Chapter 2

Clara’s POV

Damian and I had known each other since we were kids; our families used to run in the same circles.

Back in high school, during the annual arts showcase, I had performed on stage. The spotlight had bathed me in gold, and Damian had sat in the very last row, watching the entire set without looking away once.

Later, he told me that ever since that afternoon, he could never get the image of me singing out of his head.

During the first year of our marriage, Damian genuinely cherished me.

I had an old injury on my lower back from a car crash when I was sixteen. It flared up whenever it rained. Every stormy day, he would personally bring a steaming mug of hot water to my side.

If I coughed in my sleep, he would wake up in the dead of night, rummaging through the medicine cabinet, then wait patiently by the bed until I swallowed the pills.

On the third floor of the estate, there had been an empty spare room.

He hired high-end acoustic contractors to install professional soundproofing and top-tier studio mics, turning it into a private vocal room just for me.

The day it was finished, he swung the door open and smiled softly. "Sing whenever your heart desires, Clara. I won't ever bother you."

Once, in the middle of a vocal run, I turned around and caught him leaning against the doorframe. God knew how long he'd been standing there.

When I asked why he hadn't come inside, he smiled warmly. "I didn't want to break your spell."

That same night, he worked late in the living room.

I brought over a warm cup of milk and set it beside his laptop.

He looked up at me, his gaze melting with tenderness.

For a brief, foolish moment, I truly believed real love could bloom out of a transaction.

The dream lasted barely six months.

Damian found the contract tucked inside a folder in his mother's study.

He stormed into our bedroom, slamming the papers onto the vanity before me. "What the hell is this?"

I glanced down. My signature was right at the bottom.

My lips parted, but I couldn't deny it.

"So you only married me for cash?" His voice shook with fury. "Every act of kindness... every soft touch... it was all a lie?"

"No, Damian..." I whispered, my throat tight.

"Then what was it?" He closed the distance between us, towering over me. "Tell me! Was any single word out of your mouth real?"

I had no answer.

The contract was real. The money was real. My original motive for walking down the aisle was undeniable. I couldn't say my tenderness had been fake, but I couldn't claim it had been entirely innocent either.

Damian lost his mind.

He shoved me with all his strength.

I slammed backward into the corner of the heavy wooden desk, the sharp edge digging right into my stomach.

I had been two months pregnant.

That very night, our first child was gone.

From that day forward, Damian became a stranger.

He began bringing women home, flirting with them right before my eyes. He wrapped his arms around them in front of me, laughing at their jokes.

The first time he brought a woman home, I was pouring water in the kitchen. When they strolled into the foyer, my hand froze. The boiling water spilled, scorching the back of my hand. I didn't make a sound. I just set the kettle down and walked to my room.

At family banters, he deliberately fed drinks to the women on his arm, watching me from the corner of his eye to catch my reaction.

I went from heartbroken, to numb, to entirely hollow inside.

Seeing my lack of reaction, Damian convinced himself that I had no heart at all.

His cruelty escalated.

I endured it all. When pain cuts deep enough, you lose the ability to make a sound.