Chapter 1
My name is Blake Bowers. I'm 29 years old.
Three years ago, I was still the heir to the Bowers Group—wealthy, successful, and with a future that looked unstoppable.
Then my father died in a car crash. His body wasn't even cold when, at the shareholders' meeting, my uncle teamed up with the board to oust me in one swift move.
All my accounts were frozen. My mother had passed away years before. Friends and relatives vanished overnight, treating me like a walking curse.
Everyone said I was done for.
Everyone except her—Claire Terry. She was the only one who reached out and took my cold, shaking hand.
She said, "Even if the whole world turns its back on you, I won't."
That day, I bowed before her parents and swore that I'd start over from nothing. That as long as I could marry her, I'd never give up—no matter how broke I was.
Her mother smashed a bowl on the spot and shouted that I was daydreaming.
Her father frowned and said coldly, "If you really love her, give her a wedding she can be proud of. Don't come back here and embarrass us."
And I believed him.
For the next 1,085 days, I gave it everything I had.
Up at five to deliver food. In the afternoons, I installed air conditioners. At night, I fixed phones at a street stall. On weekends, I picked up whatever jobs I could—cleaning cars, hauling bricks, even filling in as a sparring partner at gyms. My hands grew thick with calluses. My back gave out. Once, I nearly coughed up blood at a construction site.
I scrimped and saved every penny, all for today—our wedding day.
I wanted to give her the best, no matter how many people laughed at me.
I thought she was worth it.
I was such a fool.
The wedding was set for six this evening, at the Terry family's private villa.
I wore a black suit I found at a night market. It didn't quite fit around the collar, but I ironed it until it looked sharp.
The shoes were knockoff leather "business style" I bought online for 70 dollars. I spent half an hour in front of the mirror, making sure they looked decent with the suit.
The rings—I bought with my own hard-earned money. Just a simple pair of sterling silver bands, nothing flashy, but I had them custom-engraved with her initials.
It cost me a month of skipped dinners.
I stood at the front door and knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again. Still nothing.
Feeling awkward, I pushed the door open. I thought I'd surprise her.
But the moment I stepped inside, I froze.
There she was—Claire—in a snow-white mermaid-style wedding dress. The beaded shawl shimmered under the chandelier.
Her makeup was flawless. She was smiling softly… leaning into the arms of another man—Rubin Fry.
I knew him.
My rival from high school. Stole my project in college. Humiliated me in public more than once.
The kind of guy who always stood out—confident, rich, well-connected, good-looking. He was now the newly hired investment consultant for the Terry Group.
I stood there in the doorway, looking like the punchline to someone's cruel joke.
No one greeted me.
No one even looked surprised.
Until Rubin smiled, gave her waist a pat, and said under his breath, "Your groom's here."
Only then did the room slowly turn to face me.
In that moment, the air went still.
Claire's smile faltered for a split second, but she quickly recovered—like nothing had happened.
She looked at me and said lightly, "You're here."
I tightened my grip on the ring box, lips pale. "What… what does this mean?"
Rubin answered for her, "Isn't it obvious? She chose me. Makes sense, doesn't it? You're a delivery guy—what makes you think she should've waited three years for you?
"Claire wasn't waiting for your comeback. She was waiting for me to come home."
I looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time.
She lowered her eyes and let out a small laugh. "I tried. I really tried to love you. But you'd come home every night reeking of sweat and motor oil. Dinner was always pasta, takeout, or some yellowing electricity bill on the table.
"Even just sitting across from you was exhausting.
"You're not good enough."