Everyone in the hospital room turned at the sound.
Ethan's eyes met Clarissa's, and a flicker of guilt crossed his face—gone so fast she might've imagined it.
His arm snaked around Nina's waist, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Why'd you take so long? The surgery's done already!"
He nuzzled into Nina like a puppy seeking warmth. "It hurts so bad. Blow on it for me? Please, fiancée?"
Nina's cheeks flushed crimson. "Ethan, how many times do I have to tell you—Clarissa is your fiancée!"
Watching tears pool in Nina's eyes, something like reluctance flickered across his face.
The words formed on his tongue, but what came out was: "I don't know her. Tell her to get out."
Clarissa never imagined this. The man she'd loved for over ten years—his amnesia was an act.
Her throat closed. She couldn't force out a single word.
A childhood friend rushed to smooth things over. "Clarissa, don't worry. He loves you so much, he'll definitely—"
"I really don't know him." Her voice came out cold, slicing through his fumbling reassurance.
Under everyone's stunned stares, she turned and walked out.
She moved so fast they didn't even have time to react.
"Ethan, I told you that you were pushing it too far. Careful—she might actually leave you this time."
Ethan's lips curved. His fingers traced lazily along Nina's curves. "Relax. She's easy to coax. One crook of my finger and she'll come crawling back."
Outside the hospital, Clarissa sucked in a deep breath.
The scene replayed behind her eyes. The wedding she'd dreamed of for so long—over before it even began.
Fine. Then she had no reason to stay.
She dialed her advisor's number. "Professor, that research project you mentioned—can I still join?"
A pause on the other end. "Clarissa, aren't you about to get married? That's three years of closed research. Would your fiancé agree?"
Laughable, really.
She'd chosen medicine for Ethan. Hundreds of sleepless nights perfecting his prescriptions. Drowning in experimental data. And in his mouth, she'd become a boring, old-fashioned woman.
Her voice came out hoarse but steady. "Don't worry, Professor. I've made up my mind."
She didn't know how she made it back outside.
When she'd rushed to the hospital, her makeup was only half done. Now she stared at her reflection in a storefront window.
Mascara streaked down her cheeks. She looked ridiculous. Like a clown.
Over ten years together. They'd finally made it.
Ethan Vance—celebrated as a genius painter—had been shattered in childhood when his mother abandoned him. After that, he couldn't touch a brush. His once-flamboyant personality dimmed. He locked away his sharpness, even his smile.
Clarissa was the one who stayed. Who walked him through recovery, piece by piece. Who chose a medical major she hated, wasn't good at—all for him.
Through sheer determination, she helped him break free. He picked up the brush again.
That small step took her five years.
The day Ethan won the grand prize, he proposed on stage. In front of everyone.
She thought that was their happy ending.
She didn't expect Nina Winfield to suddenly return from abroad—bringing news of Margaret Vance's death with her.
Nina was the daughter of Margaret's second husband and his ex-wife. Yet somehow, she'd been impossibly close to her stepmother.
