Chapter 5

Clara's POV

When awareness finally crawled back, I was already lying in a hospital bed.

An IV needle was taped to the back of my hand, saline dripping steadily through the tube.

Opening my eyes, I saw Jeremy sitting right by the bedside. Several red scratch marks from my fingernails stood out against his cheek, covered in thin scabs.

He propped a pillow behind my back, helping me sit up, and the pills on the nightstand were already laid out neatly across a paper napkin, one by one.

The ear-twisting, the blood—he acted as though none of it had ever happened.

I turned my head away, dodging the glass of water he brought to my lips.

Jeremy's hand paused, but the easy smile quickly returned to his face as he set the glass down. "Still mad? Be mad at me all you want, but don't play games with your health. Your fever spiked past a hundred and two. You scared the hell out of me."

He pulled the blanket up over my shoulders. That calm, unshakable confidence was something I had seen sixteen times before. It proved one thing: he was dead certain I would come around on my own in a few days.

My throat was completely raw, but my words were razor-sharp. "Jeremy, I'm not throwing a tantrum. The divorce is real."

The smile on his face flickered, then plastered itself right back on. "Sure. Once you're fully recovered, you can throw whatever fit you want."

The more serious I sounded, the more convinced he was that I simply couldn't bear to leave him. All this water and medicine were just his familiar tools to reel me back in.

I looked out the window, my head pounding with a heavy fog, leaving only one singular thought: I had to get out.

He didn't take offense. Instead, he leaned in a little closer. "By the way, I forgot to tell you something. I took your boss out to dinner a couple of days ago. I had him eliminate your position. You don't need to work anymore. I'll take care of you."

I whipped my head around so fast it tore at the wound on my ear, the sheer agony sending black spots dancing across my vision. "What did you say?"

"I said you don't need to work anymore. That job ran you ragged every single day, and for what? The pocket change you brought home? Just stay home, focus on getting your body healthy, and we can—"

"Who gave you permission to do that?!"

"I'm your husband. I can't even make this kind of decision for you?"

"That was my career!"

"You belong to me entirely. That means I get to decide your career, too."

He reached out to take the hand with the IV needle. I yanked it back instantly, the needle shifting beneath my skin, sending a sharp sting that made me bite down on my lip.

I stopped listening to whatever came out of his mouth next.

My color-mixing station, the raw pigments, the eighty-three custom lipstick shades I painstakingly formulated over the years—that was the independent path I had built for myself from scratch.

I had already planned it all out: once the divorce was finalized, as long as I kept my job, I could rent a small apartment and live entirely on my own terms.

He severed that lifeline over a single business dinner.

That was when the truth hit me with brutal clarity. He didn't just want me trapped inside that house; he wanted every single dollar I spent to come straight from his wallet, ensuring that the day I finally wanted to leave, I wouldn't have a single penny to my name.

My fingers curled tight into the hospital bedsheet, the IV needle bleeding into the skin on the back of my hand.