in death, we won't be apart."