“Enough!” Liam’s veins bulged across his forehead, rage flooding his mind as he lifted his hand and delivered a resounding slap across Clara’s face.
*Smack.*
The slap echoed throughout the vast church, and Clara’s cheek instantly reddened and swelled, a thin line of blood forming at the corner of her mouth. Yet she did not cry—she simply stared at Liam with eyes cold and void of warmth, as if she were looking at a stranger.
“Are you done?” Liam panted, breath heavy with irritation and disgust. “You go on and on about your ‘dead son,’ carrying that stupid urn and performing your little curses—what, are you hoping something happens to Vanessa’s child too? Is that how a mother acts?”
Clara’s heart felt like it shattered with that slap. Slowly, she lifted her head, her gaze devoid of grief—only ice-cold resolve remained. “If you want Noah’s ashes, it’ll be over my dead body.”
Liam was taken aback by her unyielding expression—hesitation flickered in his eyes. He knew, deep down, the urn was likely Noah’s ashes, but faced with Vanessa’s theatrics, any remaining conscience drowned instantly.
Vanessa seized the moment—letting out a sharp cry as she crouched on the floor, hands clutching her stomach, her face turning pale, her voice trembling uncontrollably. “Liam… it hurts… my stomach hurts so much… whatever she’s holding—it has to be some filthy witchcraft, I’m afraid… I’m afraid we’ll lose our baby!”
“Vanessa!” Liam immediately bent down and scooped her into his arms, his voice softening with visible panic. “Don’t be scared, I’m here. The baby will be fine.”
He turned to Clara, his gaze sharpening cruelly. “Clara, stop this! Throw that stupid urn away! Can’t you see Vanessa is in pain?”
Clara watched the absurd scene before her—Liam’s tender concern, Vanessa’s performance—each cutting through her wounded heart like a dull blade. She repeated herself, voice calm yet laced with the determination of burning the bridge behind her. “I said, if you want it, it’ll be over my dead body.”
“Dead? Enough!” Liam snapped, losing the last of his patience. “Someone! Tie her up! Take the urn!”
The bodyguards stepped forward immediately, their faces expressionless as they reached for Clara. “Don’t come any closer!” Clara tried desperately to dodge, holding the urn tightly to her chest—but injured and weakened, she was no match for them.
Suddenly, one of the bodyguards seized her arm and yanked hard. Clara lost her balance, crashing onto the cold stone floor, pain blazing through her bones like lightning. Two bodyguards pinned her down, leaving her helpless as another reached to take the urn from her.
“No! That’s Noah! Don’t touch him!” Clara’s cries tore through the church—raw, broken, and desperate. Tears surged, but her strength was nothing—she watched as the urn, her last connection to her son, was taken and handed to Liam.
Liam looked down at Clara’s devastated sobbing with not a shred of mercy—only a rising sense of irritation. “What are you crying for? Stop pretending!”
He twisted off the urn’s lid without hesitation and dumped the ashes over Clara’s head.
The white ashes fell like silent snow—covering her hair, her cheeks, settling into her collar—carrying that cold, lifeless chill only death possessed. Clara’s pupils shrank sharply, her eyes bloodshot as she frantically raised her hands, trying desperately to catch the remnants of her child fluttering away.
At that moment—
*Splash—*
A bucket of icy water was dumped onto her.
The freezing water mixed with the ashes, trickling down her face, turning Noah’s remains into spreading dirt across her skin and clothing. Liam stood over her, looking down with frosty disdain. “This is to wake you up. Stop carrying these unlucky things around.”
Her son’s ashes—washed clean away—leaving behind only a puddle of muddy residue on the cold floor.
Clara sat motionless, collapsed on the ground, water dripping from her hair and clothes, falling heavily onto the stone tiles. Her trembling fingers reached out, touching nothing but frigid, dirty sludge—and bone-deep despair.
“Noah… my Noah…” Her voice was so faint it sounded like the whisper of an insect—broken and trembling.
Vanessa wrinkled her nose in disgust, shrinking behind Liam. “Ugh—so filthy. Such bad luck.”
Clara had no tears left. Her eyes were bloodshot, yet completely dry. In the moment the ashes were spilled—washed away—her heart turned to ash with them, lifeless and void.
Slowly, she raised her head and stared directly at Liam. There was no love, no hatred—only a desolate emptiness, yet carrying a terrifying chill. Liam felt suffocated under her gaze, an inexplicable discomfort tightening his chest. He quickly looked away and barked, “You’ll stay here and repent! You don’t come out until you admit your mistakes!”
Their footsteps faded—followed by Vanessa’s sweet, playful voice. “Liam, remember—my conference is at ten tomorrow morning! It’s my first appearance as a ‘genius scientist!’ You can’t miss it.”
“Of course,” Liam replied, his voice dripping with tenderness that contrasted brutally with the violence moments earlier. “I’ll be there.”
The church doors slammed shut with a heavy *clang*, locking Clara back into dead silence.
She sat on the freezing floor the entire night, soaked through, chills stabbing her bones—but she felt none of it. As dawn broke, the first light streamed through the stained glass window, casting colors across the dirt-streaked lines of her face.
Clara slowly took out her new phone and dialed the number etched deep into her memory.
Today was the day she agreed to leave.
Soon, engines roared outside the church in synchronized cadence. More than ten bulletproof black cars lined up, forming a protective barricade. Above, helicopter blades thrashed the air, sending a harsh wind sweeping through the church.
A white-haired elder with an air of authority descended from the helicopter, several men in black suits following solemnly. The elder spotted Clara and immediately quickened his pace, greeting her with respectful urgency. “Clara, we’re here to take you.”
Clara nodded slowly, rising to her feet. She was filthy, drenched, disheveled—but her eyes were clearer and more resolute than ever, stripped of all weakness.
The elder frowned at her condition, concern tightening his features. “You’re hurt, aren’t you? Your physical state looks unstable. Should we delay departure a few days?”
“It’s nothing.” Clara’s voice was calm and steady. “We’re leaving now.”
She walked toward the helicopter decisively, her steps falling over the muddied traces of her son’s ashes—as if making one final, irreversible farewell to the pain that forged her.
She didn’t look back when she boarded.
As the helicopter lifted into the sky, the city beneath her grew smaller—this city where she once loved, once dreamed, once bled—shrinking to a blurred speck of light. Clara gazed out the window, whispering her farewell. “Goodbye—and never again.”
Before leaving, she had prepared a “gift” for Liam—
the complete research data,
the evidence of Vanessa’s hit-and-run and false accusation,
the proof that Clara donated her spleen,
and a detailed “data flaw analysis.”
She counted the timing precisely—by now, that gift should already be in Liam’s hands.
