I was born simple. The day my parents stripped me naked and placed me on the auction block, Mark happened to be passing by.

He idly tossed out a staggering nine hundred million to pull me from that stage, then told me:

“From now on, you’re Sharon. No one will dare bully you again.”

So even after the Corwin empire fell, I still followed loyally behind Mark.

When despair drove him toward the river to end it all, I prepared to follow.

But after that day, Mark found his footing again.

It took him two years to rebuild the Corwin commercial empire.

And just as he’d placed me on a pedestal—his cherished princess—

a woman named Andrea appeared.

She said if I slashed my face, Mark would like me even more.

I believed her. But Mark flew into a rage and locked me in a dark room.

…

For the first eighteen years of my life, I had no name—only the label “Dog.”

My birth parents claimed I was born slow, worse than a dog, and kept me only to sell someday for the right price.

That day finally arrived.

They stripped me bare and pushed me onto the gilded auction stage like a lifeless object.

Harsh spotlights beat down. I shrank back, trying to hide behind my long hair, until the host yanked it away.

Below waited countless eyes—greedy, amused, disdainful.

Those gazes pricked my skin like needles. It hurt.

I couldn’t understand what they were shouting. The soaring numbers meant nothing to me.

All I knew was fear—a bone-deep, desperate urge to flee.

Just as despair tightened its grip and my tears threatened to fall, a cool, clear voice cut through the noise.

“Half a billion.”

The hall fell silent.

I looked toward the voice and saw him.

He sat in a second-floor private box, backlit. I couldn’t make out his face—only the sharp profile silhouetted against the box lights, and the glowing tip of a cigarette between his fingers.

The man beside him seemed to be advising against it, but Mark just waved a dismissive hand.

The host’s voice cracked with excitement. “Half a billion! Any advance?”

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

“Is that the Corwin heir? Has he lost his mind?”

“A simpleton—worth that much?”

“You don’t get it. Some men pay for that.”

I didn’t understand the crude words, but I felt it—this man had silenced them all.

“Half a billion, going once… going twice…”

“Nine hundred million.”

Again he spoke, his voice edged with lazy finality.

The hall went utterly still.

The gavel fell. My fate was sealed.

Two burly men led me to his private box.

The door closed. Shoved inside, I stumbled to my knees on the plush carpet.

Terrified, I looked up—and for the first time saw his face clearly.

Handsome. Aloof. An iceberg that would never melt.

His eyes were depthless, a starless night, giving nothing away.

He stubbed out his cigarette. “Name?” he asked slowly, his voice colder than before.

I stared blankly and shook my head.

The man beside him—an assistant, it seemed—hurried forward with a file. “Mr. Corwin, she’s registered as Sharon. But she’s… not all there. Hasn’t been since childhood. Her parents just called her ‘the fool.’”

Mark’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

He stood, his tall frame looming over me, casting a long shadow.

He took off his suit jacket and tossed it over me, covering my nakedness.

The jacket was large, warm, carrying a faint scent of tobacco and something cool and clean—his scent.

“From now on,” he said, looking down at me, his tone allowing no argument, “your name is Sharon. Stay with me. No one will dare bully you again.”

I nodded, though I barely understood.

In that moment, I didn’t yet know this man, Mark Corwin, would become the only light in my life—and the very nightmare that would one day shove me into endless darkness.

Mark never lied to me.

He brought me to his villa, a house as grand as any palace, and gave me a beautiful room filled with dolls and new clothes. He hired the best doctors to treat me and the kindest nannies to care for me.

He taught me how to use a spoon, patted my back awkwardly when I had nightmares, and told me stories I couldn’t understand. Everyone in the villa treated me with reverence. No one ever called me “the idiot” again—only “Miss Sharon.”

My life felt as though it had been pulled from a filthy swamp and placed upon a soft cloud.

But my mind remained foggy. I couldn’t learn complex words or remember intricate rules. All I could do was follow him, like a stray puppy trailing its rescuer.

Wherever he went, I followed. During his meetings, I’d wait on the rug outside the door. When he ate, I sat across from him, slowly mimicking his movements. And when he slept, I curled up on the little blanket outside his bedroom.

Once, he tried locking me in my room. I cried and banged my head against the door until, wearily, he opened it and gathered me into his arms.

“Sharon, you’re such a little troublemaker,” he sighed, though his voice held no blame. I’d bury my face in his chest, breathing in his clean scent, feeling utterly safe.

Mark was my entire world.

That life lasted about a year.

Then, without warning, my world collapsed.

I didn’t understand what had happened. I only knew that one day, many people came to the villa. They took away all the beautiful things. Mark locked himself in his study and didn’t come out for three days and three nights.

When I was hungry, I scavenged in the kitchen. When I was tired, I slept outside the study door.

On the fourth day, the door opened.

Mark emerged, his face pale as paper, a shadow of stubble along his jaw. The eyes that once held stars were now utterly lifeless.

He saw me, paused, then crouched down and patted my head.

“Sharon,” he said, his voice terribly hoarse. “The family… we’re bankrupt.”

I didn’t understand what “bankrupt” meant. I only saw the light in his eyes had gone out.

We moved from the grand villa into a small, damp apartment. The place was old, with paint peeling from the walls. Mark’s legs—broken during whatever had happened—kept him in a wheelchair, silently staring out the window.

All the people who once bowed to him vanished. In their place came thugs who pounded on our door, demanding money. They smashed the little furniture we had, pointing at Mark and cursing him.

Every time, I’d rush forward, spread my arms wide to shield him, and snarl like a mother hen protecting her chick. They’d laugh, call me an idiot, and shove me aside.

But Mark would always pull me behind him, shielding me with his broken body.

Once, protecting me, a creditor smashed a bottle against his head. Blood streamed down his temple, staining half his face. Terrified, I cried and tried to lick the wound, tasting salt and iron. He laughed—the first time since it all happened—and with his uninjured hand, wiped my tears. “Don’t cry, Sharon. It doesn’t hurt.”

But I knew it did.

From that day on, I learned to care for him. I learned to cook, though I always burned the rice to mush and charred the vegetables black. I learned to dress his wounds, though I always hurt him. He never complained. He’d finish every bite of the inedible food I made and praise me: “Our Sharon is so amazing.”

In those darkest, most hopeless days, we had only each other.

I thought it would always be like that.

Until the day I pushed him home from the hospital with his new medicine. We found our apartment ransacked. Mark, clutching the bag of money meant for his treatment, was surrounded by creditors.

“Mark, don’t push your luck! Pay up today, or we’ll sell your little idiot to the brothel!”

I hid behind Mark, trembling.

He clutched the money to his chest, eyes bloodshot as he roared, “Come at me! Leave her alone!”

“Oho, protective, aren’t we?” the leader sneered, reaching out to grab me.

In that moment, I saw Mark’s eyes change—a look of despair, madness, and utter ruin. He threw himself from his wheelchair and lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the man’s wrist.

Everyone was stunned by his ferocity.

In the chaos, we escaped.

That night, we were penniless and homeless. Mark pushed his wheelchair, leading me to the riverbank. The night wind was cold, and I shivered. He took off his only decent coat—the thickest one he had—and draped it over my shoulders.

For a long, long time, he stared into the dark river.

Then he turned to me with a smile so gentle it broke my heart.

“Sharon, I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t protect you anymore.”

With that, he steered his wheelchair straight toward the river.

My mind went blank with a deafening buzz. I didn’t understand death—only that Mark didn’t want me anymore. He was going to abandon me, just like my parents had.

A terror I’d never known seized me. Screaming, without a second thought, I jumped in after him.

Icy water swallowed me instantly. I couldn’t swim, just flailed helplessly. Before everything faded, I saw Mark moving with frantic, desperate energy, swimming toward me, grabbing my hand.

We were pulled out. Mark held my soaked body and sat by the riverbank all night, shaking harder than I was.

As dawn approached, he held me tighter, as if trying to press me into his very bones.

“Sharon,” he murmured over and over in my ear. “I was wrong. I’ll never leave you again. For you, I’ll live. I’ll live.”

From that day, Mark changed. The deadness in his eyes was replaced by a burning fire. He began working desperately, taking any dirty, exhausting job he could find.

In three years, he went from a penniless cripple to rebuilding a business empire. We moved back into a villa even larger and more beautiful than before. His legs healed. He could stand again, hold me in his arms once more.

He spoiled me like a princess. Everyone said Mr. Mark valued his idiot more than his own life.

I thought, after all the bitterness, only sweetness remained.

I was wrong.

The real nightmare was just beginning.

After Mark’s comeback, his social calendar filled rapidly—and he began taking me everywhere with him.

He would dress me up like a doll, take my hand, and introduce me to each new face. “This is Sharon,” he’d say. “My love.”

People would look surprised, then quickly offer smiles and compliments. Pretty, they called me. Adorable.

I knew what they were really thinking.

For a long time now, strange colored words had drifted now and then before my eyes.

【A fool like her—worthy of Mark?】

【Just playing pitiful… scheming underneath.】

【Poor Mark, stuck with such dead weight.】

These words hovered like ghosts only I could see.

They showed me people’s true thoughts.

I couldn’t grasp complicated sentences, but I felt the malice seeping from them.

Scared, I’d shrink deeper into Mark’s side.

He would hold me tighter, sweep the room with an icy glare, and the words would vanish. “Don’t be afraid, Sharon,” he always murmured. “I’m here.”

I believed him.

Until Andrea appeared.

It happened at a charity gala.

Andrea wore white, her long hair flowing, smiling with a gentle grace as she walked straight toward us.

“Mark,” she said, her voice lovely. “Long time no see.”

I felt Mark stiffen beside me the moment she spoke.

He looked at her with a complicated expression—nostalgia, resentment, and something else I couldn’t name.

“Why are you back?” His voice was cold.

Andrea smiled, her gaze settling on me. “To see you. And to meet… this young lady.”

Above her head, words floated into view.

【So this is the fool? Pretty, but empty. How could Mark want this?】

【Doesn’t matter. Soon, he’ll be back with me.】

A sense of danger prickled over me. Instinctively, I tightened my grip on Mark’s sleeve.

Noticing my unease, he pulled me into his arms and said to Andrea, “We’re over. Stay out of my life.”

Then he turned and led me away.

Glancing back, I saw Andrea’s smile vanish—replaced by pure venom.

I thought that was the end.

But Andrea clung to us like a stubborn shadow, appearing more and more in our lives.

She “ran into” us while shopping. Visited our home as Mark’s old friend. Gave me beautiful gift after gift.

She was so nice to me—so nice that everyone thought her kind and generous.

Only I could see the vicious words above her head.

【Fools are so easy. A few trinkets and she thinks I’m a saint.】

【Just watch, Mark. I’ll show you—the one you cherish is just a mimicking monster. She doesn’t understand love at all.】

Little by little, she began leaving hints in front of Mark.

“Mark, your Sharon is adorable. She copies everything you do—you drink coffee, she drinks coffee; you frown, she frowns. I suppose that’s how she shows affection?”

“Look, she barely glanced at the doll I gave her. She only cares about what comes from you. Like a kitten that knows only its owner.”

At first, Mark would just frown and tell her not to talk nonsense.

But slowly, I noticed a new look in his eyes when he watched me—a hint of scrutiny, of doubt.

He started asking me out of nowhere, “Sharon, do you love me?”

I’d nod hard. “Love. Sharon loves Mark.”

“How?”

I didn’t know how to answer. I could only hug him clumsily and kiss his cheek.

He would hug me back, but in his deep eyes lingered a weariness—a disappointment I couldn’t understand.

The subtitles above my head grew stranger, too.

【The male lead is doubting now. Does a fool truly understand love, or is it just dependency and imitation?】

【Here it comes—the heartbreak arc begins.】

I couldn’t decipher these words, but I could feel something shifting quietly, irrevocably.

Mark seemed to be drifting further and further away.