His voice was soft — almost tender.

She didn’t have to look. She could picture his face perfectly — that same gentle smile he always wore, the one that used to make her heart flutter. But not anymore.

Atticus continued speaking, his tone light, almost casual.

“I had your favorite dishes prepared,” he said, pulling a chair closer to the bed. “Eat something first. Then rest a little longer, alright?”

Clarissa didn’t want to look at him. She turned her head sharply, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

A shadow flickered across Atticus’s eyes — that familiar, dangerous darkness. For a moment, the violent impulse inside him flared, wild and uncontrollable.

But he forced it down. His fists clenched at his sides; his jaw tightened. Then, with visible effort, he smoothed his expression into a smile.

“You must be tired,” he said gently. “Let me help you.”

Before she could respond, he reached for her and lifted her up by force.

The instant she felt his touch, Clarissa’s entire body tensed. Panic and fury surged through her, and she shoved him hard, struggling against his grip.

“Let me go! Get out! I don’t want to see you!”

This time, she didn’t even bother pretending. The fragile calm she’d maintained for days shattered completely. All her disgust, hatred, and fear spilled out at once.

Atticus froze for a moment, staring at her. The raw hatred in her eyes hit him like a knife. His chest tightened — a sharp, unbearable ache — but he said nothing.

Just then, the door opened. A servant entered, pushing a cart of food. Seeing the two of them locked in struggle, she froze, her face pale. Without a word, she set the dishes down and hurried out, closing the door behind her.

Atticus carried Clarissa to the table anyway, setting her down in a chair with quiet determination. He began arranging the dishes before her, placing her favorite foods in front of her.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Eat a little, okay? Don’t do this to yourself.”

Clarissa stared at the plates, then let out a cold, bitter laugh.

“Ha… Atticus, is this supposed to be funny? Who exactly are you pretending for?”

Before he could respond, she snatched up the nearest bowl and hurled it to the floor.

It shattered instantly, shards scattering across the polished tiles.

Still not satisfied, Clarissa swept her arm across the table, sending everything crashing to the ground. Dishes broke, food spilled — the sound of destruction echoing through the room.

She had always been gentle, composed — the kind of person who avoided confrontation. Even when angry, she rarely raised her voice. But now, that calm exterior had been stripped away completely.

For once, she didn’t care.

She was shaking, breathless, but beneath the chaos she felt a flicker of savage relief — a kind of release she hadn’t felt in days.

Her voice was sharp, trembling with fury. “Just looking at you makes me sick, you know that? I don’t want your food! I’d rather starve than eat anything you give me! Get out!”

Her words rang through the room like glass breaking.

Atticus stared down at the mess on the floor — the broken porcelain, the spilled food, the chaos she’d created. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, to Clarissa’s surprise, he smiled.

It wasn’t the smile of a man enraged. It was soft, almost tender — the kind of smile a lover might wear while soothing a frightened child.

“You’re right,” he said softly. “This chef’s work isn’t very good. No wonder you don’t like it. But he’s all I’ve had time to train so far.”

He glanced at her again, his voice calm, too calm.

“Wait here. I’ll cook for you myself.”

Clarissa blinked in disbelief.

“Atticus! Atticus!” she shouted as he turned and walked away.

Her voice echoed after him, trembling with rage and helplessness.

But Atticus didn’t look back.

Out in the hallway, once he was far enough from the room, he finally let the mask slip. He stopped, his hand clutching at his chest as if to hold something inside from breaking loose.

His breathing was ragged. The fury that he’d forced down earlier now burned through him like acid.

His eyes darkened — the calm surface cracking to reveal something deep, dangerous, and barely restrained.

He stood there for a long moment, breathing slowly until the storm inside him began to fade. Then he straightened his coat, smoothed his expression, and walked away.

Back in the room, Clarissa sat in silence, her body trembling faintly. The sound of the door opening again made her blood run cold.

Without turning, she snapped, “I told you, just looking at you makes me want to throw up! Get out! I don’t want to see you!”

But there was no answer — only the faint sound of running water.

When she finally turned around, she saw Eleven quietly sweeping the floor.

The girl moved quickly, efficiently, gathering the broken pieces of porcelain, wiping away the spilled food. When the floor was spotless again, she rolled in another cart, replaced the tablecloth, and set out fresh dishes.

Then she walked up to Clarissa and held out a piece of paper.

“The food is ready. You can eat now.”

Clarissa’s expression hardened. “I said I don’t want to eat. Take it away.”

Eleven hesitated. Her eyes flickered with something like fear — and sorrow. Then she quickly scribbled another line.

“I’m sorry. If you don’t eat, I’ll be punished. So please…”

Clarissa froze, her heart sinking. She stared at the words on the paper, then clenched her fists tightly.

Inside, she cursed Atticus with every breath. You bastard. You manipulative, shameless bastard.

Her gaze drifted to the frail, quiet girl standing before her — small, pale, a red birthmark staining the side of her face. She couldn’t bring herself to make the girl suffer for something that wasn’t her fault.

With a bitter sigh, Clarissa sat down again.

Under Eleven’s anxious watch, she forced herself to eat a few bites.

The flavor hit her immediately — familiar, painfully familiar.

Atticus’s cooking.

Her stomach turned violently. Clarissa dropped her utensils with a clatter and nearly flipped the table again. The fork flew out of her hand, striking Eleven by accident.

The girl flinched, eyes wide.

Clarissa froze, the anger bleeding out of her as quickly as it had come. She forced herself to stop.

A bitter smile curved on her lips. Of course, she thought. This is exactly what he wants.

He knew she wouldn’t lash out at the innocent. He was still playing her, even when he wasn’t in the room.

And the worst part was, she couldn’t win.

“Ha, whatever.” Clarissa exhaled sharply and pushed herself to her feet.

Eleven instinctively moved as if to follow, but Clarissa’s glare stopped her cold.

“Get out,” Clarissa snapped.

The girl hesitated, clutching her notepad as though she wanted to write something, but Clarissa had already sat down on the edge of the bed, turning away.

“Go tell him I’m being kind,” Clarissa said coldly, her voice laced with exhaustion and defiance. “But don’t think that means I’m helpless against him. The more he plays this game, the more I hate him. If he dares punish you for this, I’ll go on a hunger strike for three days. Let’s see which of us lasts longer.”

She lay down, back turned, her message final.

Eleven lingered for a moment, glancing from Clarissa’s rigid shoulders to the untouched food on the table. Her hands trembled slightly, her mind a blur of fear and helplessness.

The silence stretched between them — five minutes that felt like forever.

Finally, Eleven sighed softly. She gathered her things, packed up the cart, and slipped quietly out of the room.

In the corridor, Atticus was waiting. He stood leaning against the wall, his expression unreadable, fists slowly tightening at his sides as he watched everything unfold through the narrow opening of the door.

When Eleven approached, she lowered her head immediately, her steps hesitant.

Atticus glanced at her — a single, detached look — and waved her off.

“Go downstairs. Come back later.”

Relief flickered across her face. She gave a quick nod and hurried away.

Atticus stayed where he was, motionless, his eyes fixed on the closed door.

He reached out as if to open it — then stopped midway, his hand hovering in the air before he withdrew it.

For a long moment, he simply stood there. A faint, self-mocking smile tugged at his lips.

He was afraid.

He — the man who could crush anything in his path — was actually afraid to face her.

The thought made him laugh quietly, bitterly. He stayed there in the dim light of the corridor, watching that closed door as if it might open on its own.

Inside, Clarissa lay on the bed, tossing restlessly, her thoughts heavy and tangled. Sleep refused to come.

Outside, the evening sky had turned dark, clouds gathering until thunder rolled faintly in the distance. A moment later, the soft patter of rain began against the window, steady and soothing.

Clarissa turned her head toward the sound — and froze.

A small bird, soaked from the rain, huddled shivering on the narrow ledge outside her window.

Without thinking, she hurried over and unlatched the window. Cold air rushed in, damp and sharp. The drop below made her dizzy — she was on the third floor — but she reached out carefully and cupped the trembling creature in her hands.

Its feathers were slick with rainwater, its tiny body trembling. She brought it inside and went to the bathroom for a towel, gently drying its feathers. Then she tore up a soft piece of clothing from her wardrobe, fashioning a makeshift nest for it.

The bird stopped shaking after a while, chirping weakly in her hands.

A faint smile touched Clarissa’s lips for the first time in days. “You can go tomorrow when you’re better,” she murmured. “Just rest here tonight.”

She placed the little creature on her bedside table, and for the first time, the tension in her chest eased slightly.

Exhaustion hit her all at once. She lay back on the bed, her eyes heavy, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

She didn’t know how much time had passed before the sound of knocking woke her.

Clarissa groaned, pulling the blanket over her head. “Go away,” she muttered, her voice hoarse. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

The knocking stopped. Silence followed.

Something about that silence made her uneasy. She sat up slowly. “...Eleven?”

The knock came again.

Clarissa let out a tired breath. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Eleven entered quietly, carrying her usual tray and supplies.

Clarissa glanced at her without much interest. “You can go for now,” she said. “Come back in half an hour.”

Then, after a pause, she added, “I’ll eat.”

Eleven nodded once, visibly relieved, and backed out of the room.

Clarissa walked to the table, picked up a small bowl of rice, and spooned a bit out to feed the tiny bird. It pecked eagerly until its belly was full.

Clarissa smiled faintly. “That’s enough,” she whispered, setting the bowl aside.