Claire's POV
Jason yelled, "What are you making such a fuss about?! Ayla wouldn't—"
I didn't catch the rest. All I could hear were the slick, obscene noises coming from the other side of the door.
"Jason, your wife really goes to great lengths just to see you," Vera cooed, her voice dripping with syrupy mockery. "She even agreed to a divorce."
Then she dropped her tone, turning sultry, like a cheap soap opera villain.
"But isn't this just thrilling? Your wife right outside the door... and your true love tangled up with you in bed."
And then the sound came—the slap of skin on skin.
Loud, rhythmic, sickening.
I threw myself against the door, pounding with both fists over and over.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Vera!" I shouted, my tears mixing with spit.
I didn't care anymore. I just needed them to stop.
But it didn't stop.
The louder I cried, the more noise they made.
As if my pain was fuel for their twisted little performance.
Eventually, I dragged myself back down to the lower deck. My body was shaking, and my heart was already in pieces.
One of the staff members caught my eye.
For just a moment, there was something in his gaze. Not pity, not really—but close.
"We're at 32 shots," he said quietly. "We've been stalling to buy time."
Everything in me froze.
Ayla had kept her eyes shut this whole time.
But the second she heard my footsteps, she opened them.
And even then, she smiled.
There were tears in her eyes, but her gaze was steady, calm in that way children sometimes are when they've already accepted something grown-ups never could.
"Mommy," she whispered, her voice trembling, "becoming your daughter was the luckiest thing in my whole life."
Then came the 33rd shot.
The sound of the trigger clicking echoed louder than thunder, followed by a sharp crack that made my ears ring.
Ayla didn't flinch.
"Mommy," she said again, "once I'm gone, you should divorce Daddy. I know you didn't want to sign because of me, but Daddy's really a bad man."
Another shot was fired.
Then another.
Thirty-four. Thirty-five.
"Ayla may only be seven," she murmured, "but these seven years were the happiest... because I had you."
Then came shot thirty-six.
Ayla turned her head a little. It was subtle, but I caught it.
She looked at the revolver.
The barrel had started to glow red from the repeated shots, hot with cruelty.
Her voice softened to something smaller than a whisper.
"Mommy, I want to go home."
"I love you."
"In the next life, I still want to be your daughter."
Then came the thirty-seventh shot.
And that was the one that ended everything.
The bullet tore through her head.
This time, Lady Luck turned away.
No screams came out of me.
I didn't fall. I didn't faint. I didn't even blink.
It was like my entire soul had packed up and left.
I felt... nothing.
My brain shut down. My body moved on its own.
When the nightmare finally ended, someone came and unstrapped her tiny body.
My vision darkened. The last thing I remember seeing was her blood—deep, vivid red spilling onto the cold floor like paint.
Ayla's body was small and still and far too quiet.
She would never call me 'Mommy' again.
The same little girl who once looked at me so seriously and said, 'If you get divorced, I'll always choose you, Mommy,' was gone.
The trauma was so sharp, so all-consuming, it stole my vision.
I have no idea how long I remained there or how I managed to return to the cabin, holding her small body in my arms as if she were asleep.
Inside, I gently wiped her clean, took off the restraints, and dressed her in fresh clothes.
She always loved to look clean and pretty.
I couldn't touch her head. I didn't have it in me.
So I just held her, holding her tight against me like I could keep her warm.
And I sat there with her.
For a long, long time.
Eventually, something in my mind clicked into place.
I whispered under my breath, "Divorce... go home... we're going home."
I couldn't even remember where I left my phone, so I asked a staff member to help me print a divorce agreement.
I ran my fingers slowly over the thin sheets of paper.
And at that moment, everything became clear.
It was because I wouldn't sign.
Because I wanted Ayla to grow up in a complete family.
That's why she died.
Now I had to take her home.
I wanted nothing more to do with that filthy man.
'As for revenge...' I bowed my head, deep in thought.
Then, a staff member led me to Jason's suite.
The door swung open right as we reached it.
A thick, overpowering scent spilled out—sickeningly sweet like osmanthus perfume layered over sweat and sin.
Everyone near the door instinctively stepped back.
Even without my sight, I could picture the scene inside as clear as day.
Jason's voice floated out from the room, lazy and self-satisfied.
"You cried so realistically last night. That was intense. Don't worry, the gun wasn't even loaded. I just wanted to give Vera some closure."
