Yet he was still willing to tolerate, accept, and forgive me.
That alone proved he loved me.
But that so‑called love
sounded like a threat.
If it were the old Wendy, she would’ve raged, fought back, made a scene to the bitter end.
But after being crushed again and again by fate,
I was afraid.
I realized my life was completely in Lucas’s hands.
My future, my happiness, and sorrow,
all decided by him.
So I did as he wanted.
I learned my lesson.
At meals, I pretended not to see the elegant Sophia sitting across from me.
I silently swallowed whatever they put on my plate.
Even when my stomach was already sick.
Even when my heart was lodged in my throat.
I didn’t dare show even a trace of irritation.
Because I was terrified—terrified of that abyss of uncertainty.
Compared to the leaves and filth I ate while held captive,
forcing down the food in front of me was nothing.
I tried my best to play the obedient, docile wife, burying all my pride and temper.
But there was one thing I couldn’t do.
I couldn’t accept intimacy with Lucas.
Every touch, every breath against my skin,
dragged me back to those hellish fifteen days.
Back to those kidnappers crawling over me.
I was terrified.
Terrified of remembering.