Natalie Henson was a woman carved from frost.
For five years, I handled every mundane detail of her life with obsessive precision. I anticipated her needs before she knew them herself. Only then did she tolerate my existence.
To my friends, the iceberg had melted.
She treated me differently than the rest of the world, they argued. She couldn't remember her own birthday, yet she could recite mine. When I looked like a walking corpse from exhaustion, she would tell me to go home and rest.
For a woman known for her taciturn, icy demeanor, that was practically a love sonnet.
But only I knew the truth.
She had never celebrated a single birthday with me. Every year, a cold bank transfer notification appeared on my phone:
*【I hate the hassle. Buy yourself something.】*
And that "concern" for my health? She only sent me home because I had stayed awake for seventy-two hours straight organizing her negotiation documents, resulting in a fever so high I was delirious.
During those three days of sick leave, my phone remained silent. She never asked how I was.
Not once.
As for how I became the fiancé she acknowledged? It wasn't love.
It was guilt.
Six months ago, Natalie's parents were kidnapped.