Chapter 5

Clara’s POV

Having decided I was evil, Damian found every way imaginable to grind salt into my deepest wound.

Very few people knew that my singing voice—the thing I had once valued more than my life—had been shattered when I was sixteen.

My father and I had been in a catastrophic mountain bus crash. The vehicle flipped, and the violent whiplash crushed my vocal cords.

Even after multiple reconstructive surgeries, they never fully healed. I couldn't speak for long stretches, I couldn't scream, and any sudden surge of emotion would render me entirely mute.

Before the crash, I had been the lead soloist in my choir.

My father used to brag that I was born to sing, that my high notes were pure sunlight breaking through the clouds. My greatest dream back then was to perform in a world-class concert hall, singing my heart out.

I loved music. My voice was my soul.

Damian knew that was where it hurt most, so he weaponized it.

During an upscale family dinner, he suddenly called my name, demanding I sing a song to entertain his guests.

He knew damn well that performance anxiety choked my throat, yet he insisted.

I stood up before the crowded table, my lips parting. But my throat felt gripped by an iron fist; not a single melody came out.

The guests exchanged awkward glances, a few quickly looking down at their phones.

Damian leaned back in his chair, letting out a sharp, mocking scoff. "You can't even carry a tune. What did I marry you for? Completely useless."

The table fell dead silent.

I sank back into my chair, my fingernails digging into my palms until the skin split.

Other times, he would barge into my soundproof room while I was doing vocal warm-ups and roar at the top of his lungs, triggering a throat spasm that left me breathless and coughing for hours. He would stand in the doorway, staring coldly as I clutched my neck.

He even ordered the staff to monitor my speech: I wasn't allowed to speak more than ten sentences a day.

For every extra sentence, my father's daily medication dosage would be slashed.

Once, at the hospital, I asked the attending nurse a couple of extra questions about Dad's vitals.

When I returned to the estate, the butler delivered the message: You spoke three sentences over the limit today. Your father's dose has been cut by a third.

I stood frozen in the hallway, fists clenched tight, blood dripping from my palms. I didn't utter a sound.

Damian posted two private bodyguards to shadow my every move.

Every step I took was watched. They followed me to the hospital, and they even stationed themselves outside the public restroom doors.

One afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore and confronted one of them. "What does he actually want?"

The guard glanced around, lowering his voice. "Mr. Sterling said... the more you suffer, the longer your father's meds will be funded. Keep your head down, and your dad gets to breathe a little longer. Step out of line, and the supply stops tomorrow."

A chill swept through my bones.

I bit my lip until it bled, never speaking another word.

For my father, I could endure anything.

I had only three wishes in this life:

To sing on a real stage again.

For my father to open his eyes.

And to have a quiet, peaceful home of my own.

One by one, Damian handed those dreams to Bianca.

He rented out a premier concert hall and threw a solo show for her.

Bianca couldn't sing to save her life; she lip-synced through the entire set. But Damian bought out the press and packed the seats with elite guests, giving her the standing ovation I had dreamed of since childhood.

The night of the concert, I stood alone in the dark living room.

The entertainment news was broadcasting live. Bianca stood under the dazzling spotlights in a couture gown, surrounded by flashing cameras.

I watched in silence for a long time before clicking the TV off.

He bought Bianca a luxury seaside villa.

Its layout and panoramic view were identical to the dream home Damian had described to me during our first year of marriage. Back then, his arm had been wrapped around my shoulders as he pointed at the brochure: We’ll move there one day, Clara. The city lights look breathtaking from that terrace.

He even brought Bianca to my father's hospital bed.

Right beside my comatose dad, Damian held Bianca's hand and declared that she would be the new mistress of the Sterling estate.

Later, Bianca knocked on my bedroom door.

In her hands, she clutched the VIP concert ticket and the gold keys to the villa.

She laid them out on my vanity, gloating with a smirk. "All of this," she whispered, dangling the keys before my eyes, "is something you will never touch in your pathetic life."

I stared at the sparkling items, my knuckles white, joints popping with tension.

I said nothing. My eyes were as motionless and cold as stagnant water.

Sensing the chilling indifference, Bianca gathered her things and strutted out.

After the door clicked shut, I walked to the third-floor studio and stood before the microphone.

I parted my lips, trying to push out a note.

Nothing came out except a raspy, broken hiss.

Seven years. My voice was completely destroyed.

I shut off the lights and stood in the dark.

Moonlight spilled through the windowpane, dusting the acoustic panels like a thin layer of frost.

I raised a hand, touching the faint scar on my throat.

It had once held all my hopes and dreams; now, it was just an invisible wound.

I exhaled softly, stepped out of the studio, and pulled the door shut behind me.