I didn’t realize I was clenching my fists until I felt the sting of blood. My nails had bitten deep into my palms.

They climbed into their car—the three of them. Perfect, flawless. A family that didn’t exist for me anymore.

I stayed frozen, watching the taillights fade, feeling as though I’d been buried alive all over again.

My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. I tapped Mara’s name. It took a few tries before the call connected.

When she picked up, my voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Mara… I need you.”

“What is it?” Her voice cut sharply through the line.

For ten years, she had been the only one to visit me, the only person who looked at me without disgust, the only one I could trust.

I drew in a shaky breath. “I want to overturn the verdict. I need to clear my name.”

There was silence. I feared she’d hung up, that she’d given up on me too.

“Clara… I’ve been tracking every lead, gathering evidence. Give me seven more days. Just seven days, and I’ll get you the justice you deserve.”

Something inside me broke. My chest ached—not with pain, but with relief. “Thank you,” I whispered.

When the call ended, I looked around. The streets were empty. Darkness pressed down. I had nowhere to go. No home. No family. No one waiting.

Except him.

And the house we once shared, still holding pieces of my daughter: Isla’s shoes, her drawings, her laughter hidden in the walls.

I walked for hours. My feet bled, went numb, but I kept going.

When I reached the gate, I paused. Damian hadn’t even changed the lock.

My hands trembled as I punched in the code. The door swung open effortlessly.

Inside, it all looked the same—the furniture, the curtains, even the faint smell of home.

Except for one thing: the family photo that had once hung in the living room was gone.

For a moment, I almost believed I had stepped out yesterday and returned today.

Then I heard it: a sound behind me.

My heart froze. I turned.

He was there.

Damian.

Rain dripped from his coat, an umbrella in hand. His dark eyes met mine, unreadable, quiet.

We didn’t speak. We only stared.

I expected Chiara to appear behind him, but she didn’t. He was alone.

After a moment, he set the umbrella aside and spoke softly, “When did you get back? You should’ve called. I would’ve come for you.”

I stayed silent, just watching as he walked to the bathroom like nothing had ever happened, like the past ten years didn’t exist. He returned with a towel, offering it to me.

I didn’t take it.

“I know my way… I came back on my own,” I said.

He didn’t flinch. He poured tea like he always had after long days at the office.

“Drink some hot water. Don’t catch a cold.”

Steam curled from the cup, fogging the space between us. I held it tightly with both hands.

“Damian… shouldn’t we talk about what happened ten years ago?”

“What happened then is done. You’ve served your time. Isn’t that enough? Why dig it up?”

I stared at him, stunned.

Why bother pursuing it?

My daughter was dead. I’d been imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit. And now, I wasn’t even allowed to ask why.

The room tilted. My vision blurred. I swayed.

“Clara!” His voice cut through the fog.

He rushed forward. For a second, I thought he might care. But then his phone rang.

“Hello?” His voice changed instantly. “Lella’s crying? I’ll be right there.”

That tone dragged me back to when Isla was alive. Damian had always been strict with her. Too strict. He loved her, yes, but he never showed it the way a father should. “Girls should be strong. Don’t cry,” he’d always say.

Even when Isla scraped her knees or hit her head, she bit back tears to earn his praise.

And now, Chiara’s daughter only had to cry once, and he came running.

I gripped the armrest to stay upright, refusing to collapse in front of him.

“I have to go,” he said softly. “Something urgent came up. Rest here. Don’t overthink. Call me if you need anything.”

The door clicked shut, and silence swallowed the house.

I lingered before rising, aching to see Isla’s room, to find a photo album, anything.

When I opened the door, my breath caught.

The room was bare. Completely stripped. Even her drawings on the walls were painted over.

Nothing remained. Not a single trace.

He had erased our child.

I slid down the wall, shaking, letting out a fractured scream that echoed until it faded into nothing.

When I could move again, I went to the master bedroom. My head spun, but I clung to a small hope—maybe Damian had kept something hidden: ballet shoes, a photo. Anything.

I froze.

Everything was exactly as I had left it. My clothes hung in the closet. My perfume sat on the dresser. Sheets folded neatly.

Why erase our daughter but preserve me?

I opened drawers, searching blindly. Then I found it: a box of condoms, freshly opened, tucked in the bedside table.

My stomach twisted.

So that was it. That was the reason. He’d preserved this room for their little games—maybe it thrilled him to have his mistress on the same bed we once shared, surrounded by the remnants of my life.

A wave of nausea hit me. I bolted to the bathroom and emptied everything inside me until my stomach was hollow.

My body ached from head to toe. My chest burned. I couldn’t take it any longer. I collapsed onto the cold tiles, shivering, the corners of the room blurring into blackness.

When I finally opened my eyes, sunlight was creeping through the curtains. My head was heavy, every muscle stiff and sore. And somehow… I was lying on the very bed I had shared with him.

Damian stood nearby. He said nothing. Simply watched. Calm, too calm, but there was a glimmer in his eyes I couldn’t place. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw pity. Perhaps even a trace of care. But I knew better than to trust it.

“Since it’s come to this,” I said, my voice weak as I tried to sit up, “why not just throw out my things? Let Chiara move in. Isn’t that what you both want?” I shivered. “Is this what excites you? Sleeping with her here, in my bed, surrounded by my life?”

His expression shifted instantly. Rage flickered in his eyes. “You know about Chiara?”

“I saw you yesterday… holding her hand. I saw the girl.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Yes. We have a child.”

Something inside me splintered all over again. My hands shook. “I remember when we first married,” I whispered, voice quivering. “You used to keep me awake all night… saying you couldn’t get enough of me. You said you wanted me so badly, it drove you insane.” I laughed bitterly. “You said if you could, you’d keep me inside you forever, so I’d always belong to you.”

He said nothing, merely turned his gaze away.

“The man who said that… now belongs to someone else,” I murmured. “Tell me, Damian—if you’re so happy with her, why not divorce me? Why make me live through this torment?”

Finally, he looked at me. “Divorce? The Judicial Council will announce the new appointees in a week. I can’t risk it, Clara. I can’t give them a reason to doubt me.” His voice softened. “Once this week passes, we’ll get the divorce.”

I stared at him. The pieces clicked into place. Why Chiara and her daughter never stayed here. Why my clothes remained untouched in the closet. Why he still maintained the pretense of a home. Not for love—he kept it all for appearances. Pathetic.

He hadn’t changed. Still a coward.

Chiara’s father had been his mentor. Her older brother, his friend. I remembered the day he first told me about her. “She’s my teacher’s daughter, and my friend’s sister,” he had said. “She’s young, immature. Don’t take her seriously.”

And when jealousy flared in me, when I wanted to confront her, he held me close and whispered, “Her father’s done so much for me. I won’t risk our relationship over trivial things. Trust me—I’ll stay away from her.”

I had believed him.

That night, after he left for work, I went to my daughter’s old room. The only place that still felt like mine.

When I woke that morning, a blanket was draped over me—thin, rough, but tucked around my shoulders. For a moment, I just stared, trying to place its source. Then I realized—it had to be him.

I yanked it off and threw it to the floor. It felt filthy against my skin.

My phone buzzed. A message from Mara.

“I’m trying to hurry here. You can also start looking for clues.”

Clues. I stared at the screen, my mind racing. Then I glanced toward the master bedroom—the door still ajar.

Then I heard it. Laughter. Soft, melodic, foreign to this place.

I made my way downstairs and froze.

There they were. Damian and Chiara, standing together in the kitchen, their presence filling the space like they had every right to be there.

The morning sunlight streamed through the window, catching the strands of her hair as his arm wrapped around her waist. Their bodies were impossibly close. Too close.

My stomach twisted violently, a cold, sick feeling spreading through me.

Damian glanced up the moment he heard me. His face paled for a heartbeat, but then he forced a calm smile. A bright lipstick stain lingered near his mouth, bold and unapologetic, as if he wanted me to see it. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe it away.

“Chiara… why are you here?” I managed to croak.

Before she could answer, Damian spoke for her. “She just wanted to come by,” he said, voice steady. “She heard you were out. Chiara helped me a lot while you… weren’t around. She visits the cemetery every year, too. Brings flowers, toys, ballet shoes. Takes care of your daughter’s grave.”

My chest constricted. My heartbeat thundered, drowning out every sound around me.

“What did you just say?” I whispered at first, my voice barely audible. Then it rose, uncontrollable. “What right does she have?! What right does she have to go there, to stand at my daughter’s grave?”

My whole body trembled. “No murderer deserves to be there. None.”

Damian didn’t look me in the eyes. His gaze was cast downward, voice quiet. “I already had a ritual performed. The child… she accepted her as her godmother.”

My blood ran cold. My veins felt like they were full of knives. A godmother? That fucking… godmother?

Chiara stepped closer, a bouquet in her hands. “Clara,” she said softly, offering them to me. “These are for you. Congratulations on your new life.”

The scent hit me first—overpowering, cloying, suffocating. My skin crawled, a maddening itch spreading up my arms, along my neck, across my face. Every ounce of her—the way she spoke, smiled, smelled—felt like venom.

I slapped the flowers out of her hands. They tumbled to the floor, petals scattering across the tiles. I didn’t even have the energy to yell. What was the point? They’d already stripped everything from me.

I took a few shaky steps backward, trying to escape the sight of her. And then I heard it: her voice, cutting through the silence.

“0621!”

The call of that number hit me instinctively. My body reacted before my mind caught up. “Here!” I shouted, almost automatically.

I didn’t even realize why I responded until her sharp, mocking laugh followed.

“Oh, Clara,” she giggled, eyes sparkling cruelly. “I’ve heard prisoners react like that. I just wanted to see for myself… a little experiment. Just a joke.”

I turned slowly. Damian stood beside her, hand lightly resting on her arm.

“That’s enough,” he said softly, but firmly. “No more jokes like that.”

Chiara blinked at him and smiled sweetly. “Okay.”

The way they looked at each other made my stomach churn. Even in front of me, they couldn’t stop. Still touching, still flirting, acting like I didn’t exist.

I thought about the box of condoms upstairs. My chest went cold.

---

By evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. I met Mara at a small restaurant. The warm, dim light felt like a tiny comfort in the world that had turned against me.

Her eyes widened as she saw me. “Clara… you look terrible. Why don’t you stay with me for a while?”

I shook my head. “No. I just… I need you to help me find the evidence. Fast.”

She didn’t press me. Instead, she ordered a table full of food, her voice gentle. “Eat something. You look like you haven’t touched a meal in days.”

I barely managed to lift a spoon when I froze.

Chiara had entered. And with her, the little girl—dressed perfectly, smiling like she owned the room. My heart seized when I saw the child. I couldn’t look away.

Of course, Chiara noticed. She drew the girl close, her voice loud and deliberate.

“Lella, be good. Understand? There’s a murderer here. She killed her own child. If you misbehave, the police might take you away, too.”

I froze in place, my throat tightening.

Then she turned, her eyes locking on mine, smiling that poisonous smile. “Clara… ten years have passed. Are you still comfortable eating out here?”

The restaurant fell into an unnatural silence. Every gaze in the room landed on me, piercing, judging.

Whispers slithered through the air.

“That’s her?”

“She killed her daughter?”

“She doesn’t look insane…”

Their words cut sharper than any physical wound. Ten years in prison hadn’t freed me. The moment the world learned what I supposedly did, they turned. Made me eat off the floor, clean up after them, take beatings that tore my skin raw. Every “child killer” hurled at me made me wish I could disappear.

And even now, hearing her voice, I began to tremble. My throat burned, my hands shook.

Then Mara’s voice snapped through the tension—sharp, furious. “Chiara! You’re the murderer!”