For the first few weeks of their marriage, Clara believed she had made the biggest sacrifice of her life.
Every morning, she woke up inside the enormous Montemayor mansion, surrounded by priceless paintings, marble floors, and servants who treated her like royalty.
But none of it felt like a blessing.
Because every night, she returned to the same bedroom.
The bedroom where Don Baste sat in his wheelchair, eating dinner silently while Clara tried to understand the man she had been forced to marry.
He was everything the rumors said.
Cold.
Difficult.
Demanding.
Sometimes he would purposely spill his drink and watch her reaction.
Sometimes he would complain about the food even when the chef had prepared the finest meals in the country.
Sometimes he would call her name in the middle of the night just to ask for something small.
A glass of water.
A blanket.
A book from the shelf.
Clara knew what he was doing.
He was testing her.
But what confused her was that behind all his cruelty, she saw something else.
Loneliness.
There were moments when Don Baste thought she wasn’t looking.
Moments when his angry expression disappeared and his eyes looked painfully empty.
One afternoon, Clara walked into the mansion’s library and found him staring at an old photograph.
It was a picture of a younger man.
A handsome man.
A man standing beside a woman who looked like his mother.
For a brief second, Clara saw sadness on his face.
Then he quickly covered it.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped.
Clara stepped back.
“I was just looking for a book.”
“You should learn not to enter rooms without permission.”
“I’m sorry.”
She turned to leave.
But before she reached the door, she heard him quietly say:
“Do you really think I’m a monster?”
Clara stopped.
She slowly looked back.
Don Baste was still staring at the photograph.
“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted honestly.
A bitter smile appeared on his face.
“At least you’re honest.”
Clara hesitated.
“People talk about you a lot.”
“I know.”
“They call you terrible names.”
His fingers tightened around the photograph.
“I know.”
“But I don’t think someone is a monster just because people decide they are.”
For the first time since their wedding, Don Baste looked directly at her.
And Clara noticed something strange.
His eyes were not the eyes of a cruel man.
They were the eyes of someone who had been hurt for a very long time.
That night, Clara found a small box outside her bedroom door.
Inside was a diamond bracelet.
Attached was a note.
“Thank you for not looking at me the way everyone else does.”
There was no signature.
But Clara knew exactly who had written it.
Months passed.
Slowly, something changed between them.
Clara stopped seeing Don Baste as the frightening billionaire from the rumors.
She began seeing the man behind the rumors.
She discovered that he secretly paid hospital bills for poor families.
She discovered that he built schools in remote villages but never allowed his name to appear on them.
She discovered that many employees stayed with him for decades—not because they feared him, but because they respected him.
One evening, Clara found Don Baste struggling to move from his wheelchair to his bed.
Without hesitation, she rushed over.
“Let me help you.”
He immediately pushed her hand away.
“No.”
“Don Baste—”
“I said no.”
His voice was harsh.
