Watching Clara's straight back and resolute figure disappear around the corner of the hospital corridor, Liam frowned deeply, a lingering unease and... a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in his heart. This was the first time Clara had so clearly and thoroughly rebelled against him; there were no tears, no questions, only a cold, aloof indifference. This feeling of being out of control made him extremely displeased.
“Liam,” Vanessa gently took his arm again, tilting her head back. Her carefully drawn eyes were now red and brimming with tears that threatened to fall. Her voice was choked with just the right amount of sob and unease. “I…did I say something wrong? Did I upset Clara and make you two argue…”
Liam withdrew his gaze and looked down at the pitiful Vanessa beside him. The strange feeling he had felt for Clara was instantly replaced by pity. He softened his tone, reached out and gently patted the back of her hand, and comforted her, "It's okay, don't think too much about it. She's just acting strangely today, like she's swallowed a bomb, all prickly. It has nothing to do with you."
After saying that, he turned and walked into the emergency room with Vanessa's help, completely forgetting the disheveled figure of him leaving alone.
Stepping out of the hospital, the cold night wind, carrying the chill of early autumn, hit Clara involuntarily. She shivered and instinctively pulled her thin, wrinkled dress, already soaked with alcohol, tighter around herself. The streets were empty, the streetlights dim, casting a long, lonely shadow of hers. She didn't stop, walking straight to her car parked in the corner, opening the door, and getting in. The enclosed space seemed to still hold a faint scent of the fragrance she had carefully chosen before her birthday party, but now it only felt ironic.
She drove back to the luxurious villa nestled halfway up the mountain, which she had once considered her "home." Pushing open the heavy, ornate door, she was greeted only by a deathly silence and icy air. She didn't turn on the lights, but instead, using the faint moonlight filtering through the window, she slowly walked to the center of the living room, taking a deep, greedy breath, as if trying to capture even a trace of the false warmth that had once existed here. However, all she inhaled was emptiness and chill.
It turns out that the warm haven she had carefully cultivated and cherished was nothing more than wishful thinking on her part, a magnificent prison.
Since that's the case, then she will leave, withdraw completely, and let Liam and Vanessa's "happily ever after" be fulfilled.
Exhausted, she dragged herself up the spiral staircase and into the master bedroom. Without a second glance at the room filled with three years of memories, she went straight to the bathroom, quickly washed up, changed into clean pajamas, and then, like a caged animal drained of all its strength, buried herself in the large but cold double bed. The physical pain and mental exhaustion quickly lulled her into a deep sleep.
When Clara woke up the next day, it was already bright outside. She instinctively reached out and touched the spot beside her—it was cold and flat. Liam hadn't come home all night. This realization, like the last cold boulder, sank into the once tranquil lake of her heart.
She picked up her phone, which was charging on the bedside table. The moment the screen unlocked, a message from an unknown number, but with highly targeted content, immediately caught her eye:
[Miss Clara, so what if you're married into the Foster family? It must be tough maintaining an empty marriage, right? Liam has only ever loved me. Last night, he even neglected your birthday party and your injuries for me. Look, he's sleeping so peacefully beside me.]
The accompanying photos were carefully selected and extremely insulting: one was a candid shot of Liam tightly protecting Vanessa behind him while he was fighting with someone at the airport; another was a close-up photo of the two holding hands tightly in a hospital room, with the veins on the back of their hands clearly visible; and the last photo was a profile of Liam sleeping with his eyes closed, with long, feminine hair scattered on his pillow, against a background that was clearly the warm lighting of a hotel room.
Looking at these blatantly provocative photos, Clara's heart remained completely unmoved. She merely frowned, feeling a slight annoyance at this clumsy and hasty tactic. Just as she was about to raise her hand to block and delete the message and the number, the bedroom door clicked open from the outside.
"Honey? Why are you awake so early? Does your hand still hurt?"
