He held up a long, pale blue gown. The fabric shimmered with tiny rhinestones, its back tied with ribbons, the hem edged in delicate tulle embroidered with white butterflies.

As he helped her into it, he frowned slightly.

“You’ve lost weight. It doesn’t fit quite right anymore.”

Then, more softly: “It’s alright. I’ll have them make a new one for you.”

He tied the bow neatly at the back and stepped back to admire her. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “Clarissa looks beautiful in anything.”

Through it all, Clarissa said nothing. She let him dress her like a doll, her expression flat and distant, her eyes dull as glass.

Atticus’s smile faltered. For a moment, something dark flickered behind his eyes—but he forced himself to exhale, to keep his tone gentle.

Taking her hand, he said quietly, “Come on. Let’s eat together, alright?”

At dinner, Clarissa stared down at the food in her bowl. The smell alone made her stomach twist.

For a moment, she’d wondered if she might be pregnant. But Atticus had checked her pulse last night and told her she wasn’t.

She forced a slow breath, lifted her chopsticks, and took a small bite. The food was good — she could tell Atticus had made it himself. But the moment it hit her tongue, her throat tightened. Her stomach lurched violently. She forced herself to swallow, but her body rebelled.

Then she tried a piece of meat. One chew, two — and her face went pale. Clarissa suddenly shoved back her chair and stumbled away, rushing to the corner just as the nausea hit.

Atticus froze, startled, before quickly hurrying after her.

She vomited until there was nothing left, dry heaving painfully, the sound sharp and ragged. By the time it stopped, her body was trembling, her lips colorless. Eleven came running with a glass of water.

Atticus knelt beside her, rinsing her mouth with gentle hands. Clarissa looked ghostly, her face drained of life. Atticus’s expression turned grim as he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the bedroom.

He laid her down carefully, then checked her pulse again, his brows drawn tight.

Her heartbeat was faint, slow — but steady. Her other vitals were normal. Physically, she was fine. Yet he could feel it: something deep inside her was fading.

He took her hand, his voice low and careful. “Clarissa, do you feel any pain? Is it your stomach?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her throat still burned from the acid, and she didn’t have the strength to speak. She only managed a small shake of her head.

“Do you want to eat something else?” he pressed softly. “An empty stomach will make it worse.”

She shook her head again. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse and distant.

“No. I just want to sleep.”

Atticus stared at her for a moment, his jaw tight, then nodded. “Alright. Sleep.”

Clarissa’s eyes closed, and soon her breathing evened out.

Atticus sat beside the bed, watching her for a long time, silent. The pale moonlight fell across her face, so delicate, so still, that for a moment she didn’t look alive.

A soft knock at the door finally pulled him out of his thoughts. He rose, stepped into the hallway, and lit a cigarette.

...........

Eleven stood nearby, quiet and unsure if she should speak.

Atticus took a drag, the taste harsh on his tongue. He didn’t even like smoking — Clarissa hated it. He hadn’t touched one in months, and now, the smoke stung his throat like punishment.

He held the cigarette between his fingers, letting the night breeze brush against his face. The faint scent of crabapple blossoms drifted through the air.

“Eleven…” he murmured.

She looked up.

“She doesn’t like it here,” he said softly. “I thought she would. I built all of this for her. I waited for so long…”

Eleven froze, unsure what to say.

Atticus’s voice dropped lower, almost to himself. “Tell me, Eleven… what should I do?”

Let go? The thought flickered — and he immediately rejected it, shaking his head.

Just imagining it made something inside him twist, sharp and unbearable.

Eleven lowered her eyes, her hands tightening at her sides. She glanced at him, then toward the door. There was a flicker — something unreadable — in her gaze.

They stayed there for a long time, neither moving nor speaking.

Atticus stood outside all night. Eleven stayed with him, silent.

.....

Clarissa slept for eleven hours straight. No matter how Eleven tried, she couldn’t wake her. Finally, she called Atticus. Only when he spoke to her did Clarissa’s eyes flutter open.

When she woke, she seemed lost — her gaze unfocused, as though she were still dreaming.

Atticus sat beside her, talking softly. At first, she would answer with a few words. But as the hours passed, her voice faded, her eyes turned blank, and even the smallest flicker of emotion disappeared.

She stopped resisting altogether. She didn’t try to escape anymore.

That evening, Atticus combed her hair after her bath. He had reopened the windowsill a few days earlier; now the window stood wide open. The fragrance of autumn drifted in — the faint sweetness of crabapple blossoms carried by the cool night breeze.

Clarissa’s hair had grown long, the ends softly curled. She had lost so much weight that her nightgown hung loosely around her shoulders.

Atticus ran the comb gently through her hair.

“Your hair’s gotten so long,” he murmured. “It’s beautiful. I don’t want to cut it… but I know you like it neat. I’ll trim it for you tomorrow, alright?”

There was no answer.

Atticus paused. He looked down at the woman in his arms. Her eyes were half-lidded, her expression calm, almost serene — but utterly lifeless.

Something inside him cracked. The warmth drained from his face, leaving only the cold shadow of realization.

The woman before him was exquisite — her beauty, breathtaking. But she was empty.

The light was gone. The laughter, the temper, the soul he’d loved — all of it had vanished.

What he held now was nothing more than a beautiful shell.

A shell wasn’t what he wanted.

Atticus dropped the comb. It hit the floor and shattered. He pulled her into his arms, his voice breaking, raw and desperate.

“Clarissa, please… don’t do this to me.”

His forehead pressed against hers, his voice trembling with grief.

“I’m begging you. Look at me. Just look at me, please?”

“Don’t be so cruel… Don’t leave me like this. I love you, Clarissa. I really fucking love you.”

He clutched her tighter, his voice cracking, almost a whisper.

“Don’t run away from me. Don’t leave me behind. If you don’t care about me anymore… then I’ll go to hell myself.”

Without her, what reason did he have left to live?

Why had fate given him light, only to rip it away again?

He just couldn’t lose her — not ever.

Clarissa snapped out of her daze. She blinked, feeling something hot slide down her neck, seeping beneath her collar and burning against her skin.

She lifted her eyes toward the distant crabapple grove and murmured under her breath, voice trembling, “So… even the devil’s tears can burn.”

She thought she’d grown numb. She thought she could endure it all. So why did her heart still ache so much?

Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. She didn’t move, didn’t fight, just let him hold her — listening to his low, broken sobs, raw and animal, echoing in the quiet room.

They stayed like that for a long time, locked in each other’s arms. Then Atticus realized she was still motionless. He looked at the tears shining in her eyes, and something wild flickered in his own.

The next second, he released her and slowly stood up.

“Clarissa,” he said hoarsely, “I know that if I threaten you with Grandpa, you’ll hate me even more. But you already know what kind of man I am — despicable, shameless.”

He drew the gun from his waistband. The metallic click of the safety echoed sharply in the still air.

Atticus took her hand, placed the cold metal in her palm, and turned the barrel toward his own chest.

“Here,” he said quietly. “I’m giving you my life — my heart. In this world, only you have the right to kill me. This is your way out, Clarissa. I’m giving it to you. Pull the trigger, and you’ll be free.”

His hand closed over hers, steadying it, pressing her finger against the trigger.

Clarissa finally reacted. Her wide eyes flicked from her trembling hand to the gun aimed at his heart.

It would take just the smallest squeeze — one breath — and he’d be gone. Dead.

The word echoed in her head. Die…

And suddenly, an image flashed before her eyes — a young boy, standing alone, small and solitary. He looked around at the people who’d once surrounded him… then he laughed, loud and wild.

The next instant, he lifted a gun to his mouth. A dull thud. A spray of red. The man who’d carried out so many terrible things fell to the ground, lifeless.

Clarissa’s pupils shrank. Her hands began to shake violently.

“No…” she whispered, backing away in horror.

Atticus stepped closer, forcing her hand forward. “Do it, Clarissa! Shoot! You’ll be free soon. Just do it!”

“No!!”

Her scream tore through the air. A gunshot followed — deafening, echoing against the walls.

The bullet grazed Atticus’s cheek, missing his heart by inches and striking the wall behind him.

Clarissa collapsed, her body convulsing. A wet cough burst from her throat, and she spat up a mouthful of blood, splattering the both of them — staining his shirt, staining the white fox-fur rug beneath her.

“Clarissa!” Atticus’s eyes went wide. He dropped to his knees and caught her before she hit the floor. She coughed again, another wave of blood spilling from her lips before her body went limp in his arms.

Atticus’s expression hardened instantly. He lifted her, rushing to the bed, shouting toward the door.

“Eleven! First aid — now!”

Eleven, who had been outside and had already gone pale from hearing the gunshot, rushed in. Seeing Atticus streaked with blood, she didn’t dare hesitate — she ran to fetch the medical kit.

Clarissa was saved — barely. But her body had grown weaker than ever. Since that night, she hadn’t truly woken.

She slept for sixteen hours straight, unresponsive even to Atticus’s voice. He stayed by her side the entire time, feeding her medicine, water, soup — but she rejected it all. Her body refused everything.

Each day, she grew thinner.

Atticus stood at her bedside, his expression darkening by the minute. Then, suddenly, he snapped.

In a violent burst, he overturned the table, smashing vials, syringes, monitors — everything within reach. The crash of glass filled the room.

“Why?!” he shouted, his voice raw. “Why is this happening?! Why can’t I save her?!”

Eleven stood silently in the corner, trembling. She didn’t dare speak. Lately, his temper had been terrifying — bloodier, more unhinged. Everyone in the estate was walking on eggshells, afraid to draw his rage.

She quietly gathered the shattered pieces, cleaned the floor, and slipped out.

Then she went to Clarissa’s room.