A decade had slipped by since the devastating accident that stole Theodore Whitmore's beloved wife. From that moment on, he withdrew from the Whitmore family, retreating into solitude at a crumbling clinic on the city's forgotten edges. The once warm-hearted man had grown sharp-edged and unpredictable.

The clinic, wedged between decaying buildings, was rarely visited. Patients were scarce in such a desolate place, and those who dared to seek his help were often chased off by Theodore's biting remarks. In truth, an entire year had passed without a single soul stepping through his doors.

But Theodore didn’t care. He hadn’t come here to heal others—he had come to guard the remnants of his late wife’s memory. Yet, brilliance like his couldn’t stay hidden forever. Whispers of his unparalleled skill eventually spread like wildfire.

That was when he met Amy Sinclair.

In his long life, Theodore had crossed paths with countless people, but none quite like Amy. Her resilience was unmatched, her determination unshakable. It made sense—without that iron will, she never could have endured her reckless husband for so long.

In her spare time, Amy often visited the clinic, bringing homemade pastries and warm tea. Theodore wasn’t one for polite refusals—if something displeased him, he’d bluntly declare it unfit for even a stray dog.

Yet Amy never flinched. With an easy smile, she’d ask, "Mr. Whitmore, what would you prefer? I’ll do better next time."

Unfiltered as ever, Theodore would list his exact preferences, and Amy would jot them down in a small notebook she kept just for him. Over time, she perfected recipes tailored to his tastes.

When winter crept in, she knitted gloves—one pair for her husband, Alexander, and always an extra for Theodore. To Amy, he was like a gruff but golden-hearted grandfather. And Theodore knew her kindness was genuine.

Before returning to the Whitmore family, Theodore intended to give Amy a parting gift. But fate had other plans—Nathan Prescott arrived at his doorstep, presenting an opportunity too perfect to ignore.

"Amy," Theodore murmured, voice laced with mischief, "does Victoria truly have some incurable disease?"

He scoffed. "Of course not. Does she look like she’s on death’s door, prancing around like that?"

Amy wasn’t surprised. "Then why keep her secret? Why not expose her lies?"

Theodore shrugged. "Those two fools are so bewitched they wouldn’t believe me even if I screamed myself hoarse. A few fake tears, and they’re putty in her hands."

Amy had to admit—Theodore had a gift for seeing through facades. "Victoria’s nothing but trouble. You shouldn’t let her stay."

But Theodore kept her around precisely because it infuriated Nathan and Alexander, neither of whom had patience for anyone who crossed Victoria.

"I’ve met every kind of woman in my time," Theodore sneered. "Her type? Common as dirt. The way they flaunt their arrogance in public tells you exactly how unbearable they are behind closed doors."

"What I can’t stand," he added, "is their selfishness masquerading as kindness—pretending they’re doing the world a favor."