He cooked for me every single day—balanced meals, proper nutrition, determined to put weight on my too-thin frame. Whenever the luxury houses released their seasonal collections, he had everything sent to the house before I could even browse the catalogs.
Once, after a trip to Disneyland, I mentioned offhandedly how magical it would be to live in a castle like the fairies did.
He bought land. Built me an estate. A secret sanctuary, just for me.
Everyone in Capital City's elite circles knew how Sebastian Gilbert treated me. It wasn't a secret—it was legend.
He made me bright again. Confident. Even a little spoiled, in ways I'd never imagined possible after everything I'd lost.
On the nights when the grief crept back—when I woke gasping from nightmares of my mother's fall, terrified that Sebastian would leave me too—he would hold me through every sob, every irrational accusation, and repeat the same words with unwavering patience:
"Never worry, Joy. Unless I'm dead, I will never stop loving you."
How was I supposed to let go of that man?
So when he returned from the Maldives with Narelle, I swallowed my pride. I begged.
I dug out my medical records from the hospital—proof that I'd been drugged, proof that I was innocent—and brought them to him.
He wouldn't even look at them.
"Fabricated evidence," he said, his lip curling. "Is there anything you won't do?"
I was out of options. All I could do was dig out the photographs documenting our past—the love letters where we'd poured out our hearts, the gifts and keepsakes that held meaning only for the two of us.
But every item I pulled out, Sebastian burned.
Eventually, I grew desperate enough to put on lingerie and try to seduce him—anything to make the man who was supposed to be my husband stay home for just one night.
Sebastian did pause. For the first time in ages, he moved toward me.
But just as his lips were about to meet mine, he gripped my chin and smiled—a cruel, mocking twist of his mouth.
"Joy, you really are this pathetic, aren't you?"
"Too bad I have standards. I don't touch dirty things."
The next day, he brought Narelle to a charity auction. My intimate photos—the ones I'd sent only to him—had been printed out and placed on the auction block.
When I was dragged into the venue, the first thing I saw was my own image splashed across the massive screen.