All her persuasion, all her worry, even her anger—it was all meaningless.
Because Adrian was willing. He was even proud of it.
Clara hung up the phone without a word, her fingers numb with cold.
The front desk clerk gave her a stranger look this time—half suspicion, half disdain. As if she had just confirmed it: Clara was one of those women. A problem. A nuisance.
She was at the end of the road.
Her parents were abroad—how could she tell them? How could she burden them with this shame? And friends… since her marriage to Adrian, she had slowly severed ties, withdrawing into his world until she had no one left.
Despair surged like a tide, threatening to choke her.
Then, like a faint light piercing the darkness, a name surfaced in her mind.
Jonathan.
The Winters and Hales had always been close. She and Jonathan had been childhood sweethearts. If she hadn’t chosen Adrian with such stubborn resolve, the two families might have joined through marriage.
But he had never once held that against her.
At her wedding, he had simply handed her a generous gift and said gently: “Clara, if you ever need help, the Hale family’s doors will always be open to you.”
At the time, she thought it was just politeness. Now, those words felt like a lifeline.
With trembling hands, she borrowed the hotel phone again and dialed the long-forgotten number.
It rang three, four times. Then a deep, steady male voice answered:
“Who is this?”
Her lips trembled. “…Jonathan…”
The moment the name left her mouth, all the grievances she had bottled up, all the brittle strength she had been clinging to, shattered. Her voice broke into sobs.
“It’s me… Clara… I… I need help…”
Her words tumbled out incoherently. She couldn’t explain, couldn’t bring herself to recount the humiliation—she only managed to give the address of the dingy hotel.
On the other end, silence. Just a few seconds.
Then his calm, unwavering voice:
“Stay there. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone. I’ll be there soon.”
No hesitation. No useless questions.
The line went dead.
Clara sat back down on the worn-out chair by the reception desk, curling into herself. Time dragged painfully, every second an eternity.
Then, finally—
The low hum of an engine. A sleek black Rolls-Royce came to a precise stop at the narrow entrance.
The driver in a black suit stepped out first and opened the back door with practiced respect.
She thought the driver alone had come to fetch her.
But instead, a tall figure stepped out.
Jonathan.
He was in a perfectly cut dark-gray suit, his tie loosened as though he had rushed straight from an important event. A faint sheen of sweat still clung to his forehead.
His face—handsome, usually calm—was clouded with worry. His sharp eyes swept across the shabby lobby before locking on her.
There she was. Huddled in a corner, barefoot, clad only in thin underwear, shivering like a broken bird.
His pupils contracted violently. In an instant, his gaze filled with a fury so cold it burned—and a heartache so raw it nearly undid him.
Without hesitation, he strode toward her. His movements were sharp, decisive—but when he reached her, his touch was unbearably gentle.
He pulled off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her near-naked body, as if he could shield her from all the cruelty she had suffered.
“Clara.”
His voice was low, roughened with restrained emotion. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”
At that, her head lifted. The fear, shame, despair—everything she had suppressed—finally broke free. She collapsed into his chest, sobbing like a child.
Jonathan held her tightly, one arm firm around her, the other hand soothingly patting her back. His gaze, however, was icy as steel, burning with an unspoken promise of retribution.
“It’s okay, Clara,” he murmured again and again, his voice like an anchor. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”
That night, her body finally succumbed to exhaustion and grief. She burned with a high fever and was rushed to a private hospital.
