Vanessa’s eyes gleamed with malice as she tilted her chin, her voice dripping with cruelty. “Adrian bought this cat. Everything it eats, everything it uses—his money. Naturally, it belongs to him. Why should I hand it over to you?”

Her gaze slid up and down Clara’s figure, landing on her dress and bag. A mocking smile curled her lips. “Oh, and that dress—Chanel, this season’s release, isn’t it? Also Adrian’s money. That Hermès bag in your hand? His money, too. Take them off! You’re leaving, don’t you understand? None of this belongs to you.”

Clara’s body went rigid with cold. Her eyes, trembling with a faint plea, turned to Adrian. Even if only a fragment of his past affection remained, surely—surely—he would not allow this humiliation.

For a moment, his brow creased. He glanced at her, then said softly to Vanessa, “Vanessa, forget the clothes…”

It was only fabric, after all. He wasn’t that cruel.

But that tiny sliver of defense struck Vanessa like a blade.

“Forget it? Why forget it?” Her voice broke into a shrill scream. She shoved him, her face twisted with fury. “Adrian, you’re still protecting her! You lied to me! You said you only loved me, but it was all lies!”

Her fists pounded against his chest as hot tears rolled down her cheeks. “I followed you in secret, without a name, without status. I never complained! Now I just want you to take back what’s yours, and you still won’t do it? Fine! Then I’ll leave. I quit!”

She spun on her heel to storm out.

Panic seized Adrian. He yanked her back into his arms, his voice urgent, trembling with desperation. “My dear, don’t be angry. Don’t cry. Why would I protect her? I only want you. You’re right—whatever you say, I’ll listen. Just don’t leave me, okay?”

He clung to her as though she were air itself, fawning, groveling, losing all trace of dignity. Then he turned back, eyes sharp as knives, cold as stone.

“Clara, didn’t you hear me? Take off your clothes and get out.”

His tone carried the finality of a verdict. “Don’t get in Vanessa’s way again.”

Something inside Clara cracked. The man who once swore she was his world, who shielded her through storms, who once cupped her face and promised forever—now debased himself like a dog, clinging to another woman, even at the cost of destroying her.

And above, Snowball’s faint, pitiful cries still echoed from the railing.

Her rage rose like fire—but Snowball’s fragile body, trembling on the rope, chained her fury. One wrong move, and she might lose him forever.

So she swallowed her defiance. Tears threatened to spill, but she forced them back, her nails digging into her palms.

Under Adrian’s icy command, beneath Vanessa’s triumphant smirk, Clara’s fingers shook as she reached for the zipper. Slowly, painfully, she slid it down.

The white dress Adrian had once chosen for her—his lips at her ear, whispering, “Clara, you’re most beautiful in white, like my bride.”—slipped to the floor.

Standing in nothing but her underwear, her body trembled under the cruel draft. But the cold in the room was nothing compared to the frost consuming her heart.

Once cherished like a bride, she was now stripped bare and cast out like a prostitute.

Clara bent down, reaching for the white dress crumpled on the floor.

“Don’t touch it!”

Vanessa’s shriek cracked the air. “It’s mine now!”

Clara’s hand froze in mid-air.

She tilted her head upward. Snowball’s weak cry had already faded; the little creature hung high above, helpless. A sharp ache twisted her chest.

She straightened her back, trembling under the weight of it all. Without glancing at the embracing couple, she stepped barefoot over the cold tiles and shattered porcelain, moving toward the open door one small step at a time.

Behind her rang Vanessa’s triumphant laughter, and Adrian’s low, cajoling voice.

Whatever fantasy of love she had left disintegrated into ash.

She was stripped of everything. Fine. Then there would be nothing left to lose. Six more days.

–––

The early autumn streets were icy beneath her bare feet. Dressed only in her underwear, Clara walked like a ghost. Streetlights stretched her shadow long, and every passing car painted her pale face and exposed skin in brief flashes of white. A few whistles and curious eyes followed her, but she was numb; she just wanted to get away.

At last she saw a small, dimly lit hotel and stumbled toward it like someone reaching for a lifeline.

The front desk clerk, a middle-aged woman, had been dozing. She startled awake and immediately narrowed her eyes at the sight of Clara’s disheveled figure.

“Room,” Clara rasped, her voice cracked and dry.

The woman curled her lips. “ID card. Five hundred deposit.”

Clara’s hands moved automatically toward her bag—and found nothing. Her bag, phone, everything had been confiscated at the villa.

All she had left was the shame clinging to her skin.

Color drained from her face. “I… I don’t have cash or a phone. Can I—”

The woman’s expression flipped to open contempt. “No money? No ID? Then what are you doing here? This isn’t a shelter. Get out.”

Her eyes raked over Clara like she was filth.

Humiliation scorched Clara’s chest. She straightened, summoning what little dignity she had left. “I… I have a card. I can pay with it.”

Her fingers trembled as she reached into a hidden seam of her underwear, pulling out a thin bank card—her savings, her dowry, kept separate from Adrian’s assets.

The woman eyed her skeptically but pushed the POS machine over.

Transaction failed.

She tried again.

Transaction failed.

“What’s going on? Out of funds? Don’t waste my time,” the woman snapped.

“Impossible… there’s money…” Clara’s voice faltered. She could barely stand.

“Can I use your phone? I’ll call the bank.”

The woman shoved the handset toward her.

Clara dialed from memory. A polite, distant customer-service voice answered:

“Hello, Ms. Winter. We’ve checked—your card was temporarily frozen this afternoon. The reason: property preservation requested by your spouse.”

Spouse. Adrian.

Clara’s ears rang. He had kicked her out, taken her cat, humiliated her. Now he was seizing even the little she had left.

Driving her into the dirt.

She snatched the phone and dialed Adrian’s number. It rang and rang. When it finally connected, it wasn’t his voice that answered.

It was Vanessa’s. Sharp, smug, poisonous.

“Hello? Who’s this? Looking for Adrian? He’s in the shower. Doesn’t have time to take your call.”

Clara’s teeth ground together. “Vanessa. Put Adrian on. What right does he have to freeze my card? That’s my money.”

“Oh~” Vanessa’s tone stretched, syrupy with mockery. “Thought it was someone else. The former Mrs. Cole?”

She laughed softly, venom in every syllable. “Your money? Don’t make me laugh. You married into the Cole family, lived off the Cole family. What right do you have to say ‘my money’? Adrian gave you face already. You were kicked out, yet still dream of being a rich lady?”

She didn’t wait for Clara’s reply. Her words machine-gunned out, sharp and rising.

“Listen, Clara, don’t be so shameless! I’ve been working since I was sixteen—waiting tables, handing out flyers, hostessing bars. I survived. But you? Without Adrian, you’re nothing. What else can you do?”

Her voice turned sly. “Tsk, but… you’ve got a good face, good body. Since we ‘know’ each other, how about I get you a job? There are nightclubs in the south—cater to wealthy bosses. They like classy-looking women. The pay’s good. Better than starving, right? Hahaha!”

Clara’s nails dug into her palms, shaking with fury.

Vanessa pressed on, drunk on her own superiority.

“Why do you think Adrian liked you? He’s just inexperienced. You’re boring. You don’t understand him. All you do is control him and forbid him. He must’ve been suffocating.”

“But I’m different.” Her voice warmed with pride. “I’m his confidant. I showed him racing, bungee jumping, the casinos of Monte Carlo. I’m his salvation, the only sunshine in his life. You? You’re just a dreary housekeeper. He’s been sick of you for a long time!”

The words stabbed like poisoned needles.

Clara’s mind flashed to Adrian’s ulcer from years of social drinking, the doctor’s warnings after the car crash, the strict prohibition on extreme activities. Her “rules” had been born of worry and love.

But to please this so-called confidant, he’d cast his health—and her—aside. And then turned her care into evidence of her “boring nature.”

He was gambling with his life.

Her heart ached so sharply she couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth—but before she could speak, Adrian’s voice drifted through the line, water running in the background.

“Vanessa, who are you talking to?”

“Who else? Your haunting ex-wife. She’s asking about her frozen card.”

Clara heard his impatient reply clearly: “Ignore her, Vanessa. You’re right. Only you understand me. The thirty years before I met you were wasted. You’re the only light in my life.”

The last flicker of hope died in Clara’s chest.

All her persuasion, all her worry, even her anger—it was all meaningless.

Because Adrian was willing. He was even proud of it.

Clara hung up the phone without a word, her fingers numb with cold.

The front desk clerk gave her a stranger look this time—half suspicion, half disdain. As if she had just confirmed it: Clara was one of those women. A problem. A nuisance.

She was at the end of the road.

Her parents were abroad—how could she tell them? How could she burden them with this shame? And friends… since her marriage to Adrian, she had slowly severed ties, withdrawing into his world until she had no one left.

Despair surged like a tide, threatening to choke her.

Then, like a faint light piercing the darkness, a name surfaced in her mind.

Jonathan.

The Winters and Hales had always been close. She and Jonathan had been childhood sweethearts. If she hadn’t chosen Adrian with such stubborn resolve, the two families might have joined through marriage.

But he had never once held that against her.

At her wedding, he had simply handed her a generous gift and said gently: “Clara, if you ever need help, the Hale family’s doors will always be open to you.”

At the time, she thought it was just politeness. Now, those words felt like a lifeline.

With trembling hands, she borrowed the hotel phone again and dialed the long-forgotten number.

It rang three, four times. Then a deep, steady male voice answered:

“Who is this?”

Her lips trembled. “…Jonathan…”

The moment the name left her mouth, all the grievances she had bottled up, all the brittle strength she had been clinging to, shattered. Her voice broke into sobs.

“It’s me… Clara… I… I need help…”

Her words tumbled out incoherently. She couldn’t explain, couldn’t bring herself to recount the humiliation—she only managed to give the address of the dingy hotel.

On the other end, silence. Just a few seconds.

Then his calm, unwavering voice:

“Stay there. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone. I’ll be there soon.”

No hesitation. No useless questions.

The line went dead.

Clara sat back down on the worn-out chair by the reception desk, curling into herself. Time dragged painfully, every second an eternity.

Then, finally—

The low hum of an engine. A sleek black Rolls-Royce came to a precise stop at the narrow entrance.

The driver in a black suit stepped out first and opened the back door with practiced respect.

She thought the driver alone had come to fetch her.

But instead, a tall figure stepped out.

Jonathan.

He was in a perfectly cut dark-gray suit, his tie loosened as though he had rushed straight from an important event. A faint sheen of sweat still clung to his forehead.

His face—handsome, usually calm—was clouded with worry. His sharp eyes swept across the shabby lobby before locking on her.

There she was. Huddled in a corner, barefoot, clad only in thin underwear, shivering like a broken bird.

His pupils contracted violently. In an instant, his gaze filled with a fury so cold it burned—and a heartache so raw it nearly undid him.

Without hesitation, he strode toward her. His movements were sharp, decisive—but when he reached her, his touch was unbearably gentle.

He pulled off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her near-naked body, as if he could shield her from all the cruelty she had suffered.

“Clara.”

His voice was low, roughened with restrained emotion. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”

At that, her head lifted. The fear, shame, despair—everything she had suppressed—finally broke free. She collapsed into his chest, sobbing like a child.

Jonathan held her tightly, one arm firm around her, the other hand soothingly patting her back. His gaze, however, was icy as steel, burning with an unspoken promise of retribution.

“It’s okay, Clara,” he murmured again and again, his voice like an anchor. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

That night, her body finally succumbed to exhaustion and grief. She burned with a high fever and was rushed to a private hospital.