This time, Clarissa wasn’t asleep. She sat propped against the headboard, pale as moonlight. The sounds of Atticus’s outburst must have reached her — it was impossible not to hear.

Eleven hesitated at the doorway, then sighed softly and wiped at her eyes. She pitied Clarissa deeply… but in some way, she pitied Atticus too.

She sniffled, then walked over and gently helped Clarissa out of bed. Removing the IV needle, she lifted the frail woman into a wheelchair. Clarissa was so light now — frighteningly so.

Eleven pushed her through the hall, out into the crabapple grove.

Clarissa tilted her head, puzzled. She didn’t understand what Eleven was doing.

Eleven stopped under a tree, took out a small notebook, and began sketching something. Her movements were slow, deliberate. After twenty minutes, she tore out the page and handed it to Clarissa.

Clarissa took the paper in silence. Her eyes moved over the delicate drawings and words, and she froze. Slowly, she began to turn the pages.

Each one was covered in neat handwriting — a quiet confession, drawn in ink.

“Every tree in this grove was planted by the Chief himself. He said he wanted you to be happy when you saw it.”

“He once promised he’d plant a field of crabapple blossoms just for you — and that the two of you would live here together. He smiled so brightly when he said it.”

“I don’t mean to take his side… but this place, this estate — it was built by his own hands six years ago. I came here with him back then.”

“He didn’t build this place to cage you, Miss Clarissa. He built it because he loves you.”

Clarissa’s expression stiffened as she turned to that page.

For a moment, she hesitated — then kept reading.

“I was sold by my parents when I was little. Lucky for me, I was ugly, so they didn’t sell me to a brothel. The leader was the one who took me in. He said I had a good memory and a talent for reading people. That was the first time I thought maybe I wasn’t completely worthless.”

“The Alphabet Group isn’t what you think it is. Everyone in it carries a past they’d rather forget. The leader saved us — even if he doesn’t realize it himself. That’s why we let him use us. Willingly.”

“He’s never hurt an innocent person, nor done anything illegal within the country. And he hasn’t forgotten his promise to you.”

“Every code in this manor is based on your birthday and the initials of your name. There’s also a hidden passage in the Begonia Grove that leads outside.”

Clarissa stared at the words for a long time, silent.

Eleven stood quietly beside her, waiting.

After what felt like forever, Clarissa finally spoke. “Eleven…”

The girl immediately came closer and crouched beside her. Clarissa looked down, meeting those bright, obedient eyes — soft and timid, like a small deer’s.

“Do you think Atticus loves me?”

Eleven paused, then gently traced words into Clarissa’s palm with her fingertip: You already know the answer, don’t you?

Clarissa’s heart tightened.

“Eleven… I didn’t break up with him because he’s the leader of the Alphabet Group. I always knew what kind of man he was.”

She took a slow breath and added, “I just… need some air. Could you give me a little space?”

Eleven looked worried, but nodded and quietly stepped away.

When Clarissa was alone, she sat there, feeling the wind move through the crabapple grove.

There were too many things wrong between her and Atticus — too many gaps that could never be bridged. She had told herself that walking away was the right choice.

He was powerful, proud, and dismissive of everyone around him. To him, she had been nothing more than something pretty to possess.

That wasn’t love. That was ownership.

He had lied to her, hidden the truth about his mother’s death, and trampled over her feelings without hesitation — all just to keep her by his side.

Clarissa had never imagined his obsession ran so deep… or so dark.

Her gaze drifted toward the crabapple grove again.

Eleven said Atticus began building this place six years ago — six years ago, when she had first adopted him. He’d only been twelve then.

Maybe he really did love her.

But his love was too heavy. It smothered her.

Just then, the soft sound of footsteps reached her ears. Clarissa didn’t turn.

A familiar scent brushed past her — warm, familiar, faintly bitter.

“It’s windy out here,” came Atticus’s voice, gentle and low. “You shouldn’t stay outside without another layer. When did Eleven get so careless?”

He draped a cardigan over her shoulders. Clarissa lowered her head and saw him carefully fastening the buttons, his fingers trembling slightly.

“Atticus…” she said softly.

His hands froze mid-motion. He looked up at her, disbelief flickering in his eyes — and something else, something painfully hopeful.

“Clarissa… did you just call my name?” His voice trembled. “You… want to talk to me?”

People could fake words, Clarissa thought, but not expressions. The brief, naked emotion that flashed across his face — that couldn’t be faked.

She looked at him quietly and murmured, “I feel like playing the piano. Will you come with me?”

Atticus blinked, stunned for half a second, then nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll come.”

He gently gathered her into his arms.

She felt weightless — fragile, like a wisp of smoke that could disappear if he held her too tightly. He cradled her carefully, almost reverently.

The tenderness in his touch pierced her heart like a blade.

Atticus carried her to the top floor — a glass-domed art studio bathed in sunlight. The circular room was surrounded by climbing roses, their red petals glowing softly against the glass walls. At the center stood a grand wooden piano.

He set Clarissa down before it. “This is the one you loved most,” he said quietly. “I went through hell to find it. Try it — see if you still like the sound.”

Clarissa laid her fingers on the keys.

For the first time, she truly noticed how thin she had become — her once graceful hands now pale and bony, the delicate veins faintly visible beneath her skin.

Her fingers hovered uncertainly. It had been so long since she’d played that she’d almost forgotten how to begin.

Atticus seemed to sense her hesitation. He sat beside her, took her cold hand into his warm one, and whispered, “It’s alright. I’ll stay with you.”

Atticus reached out and pressed a few keys, testing the sound.

The familiar melody rang out — one Clarissa instantly recognized.

After only a brief pause, she placed her fingers on the piano and began to play along.

Their hands moved in perfect harmony, the music flowing seamlessly between them, smooth and natural — as if the years of distance between them had never existed.

Atticus’s face lit up with rare joy. He wrapped his arms around her, his voice trembling with excitement.

“Clarissa…”

But he didn’t see it — the thin stream of blood slowly slipping from the corner of her mouth.

It wasn’t until she suddenly doubled over and coughed, a dark splash staining the piano keys, that his smile froze.

“Clarissa!”

Panic surged through him. He tried to lift her in his arms, to rush her to the medical room, but Clarissa weakly stopped him.

Her gaze drifted upward. Through the transparent glass, she caught her reflection — pale and ghostlike. Her face was hollow, her cheeks sunken, her lips colorless.

She lifted a trembling hand to touch her face.

“Atticus,” she murmured, “am I ugly now?”

“No.”

The word burst from him like a desperate plea. Atticus gripped her hand tightly and pressed a reverent kiss to the space between her brows.

“No matter what you look like, Clarissa, you’re beautiful to me. No one — no one — could ever compare to you.”

Clarissa’s eyes shimmered. Her chest burned, the pain spreading up her throat. She covered her mouth — and when she pulled her hand away, it was red.

He never understood love, she thought bitterly.

But then again, neither did she.

Everything had led to this — and she couldn’t blame anyone else. She had known what kind of man he was. She had known their love was doomed from the start, and still, she had chased it with reckless abandon.

Did she hate him?

She asked herself that, quietly, inside her fading mind.

And then she shook her head.

No. She didn’t hate him.

If anything, she pitied herself — for being naïve enough to believe their love could survive the darkness surrounding it.

It didn’t matter anymore. It was almost over. Her life — his obsession — their story — all nearing its end.

Atticus’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Clarissa, you still hate me, don’t you?”

The sight of blood on her lips made his heart constrict violently.

His mother, Belle, had died just like this — blood on her lips, life slipping through his fingers while he could do nothing.

And now Clarissa too…

For the first time, Atticus understood how fragile life was. All his power, his influence, his intelligence — none of it meant anything.

Killing someone could take seconds, but saving them… saving them was nearly impossible.

Clarissa weakly shook her head.

Atticus let out a hollow laugh. “So now I can’t even earn your hatred?”

Her expression softened — heartbreakingly calm.

“Atticus,” she whispered, “am I dying?”

Atticus’s pupils shrank. “No. You’re not dying. I won’t let you. Clarissa, I can’t live without you.”

His voice cracked, his arms tightening around her frail body.

Clarissa felt the tremor in his voice, the helplessness in his grip.

She smiled faintly, her voice low and trembling.

“Sometimes, I wonder… if I hadn’t taken you in back then — if I’d let you fend for yourself — would things have turned out differently?”

Atticus’s heart stopped.

“Clarissa…”

That question was a blade, sliding deep into his chest.

She must regret it, he thought. Regret saving me. Regret creating this monster.

He stood frozen, unable to move — like a man standing beneath a falling guillotine, waiting for the blade to drop.

Clarissa reached up and touched his face, her fingers soft against his skin, almost affectionate.

“I thought I regretted it,” she said quietly. “But if I could go back and do it all again… I still wouldn’t want to leave you.”

Atticus’s eyes widened, disbelief flickering in their depths.

“I did love you,” she continued softly. “I really did. I even dreamed of a future with you. But there are too many things between us now — too much pain, too many lies. I don’t regret our past. But now…” Her voice wavered. “Now, it’s impossible.”

“No.” Atticus’s voice cracked. “No, Clarissa. As long as you’re still here, there’s still hope. We can fix this. Please, just believe me once more—”

“Atticus,” she interrupted gently, her strength almost gone. “If you still love me… promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” he said hoarsely. “As long as you don’t leave me, I’ll promise you anything.”