Ivy Richardson POV:
The sound of Ainsley's name hit Clayton like a physical blow to the sternum. His shoulders jerked, and the fake, self-righteous mask he had been desperately clinging to shattered into a million irreparable pieces.
His lips trembled violently. He opened his mouth, desperately trying to string together a coherent sentence to defend his repulsive actions.
"Ainsley... Ainsley had a massive heart attack!" he stammered, his voice pitching up in panic. "She was dying, Ivy! She needed the blood transfusion immediately!"
I stared at him, my expression hardening into absolute, freezing disgust.
He was actually saying it out loud. He was standing right in front of me, justifying how he had authorized the doctors to drain my veins dry just to keep his mistress breathing.
I took another aggressive step forward. Clayton's boots slipped on the wet grass as he instinctively scrambled backward to escape my suffocating presence.
"So my life was meant to be nothing more than a human blood bag?" I asked, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I was supposed to die so that fake, illegitimate heiress could keep wearing my family's name?"
Clayton's back hit the cold marble of a nearby tombstone. A dull *thud* echoed in the air. He was completely out of room to run.
He aggressively grabbed a fistful of his own hair, yanking at the roots in a display of pathetic, impotent male rage. He tried to use volume to overpower his own crushing guilt.
"Ainsley is fragile!" he roared, the veins in his neck bulging against his collar. "She has a weak heart! You... you were always so strong, Ivy! You could handle it!"
A short, sharp sound ripped from my throat.
I laughed.
The sound was harsh, metallic, and utterly devoid of humor. It bounced off the polished granite monuments, cutting through the bleak, overcast Los Angeles sky like a rusted blade.
It was the laugh of a woman who had finally, completely severed the rotting umbilical cord of her past.
I stopped laughing abruptly. My face returned to a mask of dead, terrifying calm. I looked at him the same way a butcher looks at a slab of meat on a metal table.
I stepped directly into his personal space. I leaned in, my face mere inches from his.
Clayton's breath hitched. A sickening, desperate spark of hope flared in his bloodshot eyes. His narcissistic brain actually believed I was leaning in for a kiss, that I was going to forgive him because he was just that irresistible.
I turned my head slightly, my lips hovering right next to his ear.
"Go to hell," I whispered, enunciating every single syllable with absolute, lethal precision.
It was the exact phrase he had whispered into my ear five years ago, right before he authorized the doctors to pull my life support. The karmic loop was finally closed.
Those three words slammed into Clayton's eardrums like a physical detonation.
He stiffened entirely, his muscles locking up as if he had been struck by a high-voltage current. The memory of his own horrific sin manifested right in front of him, paralyzing his lungs.
I straightened my spine. I reached up and calmly adjusted the collar of my trench coat, ensuring not a single speck of cemetery dirt lingered on my clothes. I was reclaiming my total, untouchable elegance.
Without wasting another second, I turned on my heel and walked toward the cemetery exit.
The sharp, rhythmic *click-clack* of my heels on the pavement grew fainter with every step. I was walking out of his life, out of this nightmare, and I wasn't looking back.
Behind me, Clayton violently snapped out of his paralysis. Panic seized his throat. He couldn't handle losing control.
"Ivy, wait!" he shouted, lunging forward to chase after me.
As he took his first aggressive step, the sole of his expensive leather boot came down hard on the slick, crushed plastic petals of the lily I had destroyed.
His leg shot out from under him.
With a loud, undignified grunt, Clayton violently slipped. He crashed hard onto his knees, his upper body slamming into the muddy earth right in front of my empty grave.
The wet, dark cemetery mud instantly soaked into his pristine, custom-tailored suit trousers and white shirt. The facade of the untouchable, high-society heir was completely stripped away, leaving him looking like a pathetic animal rolling in the dirt.
He jerked his head up, his chest heaving as he stared at my retreating back.
I was already twenty yards away. The distance between us was insurmountable.
A sharp, freezing gust of wind tore through the graveyard, biting into his soaked clothes. The physical cold was a direct mirror of the absolute desolation consuming his mind.
Clayton slammed his clenched fist into the wet grass, letting out a low, guttural growl of pure, helpless frustration.
I reached the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. A vintage, bright yellow New York-style taxi cab was already idling by the curb, exactly where I had ordered it to wait.
I grabbed the door handle, pulled it open, and slid onto the worn leather seat. I didn't cast a single glance over my shoulder.
"Take me to Beverly Hills, and make sure he doesn't follow."
