On the war-torn streets overseas, my husband's first love deliberately tripped me, leaving both of us trapped inside the riot zone as gunfire and explosions tore through the city. She lost her beautiful hair in the flames, while I had all ten fingers broken and was forced to crawl on the ground every day, fighting stray dogs for scraps of food just to survive. Yet after we were finally rescued, my husband forced me to shave my head so her hair could be restored. "Ella was dragged into this because of you," he said coldly. "She's too kind to blame you, but I'll get justice for her myself." Later, Ella's long hair returned, soft and beautiful as ever, while I suffered from a rotting scalp, a body covered in scars, and the loss of my third child. By the time my mind was on the verge of collapse, I had finally dragged my broken body away from him and disappeared completely from his life. But in the end, the man who once forced me to cut off my hair was the one kneeling in the pouring rain, clutching those severed strands in his hands as he cried and begged me for forgiveness.