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.

Five days later, Clara finally stirred.

Her lashes trembled as she forced her heavy eyelids open, the ceiling white and unfamiliar. Turning her head, she saw Jonathan seated on the sofa beside her bed, documents spread neatly before him.

The moment her eyes met his, his pen stilled.

“You’re awake?”

He set the papers aside and was at her side in seconds. His palm brushed her forehead with deliberate care before he let out a quiet breath of relief.

“The fever’s broken. How do you feel?”

Her lips parted, but her throat was so parched that not a sound emerged. Jonathan immediately lifted a sippy cup, tilting it gently to her lips. Warm water slid down her throat, easing the dryness.

On the bedside table, the phone he had prepared for her buzzed. Caller ID: Lawyer Bennett.

“Ms. Winter, I’m glad you’re finally awake.” The lawyer’s voice carried both fatigue and relief. “According to procedure, the seven-day consideration period has expired. Since you haven’t withdrawn the agreement, the divorce will officially take effect tomorrow. Would you like me to send the certificate and related documents to the Cole family?”

Clara’s chest tightened, as if invisible hands had clenched around her heart—only to slowly, finally release.

She closed her eyes. Memories rushed past like shards of glass: their first meeting, the lean years of building a business together, the promises whispered in the dark. Then—the indifference in his study, the humiliation in the villa, Snowball hanging from a rope, Vanessa’s vicious laughter.

When she opened her eyes again, her voice was steady.

“Send it back.”

After hanging up, she instinctively opened the news app.

Negative headlines about the Cole Corporation exploded across the screen without her even searching:

Cole Corporation’s stock plummets, market value evaporates by nearly 10 billion!

Investor confidence collapses amid CEO Adrian’s scandalous affair!

Adrian’s mistress exposed: suspected ties to underground circles!

Cole Corporation’s PR fails to stop public outrage!

Some articles even included grainy photos—Vanessa, cornered and shouting at a swarm of reporters.

As Clara scrolled, her phone began to vibrate wildly, bombarded by messages from unknown numbers. Most were slurs, vicious texts dripping with venom. She frowned just as another call came through.

She answered without speaking.

“Clara!” Adrian’s furious roar cracked through the line. “You vile woman! Was this your doing? Did you sell our private matters to the press?”

His voice was shaking with rage. “I misjudged you. Pretending to be kind and dignified, but in truth you’re rotten to the core! Are you so jealous of me? So desperate to ruin Vanessa?”

Her chest tightened, then went numb. She drew a slow breath and answered evenly, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything.”

“Who else if not you? Vanessa already told me—you’re eaten up with jealousy, scheming for revenge!”

His tone was harsh, thick with loathing. “Do you even know what’s happening? Vanessa is being torn apart online! She can’t even go outside! If anything happens to her, I swear, I’ll never let you go!”

The irony carved cold lines in her heart.

Adrian’s curses spilled until he abruptly shifted tone, sharp with suspicion.

“Where have you been these past few days? You had nothing—not a cent on you. I sent men everywhere, from shelters to filthy motels, but you vanished. Tell me, where are you hiding?”

Clara pressed her pale lips together and said nothing.

Her silence only fed his frenzy. He sneered, his voice dripping with scorn:

“Mute now? Or is it guilt? Tell me—did you already find a man to keep you? Huh? Did you crawl into another owner’s bed the second I threw you out?”

A mocking female laugh filtered through the line. Vanessa’s voice, sharp as glass:

“Adrian, do you even need to ask? It’s obvious. I told you—she’s no good. Acts all innocent, but she’s just a slut. A woman like her can’t survive without a man to pay her bills.”

Her voice grew shriller with pride.

“I’ve been in the nightlife long enough to recognize it. I guarantee she’s already being kept by some old rich man. Don’t be fooled—she’s filthier than anyone!”

“Shut up!”

Clara’s voice cracked out before she could stop herself, raw with fury. She couldn’t endure another word of their venom.

With trembling hands, she ended the call. Then, without hesitation, she blocked Adrian’s number forever.

Jonathan had been standing quietly a few steps away, watching. He couldn't catch every word, but he knew enough from Clara’s expression and the fragments she’d spoken. A storm passed behind his eyes, but he swallowed it down and offered only a measured hand and a glass of warm water.

“Not worth your anger,” he said quietly. “Don’t let him steal what little strength you have left.”

Her fingers closed around the cup; they were ice-cold. She looked at him, decision settling like iron in her chest. “Jonathan, I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t stay here.”

He blinked, then nodded with steady support. “Where do you want to go? I’ll arrange it.”

“I don’t know yet. Just… let it end here.” Her jaw was set. “Everything here ends.”

“Okay.” He bowed his head slightly. “I’ll see you off at the airport tomorrow night. Before you go—dinner. One last farewell.”

She offered a faint, tired smile. “The Western restaurant. The one we used to go to.” It was where she and Adrian had first been young and hopeful. She wanted the place where their beginning had been to mark the end.

That evening the restaurant smelled of butter and old oak. She hadn’t expected to run into them — but there they were: Adrian and Vanessa, laughing, shoulder-to-shoulder as if the world belonged to them. Adrian’s face shifted the moment he saw Clara in the doorway—surprise cracking into something raw and animal: rage.

He shoved Vanessa away like an afterthought and stalked over, seizing Clara’s wrist with a grip that burned. “Where have you been? Who’s that man you were meeting? Don’t lie—who’s your adulterer?” His breath came hard. “I, Adrian, rule this city. I’ll find him and ruin him.”

Vanessa darted forward in a frenzy. Her nails hooked into Clara’s hair, claws raking a red line across her cheek. “Bitch! You dare show your face here and seduce my man?”

Clara—still weak from the fever—staggered backward. The shove sent her down; her forehead smashed the corner of the table. Pain flared hot and sharp. A shocked hush rippled through the room.

Adrian leaned over her like a conqueror. “Listen,” he hissed, voice low and threatening, “until those divorce papers are signed, you’re still my wife. Try to cheat and I’ll bury you—both you and whoever sleeps with you.”

At the sight of Clara on the floor, something in Jonathan broke open. The calm man became a blade. Without a word, he stepped forward and delivered a clean, brutal kick to Adrian’s stomach. Adrian doubled over with a strangled grunt, stumbling back.

“Adrian, you’re courting death,” Jonathan said, voice low and cold. He bent, gathered Clara in one careful motion, and planted himself between her and the wound Adrian had become.

Adrian clutched at his midriff, face flushing. When he saw Jonathan standing there—restrained fury in every line of him—his expression tumbled from pain into ugly, furious mockery. “Jonathan? Ha. So you’ve come to pick up the scraps. Clara, throwing yourself at your ex so fast? Jonathan, you belong to menial things—like picking up my old shoes.”

The words were bait. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed to slits. He stepped forward and, with a single, controlled motion, grabbed Adrian’s collar and drove a fist into his face. Blood split at Adrian’s lip; he staggered, dazed and defeated under the onslaught.

The restaurant broke into shocked noise. Vanessa shrieked and scrabbled at Fu’s sleeve, but he didn’t look at her. He turned only once to make sure Clara was on her feet, then faced Adrian like a man who’d finally decided the measure of what he would no longer tolerate.

Adrian—bleeding, humiliated—was a broken image of the man who once stood in the rain begging at Clara’s father’s gate. Now he lay crumpled by the consequences of his own cruelty.