Outside the lounge, Blake asked the event manager about Julianna's condition.

The event manager glanced up from the guest list, his expression polite but firm.

"Medically, she's fine. She just needs a moment. There's really no reason for her to be occupying the lounge."

Blake froze. "Needs to rest… isn't it serious? Her assistant just said she was having a panic attack."

The manager paused, looking momentarily speechless. "It was a minor fright, sir, not a…"

"Blake, Blake!"

A sharp cry from inside the lounge sent Blake rushing back in before the manager could finish his sentence.

"What is it? Are you hurt?"

Hearing this, the manager simply shook his head and walked away.

Watching Blake fuss over Julianna, I had to laugh. I was almost due, bleeding out on the floor, telling him I was in agony, and he’d called me a liar.

Julianna barely stumbles, and he acts like the sky is falling.

I knew about the "scare" the manager mentioned. It was last month. The memory was seared into my brain because I’d felt guilty about it for days.

That night was my gallery opening. Blake was stroking my belly, murmuring to both me and the baby as we greeted guests.

Since I’d gotten pregnant, he’d scaled back his social life to spend more time with me. His constant, gentle presence had lulled me into believing he truly loved me.

I had treasured those moments.

But a single phone call shattered the illusion.

Blake glanced at the caller ID, then at me, and squeezed my hand. As if to prove there were no secrets between him and Julianna, he put the call on speaker.

Julianna's pathetic whimper filled the air.

"Bl… Blake…"

He frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Garrett's drunk again. I… I just tried to get him to go to bed, and he… he screamed at me. I'm so scared, I'm shaking all over. I can't move… I'm terrified. Why… why is he doing this to me…"

"Where are you?"

After Julianna haltingly gave him an address, Blake turned to leave without a second thought.

I instinctively grabbed his sleeve. "You're not his therapist. If she's scared, she can call her security team. Why is she calling you?"

Ever since my pregnancy became obvious, Julianna had started this routine, manufacturing crises and claiming her husband was emotionally abusing her. And every time, Blake was the one who rode to her rescue.

I couldn't stand it—him fetching her from high-end clubs, rushing to her house at midnight, booking hotel suites for her, taking her on drives to "clear her head."

It was suffocating, and it made me snap.

All the gentleness he showed Julianna vanished when it came to me; he had no patience for my temper.

"Clara Hawthorne, how can you be so cold-hearted? Weren't you two friends? Is this how you treat a friend?"

Back then, whenever he used my full name in anger, I felt a fresh wave of injustice. This was all because of her. Was a first love really that sacred?

I snapped back, "How should I treat a friend? Should I just let Julianna have my husband on speed dial for her nightly meltdowns? I could never pull a stunt that desperate!"

His face darkened. "You're being completely irrational!"

Later, after I’d calmed down, I wondered if I’d been too harsh. Then Blake sent a photo that crushed me with guilt.

It was a close-up of a wrist, marred by faint red marks.

I even asked myself, Maybe she's not lying. Maybe she really just sees Blake as a friend and needs help. Am I just being a jealous monster?

I convinced myself it was true. Looking back now, it was all just self-deception.

Julianna lounged on the sofa, casually flipping through a fashion magazine and nibbling on macarons while Blake was on the phone, arranging a private car for her.

Every few moments, he'd unlock his phone, swipe through the screen, then lock it again.

He snatched up his phone at every notification.

I knew he was stewing because I hadn't been the first to apologize.

Usually, after a fight, I’d text him within hours. I was terrified of losing him, terrified he and Julianna would rekindle their old flame. The anxiety was a constant knot in my stomach.

Looking back, I was one of those pathetic heroines from a bad romance novel—the kind who goes insane for a man, making him her entire universe.

It took dying for me to see clearly just how pathetically I had behaved.

Then again, Blake wasn't much better, torn between the woman he was with and the one he couldn't leave behind.

How ironic.

But our chat window would stay dark forever. A dead woman can't text back.

Julianna pouted, complaining of dizziness and weak legs, and asked Blake to help her out of the hotel.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before agreeing.

"Just don't make a scene in the lobby. I'll help you," he said.

Julianna forced a smile. "Alright. I guess since I haven't recovered from my scare, this won't make it any worse."

Hearing that, Blake said nothing more, practically carrying her as they walked out.

Leaning on his shoulder, Julianna let a triumphant smirk flash across her face.

Once they were in the car, she made her move.

"Blake, I don't want to go back to that house right now. Can I stay at your place for a few days? Clara's pregnant and can't get around easily. She must be lonely."

Blake opened his mouth, clearly about to refuse. But after a few seconds of indecision, he caved.

Once the grief subsided, all I felt was a morbid curiosity.

I wondered what their faces would look like when they walked in and found my cold, lifeless body.

Blake walked quickly, while Julianna, feigning her "fright," moved at a snail's pace.

I had to wonder, who was this show of urgency for?

I floated behind them, into the elevator, and through the door of our SoHo apartment.

Before Blake could even offer, Julianna headed straight for the shoe cabinet, pulling out a pair of slippers like she owned the place.

"Clara, Clara, I'm here to see you!" she called out, her voice dripping with false warmth.

She acted as if our years of fractured friendship had never happened.

The apartment was eerily silent. Blake frowned.

"Clara?"

I would have rolled my eyes if I could. I had spoiled him. No matter how late he came home, I was always there to greet him.

Today, my unexpected absence seemed to unnerve him.

Julianna was already searching the rooms for me. I was eager to see her reaction—shock? Joy? But when she emerged from the bedroom, her face was blank. There was none of the horror one would expect upon finding a corpse.

If I remembered correctly, I had died in agony in that very room.

Stunned, I drifted inside. My body was gone. The floor was pristine, and the blood-soaked Persian rug had vanished.

What on earth had happened?

Where did my body go?

I was reeling with shock and suspicion, but the two of them seemed perfectly calm.

After a fruitless search of the apartment, a guilty expression crossed Julianna's face. "Blake, maybe Clara just stepped out for some air. It's all my fault; I should have been more considerate. Why don't you go look for her?"

Blake’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.