The moment she turned on the tap, the sound of rushing water filled the silence. She scrubbed her skin again and again, until it burned red, as if she could wash away the memory.

Eventually, she sank to the tiled floor, water pouring over her, and the tears came—silent, bitter, endless.

When Eleven entered later, she heard the quiet sobs from inside. Her steps faltered. Pity flashed across her face, but she quickly turned away. She placed the tray of food on the table and left without a sound.

Clarissa stayed in the bathroom until her fingers were wrinkled and numb. When she finally stepped out, the room was still.

Only the little bird remained, trembling inside its cage. It had been frightened half to death the night before—its feathers scattered across the floor.

Clarissa approached softly. “Hey… it’s okay,” she whispered. She coaxed it out gently, feeding it with careful hands until it stopped shaking.

Once it had eaten, she carried it to the window. Its feathers were dry again, its tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. Clarissa stroked its back.

“If only I could be like you,” she murmured with a faint, broken smile. “Free.”

She opened the window. “Go on. You can go home now.”

The bird hesitated for a moment, then took off, wings slicing through the cool morning air. Clarissa watched it until it disappeared into the sky.

Her heart drifted with it, light and hollow. She looked down at the courtyard below—the sea of crabapple blossoms swaying gently in the breeze—and for a fleeting moment, the thought crossed her mind: What if I just let go?

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Clarissa gripped the windowsill until her knuckles turned white. Even in her darkest moments before, she’d never wanted to die. Not until now.

Elsewhere, Atticus sat in the grand lobby, one leg crossed over the other, listening to his subordinates’ reports with cold detachment.

Every so often, he’d gesture lazily for a document, scanning it without emotion.

When the last report ended, he yawned. “That’ll do,” he said carelessly.

“Sir,” one subordinate began hesitantly, “we looked into that man—Mark. There’s… nothing unusual in his background. Would you like to see it?”

The moment that name was spoken, Atticus’s relaxed expression sharpened like a blade.

The subordinate flinched and immediately dropped to his knees in terror.

Atticus looked down at him, his tone quiet but heavy. “Stand up.”

Atticus shifted in his chair, leaning back for a moment before speaking. “This one’s... different. Don’t investigate him for now.”

The subordinate hesitated. “Then... should we eliminate him?”

“Leave him.” Atticus waved a hand dismissively. He’d always been lenient when it came to the people around Clarissa.

If not for that, even ten lives wouldn’t have been enough for William to pay for what he’d done.

The subordinate bowed and left quietly. When the room fell silent, Clarissa’s face rose unbidden in Atticus’s mind.

A restless urge swept through him. He stood abruptly and made his way toward her room.

But just as he reached the door, he stopped. Eleven was there, her delicate hands moving rapidly as she signed what she had seen earlier.

The more she explained, the deeper Atticus’s brow furrowed, and the heavier the air became. Eleven hesitated, fear flickering in her eyes—but thinking of Clarissa, she forced herself to finish.

“She’s very sad,” she signed. “Maybe... if you spoke to her gently, it would help.”

She had never seen her leader wear such an expression for anyone. He truly loved Clarissa—but in the wrong way. That was why they both suffered.

Atticus’s gaze fell on her. “Do you think I’ve gone too far?”

Eleven froze. He added quietly, “Tell me the truth. If you lie, the punishment will be doubled.”

Her hands trembled, but she didn’t back down. “You should learn to respect her,” she signed. “To understand her feelings.”

“Respect?” Atticus echoed, confused.

He didn’t understand. He’d given Clarissa everything—every comfort, every luxury. He never hurt her, no matter how furious she made him. Wasn’t that enough?

For him, not showing his true nature was already an act of mercy. No one else in the world got that kind of patience from him. And still, she wanted to leave.

If he was cruel, it was only because she forced his hand.

Seeing the bewildered look in his eyes, Eleven sighed. She signed again, slower this time.

“And... you should learn to control your temper.”

........

Atticus never did enter Clarissa’s room that night. Deep down, he knew she’d throw him out the moment she saw him. And though she couldn’t physically stop him, Eleven’s words lingered in his head.

If Clarissa provoked him again, he wasn’t sure what he might do.

So he stayed in the room next to hers.

He lay awake for hours, tossing restlessly in bed, haunted by her voice, her tears, her fury.

Last night, she’d screamed at him until she went hoarse, called him every vile name she could think of, cursed him for drugging her.

But that drug...

Atticus clenched his fists, jaw tight. Finally, unable to bear it, he rose and quietly slipped into her room.

Clarissa hadn’t locked the door. She never did anymore—she knew it didn’t matter.

Atticus pushed it open and instinctively looked toward the bed.

Empty.

A surge of panic seized him. He scanned the room until his eyes caught on a pale figure by the window.

Clarissa.

Moonlight spilled over her, outlining her slender frame. She looked smaller than before, fragile, draped in a thin white dress that brushed her ankles. A faint scent of crabapple blossoms drifted through the open window, carrying soft petals that tangled gently in her hair.

For a moment, Atticus forgot to breathe.

She looked almost unreal—like something that might disappear if he blinked.

And the thought of her vanishing tightened around his heart like a noose.

Before he could stop himself, he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms.

“Ah!” Clarissa gasped, startled. She turned and saw his face. Her reaction was instant—her hand flew up, striking him hard across the cheek.

“Let me go!” she shouted, struggling in his grip.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

The sight of him—this man who had stolen her freedom, maybe even her future—filled her with revulsion. The thought that she might be carrying his child made her skin crawl.

Ignoring her, Atticus forced her toward the bed.

She twisted, trying to break free, but he caught her wrist and pinned her effortlessly.

Their eyes met.

Atticus stared at her, the pull between them impossible to resist. He leaned down, aiming for her lips, but Clarissa turned her head sharply, and his kiss brushed against her cheek instead.

His breathing grew heavy. Every time he was near her, desire consumed him — wild, uncontrollable, like a beast clawing its way out of his chest.

But when he saw the rejection in her eyes, Eleven’s words echoed in his mind. He drew a long, unsteady breath, forcing himself to rein it in. Then he gently rolled her onto her side and pulled her into his arms.

Her skin was cold, her body small and fragile against his. He wrapped himself around her, murmuring against her ear, “The night air’s cold here. Don’t catch a chill. Let me keep you warm.”

Clarissa struggled for a moment, but his grip was firm. Realizing it was useless, she stopped resisting. Her gaze drifted out the window, to the faint glow of city lights, and she sighed softly.

His palms were warm and slightly rough, large enough to envelop her hands completely. Once, those hands had been small — once, she’d held them as he grew from a boy into a man.

Atticus followed her gaze to their joined hands. “What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly.

Clarissa’s voice was soft, but her words cut deep. “How foolish I was. I thought I could change you. But it was all just wishful thinking.”

Atticus’s expression faltered, but he quickly spoke again. “Why does it have to matter so much? Even if I am X — so what? I’ll look into your mother’s case for you. I’ll make sure whoever hurt her pays, completely. Clarissa, everything I did before... I had my reasons. Just give me a chance to explain.”

She hesitated, then finally nodded. “All right. I’m listening.”

Atticus exhaled. “This has to do with your background. Mother didn’t want you involved. She made me promise not to tell you anything — no matter what I knew. She only wanted you to live a peaceful life, away from all that.”

The words stirred something in her. Clarissa turned her head slightly. “My background?”

“Yes.”

Atticus hesitated, then bent down and whispered a few words in her ear.

Clarissa froze, eyes wide.

He tightened his hold on her. “I don’t want you walking into danger. Wealth, power — I can give you everything you’ll ever need. You don’t need anyone else but me.”

His arms locked around her as his voice dropped lower, pleading. “Clarissa, I love you. Please... just trust me one more time. I know I was wrong before. I lied. But I swear I won’t anymore. Stay by my side, and I’ll tell you everything — anything you want to know.”

Clarissa’s gaze drifted back to the night outside. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “You keep saying you love me. But what are you doing now? You’ve locked me up here, taken away my freedom. Atticus... is this what love means to you?”

Her words struck him like a blow. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“I don’t know,” he whispered finally. “I just... don’t want you to leave me.” His voice cracked. “Clarissa, I don’t understand. Please... teach me. You said you would. You said you’d always stay with me. So tell me what to do. I’ll do anything — anything — if you’ll just stay.”

But Clarissa only shook her head slowly. “Atticus... you still don’t understand.”

She drew in a long, tired breath and closed her eyes. “I’m tired. I want to rest.”

Something dark flickered in his eyes, that familiar storm threatening to break loose again — but he fought it back, inhaling deeply until the rage subsided.

He held her close instead, his face buried in her hair. Her scent — soft, clean, faintly floral — steadied him.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Sleep.”

Clarissa drifted off quickly. Lately, sleep was her only escape. Time crawled here — every minute an ache. The sunlight, the ticking of the clock, were her only reminders that life still moved beyond these walls.

When she wasn’t reading meaningless books, she was sleeping. Dreaming. Forgetting.

Atticus lay beside her, eyes tracing the lines of her face. A strange melancholy filled him.

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, fingers lingering. “Clarissa,” he whispered, “what can I do to win you back?”

She had once loved him — fiercely, selflessly. She had been patient, kind. She had shown him beauty in a world he had only known as cruel.f