Snow in Nancheng

In the darkest year of his life, Alexander Thorne was forced to abandon his first love and marry me in a strategic alliance.

For seven years, we fought. For seven years, he despised me.

He would often curse, "Why don't you just die already, you wicked woman?"

As he wished, I was finally dying.

1

It was the start of winter when a terrible headache sent me to the hospital.

The results came back, but the doctor held the papers tight, refusing to hand them over.

Inside the office, the middle-aged head doctor, dressed in a white coat, spoke again, his expression complex and troubled.