Clara bent down, reaching for the white dress crumpled on the floor.
“Don’t touch it!”
Vanessa’s shriek cracked the air. “It’s mine now!”
Clara’s hand froze in mid-air.
She tilted her head upward. Snowball’s weak cry had already faded; the little creature hung high above, helpless. A sharp ache twisted her chest.
She straightened her back, trembling under the weight of it all. Without glancing at the embracing couple, she stepped barefoot over the cold tiles and shattered porcelain, moving toward the open door one small step at a time.
Behind her rang Vanessa’s triumphant laughter, and Adrian’s low, cajoling voice.
Whatever fantasy of love she had left disintegrated into ash.
She was stripped of everything. Fine. Then there would be nothing left to lose. Six more days.
–––
The early autumn streets were icy beneath her bare feet. Dressed only in her underwear, Clara walked like a ghost. Streetlights stretched her shadow long, and every passing car painted her pale face and exposed skin in brief flashes of white. A few whistles and curious eyes followed her, but she was numb; she just wanted to get away.
At last she saw a small, dimly lit hotel and stumbled toward it like someone reaching for a lifeline.
The front desk clerk, a middle-aged woman, had been dozing. She startled awake and immediately narrowed her eyes at the sight of Clara’s disheveled figure.
“Room,” Clara rasped, her voice cracked and dry.
The woman curled her lips. “ID card. Five hundred deposit.”
Clara’s hands moved automatically toward her bag—and found nothing. Her bag, phone, everything had been confiscated at the villa.
All she had left was the shame clinging to her skin.
Color drained from her face. “I… I don’t have cash or a phone. Can I—”
The woman’s expression flipped to open contempt. “No money? No ID? Then what are you doing here? This isn’t a shelter. Get out.”
Her eyes raked over Clara like she was filth.
Humiliation scorched Clara’s chest. She straightened, summoning what little dignity she had left. “I… I have a card. I can pay with it.”
Her fingers trembled as she reached into a hidden seam of her underwear, pulling out a thin bank card—her savings, her dowry, kept separate from Adrian’s assets.
The woman eyed her skeptically but pushed the POS machine over.
Transaction failed.
She tried again.
Transaction failed.
“What’s going on? Out of funds? Don’t waste my time,” the woman snapped.
“Impossible… there’s money…” Clara’s voice faltered. She could barely stand.
“Can I use your phone? I’ll call the bank.”
The woman shoved the handset toward her.
Clara dialed from memory. A polite, distant customer-service voice answered:
“Hello, Ms. Winter. We’ve checked—your card was temporarily frozen this afternoon. The reason: property preservation requested by your spouse.”
Spouse. Adrian.
Clara’s ears rang. He had kicked her out, taken her cat, humiliated her. Now he was seizing even the little she had left.
Driving her into the dirt.
She snatched the phone and dialed Adrian’s number. It rang and rang. When it finally connected, it wasn’t his voice that answered.
It was Vanessa’s. Sharp, smug, poisonous.
“Hello? Who’s this? Looking for Adrian? He’s in the shower. Doesn’t have time to take your call.”
Clara’s teeth ground together. “Vanessa. Put Adrian on. What right does he have to freeze my card? That’s my money.”
“Oh~” Vanessa’s tone stretched, syrupy with mockery. “Thought it was someone else. The former Mrs. Cole?”
She laughed softly, venom in every syllable. “Your money? Don’t make me laugh. You married into the Cole family, lived off the Cole family. What right do you have to say ‘my money’? Adrian gave you face already. You were kicked out, yet still dream of being a rich lady?”
She didn’t wait for Clara’s reply. Her words machine-gunned out, sharp and rising.
“Listen, Clara, don’t be so shameless! I’ve been working since I was sixteen—waiting tables, handing out flyers, hostessing bars. I survived. But you? Without Adrian, you’re nothing. What else can you do?”
Her voice turned sly. “Tsk, but… you’ve got a good face, good body. Since we ‘know’ each other, how about I get you a job? There are nightclubs in the south—cater to wealthy bosses. They like classy-looking women. The pay’s good. Better than starving, right? Hahaha!”
Clara’s nails dug into her palms, shaking with fury.
Vanessa pressed on, drunk on her own superiority.
“Why do you think Adrian liked you? He’s just inexperienced. You’re boring. You don’t understand him. All you do is control him and forbid him. He must’ve been suffocating.”
“But I’m different.” Her voice warmed with pride. “I’m his confidant. I showed him racing, bungee jumping, the casinos of Monte Carlo. I’m his salvation, the only sunshine in his life. You? You’re just a dreary housekeeper. He’s been sick of you for a long time!”
The words stabbed like poisoned needles.
Clara’s mind flashed to Adrian’s ulcer from years of social drinking, the doctor’s warnings after the car crash, the strict prohibition on extreme activities. Her “rules” had been born of worry and love.
But to please this so-called confidant, he’d cast his health—and her—aside. And then turned her care into evidence of her “boring nature.”
He was gambling with his life.
Her heart ached so sharply she couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth—but before she could speak, Adrian’s voice drifted through the line, water running in the background.
“Vanessa, who are you talking to?”
“Who else? Your haunting ex-wife. She’s asking about her frozen card.”
Clara heard his impatient reply clearly: “Ignore her, Vanessa. You’re right. Only you understand me. The thirty years before I met you were wasted. You’re the only light in my life.”
The last flicker of hope died in Clara’s chest.
