For three years, Jonah was my husband, but our marriage had never been about love.

It was an arrangement.

My younger brother needed expensive medical treatment, and my family was drowning in bills. Jonah needed a wife to fulfill an inheritance requirement.

We agreed to marry for three years, live independent lives, and divorce when the contract ended.

He kept every promise. My brother received treatment, my mother kept her home, and I finally found financial stability.

But we never shared a real marriage.

When our divorce became official, we signed the papers, thanked each other, and walked away.

I thought that was the end.

Two weeks later, Jonah appeared at my apartment carrying a small velvet box.

“I need to tell you something,” he whispered.

Then he asked, “Do you remember the hospital waiting room eight years ago?”

My stomach tightened.

He described the exact day I had sat beside my sick brother, desperately trying to hide my tears.

“How do you know about that?” I asked.

Jonah looked into my eyes.

“Because that was the day I first fell in love with you.”

Continue below in Part 2