On her thirtieth wedding anniversary, Tiffany got hit by a car after grocery shopping. On such a day, blood streamed from her injuries.

She called her husband, Bryce Bongiovi, over and over. But his phone was turned off the entire time.

Worried about getting home in time to make lunch for the family, she had her wounds roughly bandaged and insisted on leaving the hospital.

When she returned, she found a thick stack of wedding invitations laying neatly on the coffee table.

Her old heart, long numb, started racing like a teenager’s.

Thirty years ago, Tiffany and Bryce came from poor families. They skipped a wedding ceremony and went straight to registering their marriage.

Over the years, she brought up the idea again and again. But he always brushed her off with the same words. “Let’s wait a bit longer.”

For years, she had believed that having her dream wedding was impossible in this lifetime. Unexpectedly, though her husband never said it out loud, his actions seemed to prove that he still loved her.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the invitations to take a closer look—only to be stopped by a sharp, loud voice.

“Don’t you touch that!”

Bryce frowned at her, impatience written all over his face.

“Do you have any idea what time it is? Why are you only getting back now? Hurry up and start cooking!”

She had just set down the grocery bags when Flynn, her son, casually pulled off his suit jacket and tossed it at her.

“Mom, hurry and wash this for me. I’ll need it in a couple of days!”

Was he going to wear it to the wedding that his dad was planning for her?

She barely managed to hold her excitement when her fingers brushed something inside the jacket pocket—a photo.

It was a Polaroid of Bryce and… Brittany—her younger sister.

The timestamp in the lower right corner showed it was taken that same morning. On the back was her son’s messy handwriting in pen.

[Went with Dad to pick up Aunt Brittany from the airport. Wishing both of them a happy wedding soon!]

Suddenly, Tiffany’s ears started buzzing.

So that morning, when she’d been lying injured after the accident, calling her husband again and again, he didn’t pick up the phone because… he was at the airport, picking up her sister who had returned to the country.

The wedding invitations on the coffee table—they weren’t for a wedding ceremony meant for her. They were for her husband and her sister!

Thirty years… Tiffany had worked herself to the bone for this family that long, only to end up with this?!

At this point, something inside her went completely cold.

Turning around, she called the man who had secretly loved her for over ten years—a top lawyer who had never married.

“I want a divorce. And I want to sell my marital house. I’d like you to handle everything. Is that alright?”

…

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end before a low, magnetic voice replied.

“Of course.”

He paused, then added, “Bet you finally see it, huh? I told you thirty years ago—that goddamn bastard didn’t love you. Marrying him would never make you happy.”

As soon as she heard those words, Tiffany’s nose stung, and tears nearly spilled over.

“I’m sorry…” she muttered. “I should’ve believed you back then.”

For a long time, the line went quiet again.

“All right. Don’t cry,” the man finally said. “Realizing it now isn’t too late. I’ll handle everything you asked for. I’m not gonna let you down, Tiff.”

That sentence was all it took; by then, tears streamed down her face.

After all these years, the one person who understood her best… was still him—Barron Guerrero.

After hanging up, Tiffany endured the pain from her injuries and stood in the sweltering forty-degree heat, working her ass off in the kitchen for two full hours.

She set the last dish on the table and had just untied her grease-stained apron when the doorbell suddenly rang.

As she wiped the sweat from her face and went to open the door, her husband—who never concerned himself with such things—rushed ahead of her.

“Surprise!”

Brittany beamed as she wrapped her arms around Bryce’s neck and leapt into his embrace, even shooting his wife a playful wink.

“Tiffany! I’m back! Surprised? Shocked?”

A bitterness so deep it reached Tiffany’s bones welled up in her heart, slowly weighing down her body.

No, she was not surprised or shocked at all. Everyone in this apartment already knew Brittany was returning to the country today. Two had even gone to the airport to pick her up.

Tiffany’s heart soured, but her face stayed composed as she welcomed her sister calmly.

“You’re here. Go ahead and sit. It’s almost lunchtime. Let’s eat together.”

Brittany made herself at home. She slipped out of Bryce’s arms and walked straight to the table, taking the seat beside him—the one that had always belonged to his wife.

Ignoring it, Tiffany just quietly served the salad.

Across from her, her sister was laughing and chatting with Bryce.

Brittany casually asked, “Why does my sister look like she’s in a bad mood today?”

Bryce frowned.

“Isn’t she always like that? She always looks miserable, like the whole world owes her eight million or something. Nothing like you—you’re cheerful like the sun. Anyone would feel better just seeing you.”

When he got to the latter half, his expression softened. Even his voice grew gentle.

Flynn chimed in from the side. “Dad, you and Auntie have way too much chemistry. Anyone who didn’t know better would think you’re a couple!”

“Hey, don’t say that,” Brittany said, pretending to scold him. “I’m still single, you know!”

Flynn laughed even louder and nudged his father meaningfully.

“Well, not for long, Auntie! You’re way too gorgeous to stay single. Some handsome guy’s definitely gonna score. If my mom were half as hot as you, I’d be over the moon even in my dreams.”

That compliment made Brittany’s face flush.

She was in her early forties but well-maintained, looking more like she was in her twenties or thirties.

Tiffany watched the three in the living room and felt strangely detached for a moment. They looked so happy together—more like a real family than she did.

From the very moment Tiffany married Bryce, Brittany had always been around. She visited their marital home every few days, clinging to her brother-in-law.

When she was younger, Tiffany would get jealous. But Bryce had scolded her for it.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind? Tiffany, Brittany’s your own sister! How can you be jealous of your sister? Jeez, you’re a fucking adult. Grow up, will you?!”

After that, she never dared say another word again.

She just watched him peel apples for Brittany. She just watched them share the same glass of drinks. She just watched her own husband go to the next door to tuck Brittany in at night before coming back to her…

Each time, her heart felt like it was being torn apart.

He knew too well Brittany was his wife’s sister. And yet, he never kept his distance.

Later, Brittany went abroad to study. Bryce and Tiffany went to see her off.

Tiffany returned from the restroom after realizing she’d forgotten some tissues… only to see her husband sneakily stuff a pink diamond necklace into her sister’s hand.

“You women all like diamonds, right?” he said softly. “I saved up my own money for years to buy this for you. Don’t let your sister find out. Since we got married, I’ve never given her anything.”

At that moment, it was like a heavy hammer slammed into Tiffany’s chest. It was so painful her vision went black.

So he knew—he’d never given her anything, he never prepared surprises for her.

She had thought he was just old-fashioned and unromantic. But the scene in front of her slapped her awake.

“I’ve been wearing high heels and walking all day. My feet are killing me! How about a foot massage after lunch? My treat!”

Brittany’s sweet voice came, pulling Tiffany back to the present.

Flynn jumped in right away.

“Sounds great! We should go! We should go! I know a really good place nearby. Dad, let’s go after we eat!”

Bryce nodded. “Sure.”

Neither of them asked Tiffany.

Only Brittany turned to her. “What about you, Tiffany? Wanna come along?”

Flynn curled his lips.

“Why invite her? She’s just a housewife who knows nothing but chores. She wouldn’t know how to enjoy herself. Auntie, don’t bother. If you keep talking, she’ll just say you’re wasting money.”

Bryce nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, Brittany. Your sister won’t go. She still has chores to do this afternoon.”

The bitterness in Tiffany’s chest finally settled into clarity, making her scoff at herself. For all these years, this so-called family of hers had never once cared about what she wanted.

To them, she was just a tireless servant—a robot that existed solely to cook, clean, and take care of them, with no life of her own.

Luckily, she’d already decided to divorce Bryce.

This miserable life? It’s going to end pretty soon.

After the meal, the table was left in chaos.

Giggling as if nothing were amiss, Brittany urged Bryce and their son out the door. Neither man spared the dirty dishes a glance before leaving.

Only Tiffany was left in the apartment. She remained seated, unmoving, for a long time.

She had been in a car accident that morning. Then she’d rushed around all afternoon. Now, the ache finally caught up with her, blood seeping through the bandage on her arm again.

Gritting her teeth, she disinfected the wound again and changed the gauze. Her eyes then lifted to the photo hanging at the head of the bed—the only “wedding photo” she and Bryce had.

Back then, they were too poor for a real photoshoot. They’d taken a quick picture outside the marriage registry office instead—awkward, poorly lit, yet still hung there after thirty years.

She studied the young woman in the frame. Then, reflected faintly in the glass, she saw herself now.

The contrast made her chest tighten.

Thirty years of endless housework had worn her down. The bright, graceful girl she once was had long since disappeared, replaced by someone time had visibly carved its marks into.

She was still standing there in her sadness when the sound of the door unlocking broke the silence.

She drew in a slow breath and stepped out of the bedroom—only to see the three back already. The same three who had left together, full of anticipation, for a foot massage.

“Damn it!” her son complained loudly. “That spa was actually closed?! We went all that way for nothing!”

Bryce’s attention was already on Brittany. He crouched down in front of her and carefully helped her out of her high heels.

When he saw the raw, reddened skin on her heels, his expression softened with obvious concern.

“They’re rubbed so bad… Just looking at them hurts my heart,” he said. “Brittany, try not to wear high heels so often, alright?”

Brittany turned her head away, clearly unconvinced.

“No way! I like wearing heels. High heels make me feel gorgeous!”

Bryce chuckled helplessly.

“Alright, alright. You deserve to be gorgeous your whole life.”

Standing at the bedroom doorway, Tiffany felt something in her chest go numb.

Once, long ago, she loved wearing dresses and high heels, too. But back then, his words had been very different.

“You’re married now. For fuck’s sake, stop dressing up in high heels, acting like you’re single. Who are you trying to impress, huh? Listen, just stay home and do your job like a proper housewife. Don’t you waste time thinking nonsense!”

“You wanna be pretty? Can being pretty put food on the table? Tiffany, a woman only needs to be obedient!”

She’d lowered her head and didn’t protest as he scolded her. Like a “proper wife,” she put every dress away from the wardrobe. All her favorite heels had gone straight into the trash.

That decision had lasted thirty years.

“My feet really hurt…” Brittany groaned suddenly, pouting.

Bryce stiffened at once.

Beside him, Flynn snapped his fingers, as if struck by an idea.

“Oh, right! Dad, isn’t Mom actually good at massage? Why not have her help Auntie?”

Bryce lifted his gaze and looked at the doorway. His eyes met Tiffany’s.

Her heart suddenly sank.

Sure, she was good at massage. But surely, they wouldn’t make her massage Brittany’s feet, right?

“Why are you still standing there like an idiot?” Bryce blurted out impatiently. “Didn’t you hear your sister say she’s in pain? Why don’t you hurry up and get water ready?”

Tiffany’s body shook at that.

Unfortunately, what she feared was indeed what he was thinking.

But she’d just been in a car accident. The doctor had warned her not to strain her hands for several days.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “My hand isn’t in great shape right now. I can’t really use much strength.”

Bryce let out a short, mocking laugh.

“Bullshit, Tiffany. If you don’t want to do it, just say so. Don’t make stupid excuses. Back then, just to get me to notice you, you stayed up late learning massage. Now, Brittany only needs a small favor, and suddenly, you can’t do it?”

His words were like a rusty knife cutting open Tiffany’s heart, hurting it until it went numb.

All those nights hunched over books, memorizing pressure points, practicing until her fingers went stiff? It now felt absurd.

Flynn chimed in, clearly unhappy.

“Mom, Aunt Brittany’s not some outsider. Can’t you be a little considerate? It’s just a massage. How hard could it be? The way you refuse to help her… You’re acting way too heartless.”

Brittany leaned back on the couch, resting her slim ankle on a cushion. She hissed softly, as if in pain.

Bryce rushed over at once, full of concern.

“What is it? Does it hurt a lot?” Then he turned sharply toward Tiffany, urging her. “Hurry up! Do you really need me to say it again?”

Tiffany felt numb as she looked at her husband… then at her son. In Flynn’s gaze was clear protectiveness toward his aunt and a faint but unmistakable reproach toward his own mom.

Without another word, Tiffany walked over.

As soon as she began massaging Brittany’s feet, a sharp pain shot through her wrist. Her vision dimmed, and cold sweat broke out along her hairline. But she bit down hard on her lip, enduring her pain.

“Mm… The pressure’s okay. You’re just a bit rusty,” Brittany commented, half-closing her eyes.

Then she added lightly, “Hey, you used to be much more attentive when you massaged my brother-in-law.”

Bryce let out a snort, his eyes settling back on her as he said indulgently, “You’re just being fussy.”

Tiffany said nothing. She lowered her head and kept going.

Suddenly…

“Ouch!”

Brittany screamed. Her face went pale as she clutched her ankle.

“My foot! My ankle! It hurts so much! It feels like it snapped!”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her voice shaking as she accused Tiffany.

“Hey! Why did you use so much force? I felt a crack! You did that on purpose, didn’t you?!”

The moment the complaint left Brittany’s mouth, Bryce’s expression changed. He lunged forward and shoved Tiffany aside without hesitation.

Caught completely off guard, Tiffany stumbled backward. Her injured arm slammed into the edge of the table, sending a sharp, blinding pain through her body. Her vision darkened for a moment.

She was just trying to steady herself when a sudden force closed in on her.

A sharp crack of skin against skin startled the room.

A brutal slap landed hard across her face.

The blow rendered her speechless.

“Tiffany! You vicious woman!” Bryce roared, his face twisted with fury. “What did Brittany ever do to you?! How could you use that much force? Were you trying to cripple her?!”

Their son rushed straight to his aunt’s side. He didn’t spare her mom so much as a glance—no concern for her contorted, pain-stricken face, only accusation in his voice.

“Jeez, Mom, you’re terrifying! What did Aunt Brittany ever do to you? If you’re mad, take it out on us! How could you do something like this to her? Do you even have a heart?!”

Each word pierced her like a needle, one after another, sinking into what little was left of her heart.

She watched as her own husband carefully lifted her sister, who cried into his arms.

Once, long ago, when Tiffany had been sick with a fever, he had held her the same way. It’s just that the memory felt distant now—like something from another lifetime.

The three moved quickly—slipping on shoes, grabbing the car keys, rushing out the door—leaving her alone behind them.

Anyone who had bothered to look would have noticed the blood seeping through the bandage on her arm again.

But no one did. Bryce only threw one warning over his shoulder.

“If anything happens to Brittany’s foot, Tiffany, I swear I won’t let this go.”

With that, the door was slammed shut with enough force to make the walls tremble.

Tiffany stayed where the blow had made her fall, motionless.

For three long decades, she had dulled every bright edge of herself for him. She’d locked away youthful dresses and high heels in dusty closets and learned how to be a “good” full-time wife.

She’d stayed up late teaching herself massage, just so that when he came home, she could smooth the tension from his brow.

She memorized his preferences, kept the apartment running, raised their son, and worked tirelessly to maintain the image of a perfect family.

And yet, in their eyes, none of it ever mattered.

‘Look at you, Tiffany,’ she thought to herself. ‘This… is the life you chose. That’s the man you loved and tolerated for thirty years. That’s the son you raised with everything you had.’

She was lost in her regrets when her phone chimed softly. It was a message from Barron.

[The divorce agreement is ready. The apartment has been listed for sale.]

Reading his updates, Tiffany left the apartment, printed the papers, and signed her name. When she saw that the wound on her hand had split open again, she decided to return to the hospital to have it treated properly.

The doctor frowned at the reopened injury and repeated the warning—no using strength, absolutely no strain.

Tiffany nodded automatically, barely hearing a word.

Walking out of the consultation room, she just wanted to leave the hospital as quickly as possible.

But the universe seemed determined to humiliate her further when she was at her most miserable.

As she passed another hospital room, hushed voices drifted out—voices she recognized instantly. That stopped her in her tracks.

“Hey, Bryce, let go of me. Flynn went to get the CT scans. He’ll be back any minute. If someone sees us like this, it won’t look right.”

Then came Bryce’s low, soothing reply.

“Don’t move. The doctor’s treating it. If it hurts, hold on to me. Be good, Brittany. Just bear with it; it’ll be over soon.”

Tiffany stood frozen outside the door. Only a narrow crack separated them, yet it felt like an unbridgeable distance.

Inside, Brittany leaned against the hospital bed. Her left ankle was supported in the doctor’s hands as ointment was applied.

Bryce held her close, almost enclosing her in his arms. She looked frightened, clinging tightly to his waist.

That sight of them threatened a violent wave of nausea in Tiffany. She had to quickly clamp a hand over her mouth.