Chapter 3

Claire's POV

I waited for Ethan to defend me.

But he didn't utter a single word to contradict Mrs. Cole, nor did he show the slightest intention of bailing me out.

The blood completely drained from my face.

I still vividly remember the day I received my pregnancy test results. Bubbling with joy, I handed the paper to Ethan, fully expecting him to share my excitement.

Instead, he barely glanced at it before a mocking smirk crept onto his lips.

"Claire, do you really find these little games amusing?"

I froze in place, utterly stripped of the ability to even form a defense.

Later, I lost the baby.

The agony of the miscarriage nearly made me pass out. Lying in that sterile hospital bed, I called Ethan's number over and over again. I texted him, begging him to just come see me.

He never showed up.

All I received was one automated bank transfer after another.

Even Olivia sent me a text.

[Ethan is warming up some milk for me. He doesn't have time to reply to you.]

In that moment, I utterly shattered.

After being discharged, I sobbed and confronted Ethan the second he walked through the door.

"Why didn't you answer my calls? Why wouldn't you reply to my messages?"

Taking in the mess I had made on the floor, he actually laughed.

"Haven't you always just wanted money? I gave it to you. What, is it not enough for you now?"

I gripped my own hair, tears completely blurring my vision.

"If you hate me this much, why did you let me get pregnant? Why don't you just divorce me?"

The cruel smile never left his face.

"Claire, are you completely delusional?"

"Stop lying to yourself."

From that day on, I rarely tried to explain anything to him anymore.

Now, sitting at the far end of the long dining table, the old woman still refused to let me off the hook.

"I don't have the patience to wait much longer," she said, picking up her teacup, her tone dripping with venom. "The Cole family needs an heir. Since you're occupying this seat, you should know exactly what your duty is."

Ethan's sharp-tongued Aunt Beatrice chimed in with a laugh, though her eyes deliberately landed on Olivia.

"Why be so hard on Claire? Look at Olivia. She's perfectly healthy and knows exactly how to take care of a man. A girl like her is the one truly suited to marry into our family."

Olivia immediately blushed and lowered her head, feigning shyness.

Ethan finally broke his silence.

"Don't talk nonsense. I've always seen Olivia as a sister."

"Oh, I still remember the love letters you wrote her when you were younger," Beatrice chuckled, covering her mouth. "I said back then that you two would end up together sooner or later."

"That was just childhood nonsense," Ethan dismissed lightly.

My stomach violently churned. I couldn't sit there for another second.

As I tried to stand, my powerless left leg suddenly gave out, and I tripped hard over the heavy dining chair, crashing to the floor.

Everyone turned to look at me, their eyes brimming with sheer disgust.

Not a single person stepped forward to help me up.

"Excuse me."

Swallowing the excruciating pain, I gripped the edge of the table, barely managing to drag myself up and steady my footing. I turned and limped toward the door.

"Claire!"

Ethan chased me out to the foyer, his brows tightly knitted.

"You can't even walk straight now? What act are you putting on this time? If you're really that sick, go to a hospital. Don't stand here playing the miserable victim."

I opened my mouth.

Honestly, there were so many things I wanted to tell him.

I wanted to tell him that my bone cancer had reached the terminal stage. I wanted to tell him that the doctor advised me to amputate my leg. I even wanted to tell him that, perhaps very soon, he would finally be entirely free of me.

But before a single syllable could escape my lips, Olivia's tearful voice echoed from the dining room.

"Ethan! The hot tea on the table just spilled all over me... It burns..."

His expression shifted instantly.

"Don't move!" He immediately spun around and sprinted back inside. "I'll have someone bring the first-aid kit right now!"

His panic and desperate concern were completely undisguised.

I didn't return to that so-called home of ours. Instead, I had the driver drop me off at the old, rundown house my father left behind.

There was no expensive furniture here, no servants waiting on hand and foot. The wallpaper in the living room was peeling, and the wooden floorboards creaked softly underfoot.

But at the very least, this place held my most beautiful memories.

My phone suddenly buzzed.

Ethan had sent me his first actual text message in our three years of marriage.

[Come back and make some soup for Olivia. She got hurt because of you. Consider it your apology.]

I stared at it for a long time, but I didn't reply.

Seconds later, his call came through.

"Did you see my message? Olivia says she wants your soup. I want you to immediately—"

"Ethan."

I interrupted him softly.

"If I died one day, would you even be sad?"

The other end of the line fell dead silent for a few seconds.

Then, his voice sharply spiked in volume.

"Claire, what the hell is wrong with you lately? Who taught you to talk this kind of morbid nonsense all day long?"

"If you want money, just say so! When have I ever mistreated you?"

He paused for a moment, his tone softening slightly, though it still dripped with heavy impatience.

"Where are you right now? Send me the address. I'll come find you."

He still hadn't answered my question.

But it didn't matter anymore.

I hung up the phone and walked into the bedroom my father used to sleep in.

Beside the bed sat a rusted iron box. I opened it. Inside was an old diary of mine, along with a stack of movie ticket stubs and handwritten letters from when we first started dating.

Opening the yellowed diary, a sticky note fluttered from the very first page. On it was a single line written by Ethan long ago:

[To Claire Bennett: When is a clueless girl like you finally going to understand that I like you?]

I stared at that faded handwriting, my eyes burning.

The Ethan of the past would be thrilled for an entire day over a careless comment I made. He would rack his brains to make me laugh when I was sad. He would save up every last penny he had, just to buy me a ring.

And now, he couldn't even be bothered to genuinely care whether I lived or died.

The agony violently spread from my left leg to the rest of my body, feeling as if countless invisible hands were viciously tearing at my bones and internal organs.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to pour out every single grievance I had swallowed over the years.

But in the end, I just sat quietly on the edge of the bed, slowly turning the pages of the diary that chronicled our love story, one by one, until the very end.

Then, I tossed it into the trash can, along with every single letter and ticket stub from the box.

The iron box was completely empty.

Everything Ethan and I had once shared was finally, permanently, laid to rest by my own hands in this very moment.

I lay back on the hard wooden bed where I used to squeeze in next to my father as a child, staring blankly at the mottled water stains on the ceiling.

My consciousness began to blur.

In my fading daze, I thought I saw my father. He pushed open the door and reached out to me with a warm smile, just like he used to when he took me out to the yard to play on the swings.

Right before the total darkness enveloped me, I closed my eyes.

Ethan, I am finally free.