Out of all of Bradley Barton’s admirers, I am the most unremarkable one. But somehow, I’m the only one who makes the aloof, untouchable god step down from his pedestal. Everyone is jealous, wondering how someone as plain as me manages to win the heart of the wealthy heir. He says, “You’re special.” But not long after we get married, I catch him in bed with someone else. I don’t scream or cry. I calmly ask for a divorce. He, on the other hand, stands there holding his gentle, sweet lover and sneers at me with disgust. “No one wants a broke, pathetic woman like you. If your face didn’t look a little like hers, I wouldn’t have even glanced at you!” I throw the wedding ring away and walk out without hesitation. He keeps shouting behind me, trying to humiliate me even more. “Without me, you’re nothing but damaged goods. Go out there and see if anyone dares to touch a woman I’ve already used.” He thinks I’ll come crawling back. But aside from the day we sign the divorce papers, I never reach out to him again. A year later, who would’ve thought he’d be kneeling in the snow, clutching a wedding ring and sobbing, “Elizabeth, I finally realize—you’re the only one I truly love. Please, give me another chance!” Before I can reject him, the true head of the Barton family—Bradley’s uncle—pulls me into his arms with an air of authority and says, “She’s your aunt now.”