The next morning, Clarissa woke sore and heavy-limbed, exhaustion weighing her down. Atticus, unusually, was still there. Instead of leaving, he lay behind her, holding her tightly.

When she shifted slightly, he stirred. Without opening his eyes, he murmured against her ear, voice rough and low from sleep, “Stay. Sleep a little longer.”

Clarissa didn’t respond. She just closed her eyes again, retreating into the silence.

Atticus opened his eyes moments later. He watched her — her face pale, lashes trembling — and a flicker of unease crossed his gaze. Something about her felt... wrong.

But then her breathing evened out, and he realized she’d fallen asleep again.

He exhaled, got up, showered, changed, and went downstairs. He called for Eleven.

“What did she do yesterday? Tell me everything.”

As Eleven gestured and wrote, Atticus listened, his frown deepening with each detail.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Keep a close eye on her for the next few days. Don’t leave her alone.”

Eleven nodded at once. She understood what he meant — he was afraid Clarissa might try to kill herself.

So, for the following days, Eleven barely left her side.

Clarissa’s life had become painfully simple — sleep, eat a little, walk a little, read, stare out the window. Beyond that, there was nothing.

Clarissa behaved perfectly, almost unnervingly so — quiet, obedient, peaceful.

That night, Eleven told her that Atticus had gone out for the day.

Hearing the news, Clarissa felt no joy—only an inexplicable calm.

She gave a faint response and returned to her room. Just as she was about to sit down, she heard a small sound outside the window. Clarissa instinctively looked up—and there it was.

The little bird had come back.

She rushed over. The tiny creature was perched on the windowsill, a new treasure clutched delicately in its beak—a gold ring this time. It placed the ring down, then looked up at her, eyes glinting with expectation.

Clarissa’s vision blurred. Her throat tightened. She leaned against the windowsill, tears spilling freely as she whispered hoarsely, “Go away… Don’t come back.”

The bird tilted its head, studying her for a moment. When she didn’t open the window, it seemed to think she didn’t like the gift. After a pause, it took off again, vanishing into the night.

From that day on, it kept returning. Every day, it brought something new—a tiny flower, a scrap of metal, a dull gem picked up somewhere along the way. Bit by bit, Clarissa’s windowsill filled with the bird’s offerings until there was hardly any space left.

Helpless and heartsick, she finally gritted her teeth and drew the curtains shut, sealing off the world beyond the glass.

Atticus had been away for several days now, leaving Eleven to stay with her.

Clarissa no longer visited the crabapple grove—she didn’t like it there. Instead, she spent her days in the courtyard, or sitting quietly in her room. Atticus had forbidden her from using any electronic devices, so Eleven brought her books to pass the time.

Sometimes she read for hours, page after page, her eyes skimming without focus. Other times she would set the book aside after just a few minutes and sit staring blankly at the distant horizon, lost somewhere deep inside herself.

Eleven could feel it—that Clarissa was slowly drifting away, trapped in a world of her own making. She hardly spoke, showed little interest in anything, and lately her appetite had faded to almost nothing.

But she slept more and more.

That evening, Clarissa fell asleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow. Eleven sat nearby, studying her pale, fragile face. She’d grown visibly thinner these past few days, her cheekbones sharper, her breathing shallow.

A sense of dread settled in Eleven’s chest. She hesitated, then decided to call Atticus.

The line rang for a long time. No answer.

Her expression tightened as she finally set the phone down.

......

At that same moment, far away, Atticus stood before a gathering of men and women—the members of the Letter Group. Except for A and S, most of them were seeing their leader in person for the first time.

Atticus’s gaze swept over them, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a low, humorless chuckle.

“What are you all standing for? Sit.”

There was a moment of uneasy silence before anyone moved. Finally, A spoke, his tone careful.

“X, what exactly do you want? Why call everyone together like this?”

For a careless slip of the tongue, Atticus had sent him to a foreign battlefield—he’d barely made it back alive. The memory lingered like a bruise.

Atticus smiled faintly.

“The Wraith family’s been watching me too closely lately. It’s… inconvenient. I have more important matters to handle, and I can’t afford distractions. So—” his gaze hardened—“I’ll be needing your help.”

......

Meanwhile, in the Wraith family compound, Phoenix was losing her temper in the study.

“What the hell are you all doing? Get out! Every single one of you—out!”

Her voice cracked with fury. The servants and aides fled, leaving only Maximilian behind. He dismissed the rest of the staff, then turned to look at her.

Phoenix hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes were bloodshot, dark circles smudged beneath them. The exhaustion made her look almost fragile.

Maximilian hesitated, then said gently, “Mr. Phoenix, you haven’t rested in a long time. Perhaps you should—”

“I don’t have time to rest.” She cut him off sharply. “Tell someone to make me coffee. I’m going to the police station tonight.”

Maximilian frowned. He wanted to argue, but seeing her so resolute, he could only sigh and follow as she grabbed her coat and walked out.

“I’m coming with you,” he said quietly.

Phoenix stopped and turned to face him. He looked worn himself—he hadn’t shaved, his clothes rumpled, his eyes lined with fatigue.

“Go back and rest,” she said softly. Then, after a pause, she added, “I’ll rest too.”

That small concession was enough to soften his expression.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll have someone prepare something for you.”

Phoenix returned to her room. Maximilian ordered a calming herbal bath and tea. She drank the tea obediently, then lay down and, at last, drifted into sleep.

Even so, it didn’t last long. She woke in the second half of the night, having slept barely four hours. But even that brief rest had cleared her mind a little.

She sat up, pressing a hand to her temple, then crossed to the window.

Outside, the Wraith family’s courtyard lay silent under the moonlight. The pond glimmered faintly, its koi gliding lazily beneath the surface.

Clarissa used to feed them sometimes—Phoenix could picture her there, standing by the water, sunlight tangled in her hair.

The image made her throat tighten. Her eyes stung.

“Clarissa…” she whispered, voice breaking. “Where are you?”

.......

Eleven couldn’t reach Atticus on the phone, so she stayed inside and waited anxiously.

Thankfully, he returned about an hour later.

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

Atticus barely looked at her before asking, “How is she?”

Eleven quickly explained Clarissa’s condition, describing her loss of appetite and constant drowsiness. As she spoke, Atticus’s expression grew darker—until suddenly, a flicker of excitement lit his eyes.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his tone abruptly sharper.

Eleven didn’t understand why her words had made him react this way, but she still nodded obediently. Before she could say anything more, Atticus had already turned and hurried inside, his movements urgent.

.......

Clarissa was sleeping. The room was quiet except for the faint sound of her breathing.

Atticus pushed open the door—too hard. The noise startled her slightly; her brows knit, but she didn’t wake. He crossed the room in two strides and scooped her up into his arms.

“Clarissa!” he called softly, his voice trembling with something close to hope.

Clarissa stirred, her lashes fluttering open. Still dazed, she blinked up at him—only to see Atticus pressing two fingers to her wrist, checking her pulse.

For a moment, she froze. Her lips parted as though to speak, but she said nothing. Her eyes followed his every movement, cold and watchful.

A few seconds later, Atticus’s expression shifted. The brief flash of anticipation drained away, replaced by disappointment.

She wasn’t pregnant.

Lowering his hand, he pulled her into his arms, holding her from behind. His scent—faint medicine, sandalwood, and begonia—wrapped around her. Clarissa didn’t move. She simply let him hold her, unresisting.

Atticus’s voice softened. “Eleven said you haven’t been eating. Is the food that bad?”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’ve been so busy lately… I haven’t spent enough time with you. But that’s going to change. From now on, I’ll stay by your side. I’ll cook for you myself—everything you love, alright?”

He lifted her hand and kissed it gently.

Clarissa stayed silent. Her eyes were unfocused, her body limp in his embrace—like a delicate doll drained of life.

Atticus’s expression darkened. He tightened his grip, his voice low.

“Clarissa, will you come with me to the organization in a few days? Whatever you want to know, whatever you want to see—I’ll give it to you.”

At the mention of the organization, Clarissa’s expression flickered. For a brief moment, emotion crossed her face—but just as quickly, it was gone.

“I don’t know anything,” she murmured. “And I can’t do anything there.”

Atticus smiled faintly, brushing her hair aside.

“How could that be? You’re my woman. The organization, the businesses—they’re all yours if you want them. You can do anything you want.”

He leaned down, his breath hot against her cheek. Then, suddenly, his mouth was on hers.

Clarissa tensed, meeting his feverish gaze. His tall frame loomed over her as he kissed her, his movements urgent, desperate.

“It’s a pity you’re not pregnant,” he murmured against her lips. “But that’s alright. We have time. We’ll have our own child soon enough.”

The next instant, clothes hit the floor, and the room filled with heat.

Another night blurred into exhaustion.

By the time Clarissa passed out, her body limp and drenched in sweat, Atticus was holding her tightly, his own skin slick with moisture.

He’d meant to let her rest, to help her recover slowly—but something about her felt wrong. Too quiet. Too pale.

As he watched her sleeping face, his dark eyes grew heavier, the emotion within them unreadable. Clarissa’s condition wasn’t right. He could sense it deep in his bones.

He would have to keep an even closer eye on her from now on.

.......

The next morning, Atticus woke early. He went to the kitchen himself and prepared breakfast—all of Clarissa’s favorite dishes.

When he came back, she was still fast asleep. He called to her several times.

“Clarissa? Wake up, come eat before you go back to bed.”

No response.

Frowning, he finally picked her up and carried her to the bathroom, helping her wash and dress like she was made of porcelain.

At the touch of his hands, Clarissa stirred faintly, her lashes fluttering open. Atticus was standing before the wardrobe, carefully selecting a dress. When he saw her eyes open, his face lit up with boyish relief.

“You’re awake!” he said warmly. “What about this one?”