Chapter 6

Clara’s POV

Everything was finally in place.

A distant family friend had helped me secure a bed at a specialized long-term care facility in a quiet coastal town down south.

They had an experienced coma care unit willing to take my father.

The money I had secretly saved was enough to cover the first three years of his treatment.

I had already handled the paperwork for his transfer.

Only one final step remained.

The moment the seven-year contract expired, I would pick Dad up from the hospital, and we would leave this city forever.

All the essential documents were packed inside an old canvas backpack, hidden deep within a rented locker at the hospital terminal. It was the same backpack I had carried in college; a zipper tooth had broken off, and I had hand-stitched it with nylon thread.

Every time I visited Dad, I would open that locker just to confirm the papers were safe, then softly lock it back up.

But two weeks before the contract was set to expire, disaster struck.

Bianca forged a bank ledger, framing me for embezzling Sterling family funds.

In reality, the account was simply my personal savings. Every cent Damian had transferred to me as an allowance had been set aside, untouched.

Damian flew into a blind fury. He stormed into my bedroom, ripping the place apart.

He tore my clothes out of the closet, dumping them on the floor, throwing open drawers and scattering my personal items everywhere.

From the secret compartment at the bottom of the wardrobe, he unearthed the bank card, convinced it held his stolen wealth.

Then, from beneath my pillow, he pulled out the glossy brochure for the coastal care facility, featuring photos of the sea and the facility's logo.

Clutching the two items, his hands shook violently. He was dead certain I was taking his money to run away with my father.

"You're leaving?" His voice cracked, his eyes bloodshot with rage. "You stole my money, and you're planning to skip town with your dad?"

I parted my lips, desperately wanting to explain that the funds were my untouched allowance, that the care center was purely for my father's survival.

He didn't give me the chance.

Completely unhinged, he swung his hand and struck me across the face.

The blow was brutal.

The impact slammed me against the wall, the back of my head cracking against the corner molding.

My lip split open, blood dripping from my chin and staining my shirt.

I slid down the wall onto the hardwood floor, my ears ringing with high-pitched static.

My cheek burned like fire, and waves of darkness washed over my vision.

I raised a trembling hand to my lip, saw the crimson on my fingertips, and wiped it off against my sleeve.

The room was in shambles—clothes strewn across the floor, drawers overturned.

Damian stood in the center of the mess, chest heaving, still gripping the card and the brochure.

Then, his gaze locked onto me.

I knew how ghastly I looked: gaunt, hollow-cheeked, dark circles bruised beneath my eyes, wrists so thin they looked ready to snap.

I was slumped against the wall, eyes vacant, looking like a broken ragdoll stripped of its soul.

The oversized, blood-stained shirt hung loosely on my fragile frame.

Blood continued to seep from my mouth, dripping steadily onto my chest—one drop, then another.

Panic suddenly washed over his features.

His hands began to shake violently, the card and brochure slipping from his fingers onto the floor.

He dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch me, but his hands hovered in midair, trembling. His voice cracked with a desperation I had never heard before.

"Clara... I didn't mean to. Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

For seven years, he had never spoken to me with such raw fear.

"Can we please stop torturing each other?" He knelt before me, tears welling in his red eyes. "I was wrong, Clara. I'm sorry. I was wrong."

I lifted my gaze to meet his.

Blood kept trickling from my lip, but deep inside my deadened eyes, an ember flickered—a tiny, desperate spark of hope that had almost gone cold.

Seven years. I had waited for those words for so long that I had forgotten I was even waiting.

I opened my mouth, desperate to speak.

Right then, Bianca's voice floated up from the foot of the stairs.

It wasn't loud, but in the dead silence of the hallway, it cut straight into our ears.

"Damian... my stomach hurts so bad... please come down..."

Damian froze.

He looked at me, then glanced back toward the open doorway.

His hands hung in the air for a few agonizing seconds.

His lips twitched, as if trying to find words, but nothing came out.

Finally, he stood up. He turned his back on me and hurried downstairs to Bianca.

The door remained ajar, the hallway light stretching a long, cold shadow across the floor.

Slumped against the freezing wall, I watched his silhouette disappear down the stairwell.

I listened to his footsteps fade, eventually drowned out by Bianca's soft sobs.

I was left alone in the wreckage of my room.

Slowly, I raised my hand and wiped the blood from my chin until my skin was clean.

The very last shred of hope in my heart—the foolish fantasy that maybe he still loved me, that maybe one day he would understand—snapped completely.

Like a violin string pulled taut for seven years, it finally broke.

The sound was faint, heard by no one but myself.

I would never hope for anything from Damian Sterling again.