Episode 1

"Don't expect me to take a single step towards the altar if that certificate isn't in my hands."

Ziva stared at her reflection in the dressing mirror. The white wedding gown that draped her body felt like a shroud, constricting and cold. Behind her, a middle-aged man in an expensive, slightly tight suit seemed to grit his teeth. His face was flushed red with suppressed anger.

"Don't play crazy, Ziva! The invited guests have arrived. The Drystan family is waiting in front. Do you want to embarrass Uncle Haryo, huh?!" her uncle snapped, his voice restrained, afraid of being heard by people outside the room.

Ziva turned her body, looking straight into her uncle's eyes without the slightest fear. "Embarrass? You're the one gambling with your own life by selling your niece to pay off gambling debts. If I call off the wedding, who will the Drystan people chop up? Me or you?"

Haryo fell silent. Cold sweat began to trickle down his temples. He knew Ziva wasn't bluffing. This niece of his may seem calm, but her brain works at lightning speed.

"Attorney Salim!" Ziva called out, ignoring Haryo's ragged breathing.

A bespectacled man who had been standing stiffly in the corner of the room stepped forward. He opened his briefcase with trembling hands. "The documents are ready, Miss Ziva. The house certificate in your parents' name, the title transfer deed, and the deed of release of rights from Mr. Haryo."

"What are you waiting for? Give it to her!" Haryo snatched the documents roughly from the lawyer's hand and threw them onto the dressing table in front of Ziva. "Are you satisfied? You ungrateful child! You've been taken care of since you were little, now you're extorting your own uncle."

Ziva didn't care about the curses. Her slender fingers—the fingers of a surgeon accustomed to holding a scalpel—were now carefully turning each page of the document. She checked the stamps, signatures, and authenticity of the certificate paper. There were no loopholes. Her parents' legacy was safe.

Ziva took a pen, signed the receipt section, then put the valuable certificate into her wedding clutch.

"Our business is done," Ziva muttered coldly. She stood up, adjusting the veil on her head. "Remember, Uncle. After this moment, I'm no longer your concern. And don't you ever dare set foot in my house again."

Haryo snorted roughly, then signaled to the wedding organizer to open the door. "Hurry up. Don't be a disgrace."

The wedding procession proceeded at lightning speed, as if everyone wanted to end it quickly.

There were no touching vows, no loving gazes. All there were were appraising glances from the whispering wedding guests, mocking Ziva's fate of having to marry a "crippled monster" from the Drystan family for wealth.

Ziva didn't care. She just stood up straight, saying "I do" in a flat tone as if ordering coffee, then let herself be ushered into the black limousine that would take her to her new hell.

The journey to the Drystan Family's main residence felt silent. The driver in front didn't say a word.

Ziva leaned her head against the car window, staring at the tall buildings rushing outside. She didn't cry.

Her tears had dried up since the day of her parents' funeral. Now, all that was left was logic.

The car stopped in front of a gloomy, classic European-style mansion. The yard was spacious, filled with neatly trimmed but rigid trees.

"Please get out, Miss," the driver said while opening the door.

A middle-aged female servant with a stiff face was already waiting in front of the main door. Without a smile, without a warm welcome. "Come with me. Mr. Elzian doesn't like to wait."

Ziva followed the servant's steps along a long corridor with cold marble floors. The walls were filled with abstract paintings that added to the house's eerie impression.

There were no family photos. No fresh flower vases.

This house was dead.

"This is Mr. Elzian's room. He's inside," said the servant, stopping in front of a large double teak wood door. The servant didn't even bother opening the door. She immediately turned away, as if afraid of being infected with bad luck if she lingered there.

Ziva took a deep breath. Here it is, she thought. Part of the agreement. She had gotten her house back, now she had to face her 'buyer'.

Her hand reached out to turn the cold doorknob. The door opened silently, its hinges perfectly oiled.

The room was spacious and dimly lit. The window curtains were tightly closed, blocking the afternoon sunlight. The air inside felt several degrees colder than outside, with a faint antiseptic smell mixed with a masculine cinnamon aroma.

Ziva stepped inside, the sound of her high heels muffled by the thick carpet. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for her husband.

In the corner of the room, near the closed window, a wheelchair was facing away from her.

A man sat there, motionless like a statue. His back was straight, too straight for someone who was reportedly completely paralyzed and dying.

"Close the door," the voice sounded low, heavy, and full of dominance. Not a request, but an absolute command.

Ziva pushed the door closed with a soft click. Her heart beat a little faster, not because of fear, but because of the adrenaline she usually felt before performing a difficult operation.

The wheelchair slowly turned.

Ziva held her breath. The man, Elzian Drystan, was looking at her. His face was handsome but hard, with a firm jaw that seemed carved from granite. But the most intimidating thing was his eyes. Those eyes were dark, sharp, and cold, staring at Ziva as if she were a germ that had to be eradicated, not a wife.

There was no tenderness in that gaze. There was only intense hatred.

"Get out. You think I'll touch you?" Elzian's voice broke the silence, chilling to the bone. "I'm paralyzed."

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