Chapter 1

Prologue

I loved Logan for three years. I did his laundry, cooked his meals, stayed up all night drawing architectural sketches for him, and put everything about him before myself.

Until the day I found a sketchbook in his study—one he had treasured for seven years.

Inside were dozens of drawings, every single one of the same woman.

On the final page, written in his own hand: *My love.*

I finally understood why, in three years together, he had never once agreed to draw me.

The bitter irony was the scar on his wrist, cut so deep it had nearly sliced to the bone. He had brushed it off as an accident.

Then I learned that seven years ago, to save that woman, he had nearly destroyed the hand he cherished most in this world.

It turned out he wasn't someone who didn't know how to love.

He had just never loved me.

Mia's POV

Logan’s study was draped in cold tones. Minimalist black, white, and gray decor, just like the man himself—rational, almost bloodlessly restrained.

I had only gone in there to find that Berlin architectural design portfolio.

Tomorrow was bid day for a major project at Logan’s firm. He’d left in a hurry this morning and messaged me, asking if I could bring the portfolio to his office.

Crouched in front of the massive dark walnut bookcase, my fingertips slid across the neatly aligned spines until I finally spotted the portfolio in a corner on the bottom shelf.

I reached out to pull it. Because the books were wedged together so tightly, the neighboring reference folders loosened, and a black sketchbook slipped out from the gap, tumbling to the floor.

It was worn, the edges frayed, its cover fitted with a small brass clasp. The lock had broken long ago, and as it hit the floor, it fell open to the first page.

My hands froze.

It was a charcoal sketch. The girl in the drawing had a clean, sharp jawline, her head tilted slightly upward, the wind catching the loose strands around her ear. She wasn't looking at the camera—or rather, not looking at the artist—leaving only a striking, unapologetic profile.

In the bottom right corner, dated seven years ago in autumn, was an effortless initial: *L.*

My heart skipped a beat. I’d seen Logan’s drawings before. As a top-tier architect in the industry, his pencil produced nothing but cold steel and concrete, precise geometric lines, and detached architectural perspectives.

He had told me once: "I only draw buildings, not living things. People are too complicated. You can't capture their lines."

Yet here, the man who claimed he didn't draw living things had captured a girl's profile with such breathtaking beauty.

My fingertips went ice-cold. I knew snooping into someone’s privacy was wrong, but my hand turned to the second page entirely beyond my control.

It was the same girl. This time, she was looking down at a book, long hair falling forward, the bridge of her nose delicate and high.

On the third page, she was dozing against an easel.

On the fourth, she was laughing.

An entire sketchbook. Dozens of drawings, progressing from raw technique to effortless mastery, transitioning from charcoal to watercolor. The girl in the sketches was always vibrant, expressive, alive with an easy, careless confidence.

I turned page after page, my breath catching in my throat.

Until I reached the very last one.

It was a view of her from behind. She was wearing an oversized men's white dress shirt, standing before a floor-to-ceiling window, the sunlight tracing a rim of gold around her silhouette.

In the bottom right corner, there was no date. Only Logan's sharp, incisive handwriting: *My love.*

A deafening roar erupted in my head. Everything shattered, and my ears rang relentlessly.

I stared at that paper, my eyes burning with a stinging ache, yet not a single tear fell.

My name is Mia. In our three years together, during those rare, fleeting moments of intimacy, Logan would lean close to my ear, his voice low and raspy as he murmured, "Mia." I had thought it was a tenderness reserved only for me—the sole warmth beneath his hardened exterior.

Now, looking at those written words and that completely unfamiliar silhouette, it all felt absurd.

...He had never loved me. Not for a single second.

I collapsed onto the carpet, my gaze involuntarily drifting toward the desk in the corner of the study. Three days ago had been Logan’s thirtieth birthday. For that gift, I had stayed up late for three straight months. I had traveled all across the city, visiting every landmark building Logan had ever helped design. Using the hands of a fashion designer, I had taught myself how to sketch architecture. A thick callus had formed on my middle finger from gripping pencils for hours. I had developed severe neck pain from the sleepless nights, nearly fainting in the kitchen on the day of his birthday.