My boyfriend Harold broke my hand and shared my private photos online, just on the day I was about to tell him I was pregnant. “Heavily used. Fr ee.”I saw the words beside the photos. It was all because his adoptive sister accused me of causing her STD. "She spiraled into depression and almost killed herself because of your wrong misdiagnose," he said, running his fingers through my hair. " Apologize to her right now. If she's willing to forgive you, I'll still marry you." I insisted I hadn't done it and wouldn't apologize. Convinced otherwise, he tossed me into a room full of men, locked the door, and walked away. I screamed and struggled, in my tears and blood, I saw someone broke into the door, "She is mine now."

Chapter 1

After the breakup, I left the military in secret. My right hand crippled and my legs paralyzed, I assumed a new identity and opened a small pharmacy near the border.

Five years later, Harold walked into my store—just after a young officer who came for medicine told me that Harold had never married and had been waiting for me all these years.

Every head in the room instinctively turned toward him.

Five years apart, and he was still as striking as ever, his uniform impeccably sharp.

The sharp edges of his youth had worn away, replaced by a quiet, steady authority.

He watched me for a long time, his expression hesitant, as if he had countless things he wanted to say. In the end, he only said softly, "It's been a while, Flo."

"Yeah. It's been a long time," I replied lightly, my face betraying none of the emotions a long-awaited reunion might stir.

Five years ago, Winona claimed I had prescribed a substandard ointment that gave her an STD.

Harold flew into a rage.

He bro