Things had changed after Miranda's return to the country. She started constantly popping up in Rowan's life.

I started to feel insecure, started fighting with Rowan, and started becoming neurotic. Miranda deliberately provoked me.

I'd been tormented by depression for a long time now, but she kept rubbing salt in my wound. She knew I was sick, yet she only amped up for torture.

She sent me photos of her and Rowan in bed together, and even showed off the diamond ring he'd given her. She even called me to gloat when I was having the worst depressive episode of my life.

"Ro was with me last night, you know. He said you can't hold a candle to me."

Her words were like venom-soaked knives that stabbed me right in the heart.

When I told Rowan about my condition, he just said I was throwing a tantrum.

When I had a meltdown and started throwing things around, he said I was emotionally unstable.

When I went nights without sleep because I was so agonized, he said I was overthinking.

…

When I grabbed a blade and slashed my wrist, I couldn't even tell if I was still alive.

I lay in the bathtub, allowing my blood to slowly dye the warm water crimson. My phone screen was still lit up, and the last voice message Miranda sent me played out loud.

"Ro said nobody would care even if someone like you died." Her laughter was like a dull blade that sliced my nerves bit by bit.

I stared at the water stains on the ceiling. In my dazed state, they seemed to form a mocking face.

The wound on my wrist was deeper than I thought. Blood poured out from it, blooming into eerie flowers in the water.

Oddly enough, I didn't feel any pain. Instead, I felt relaxed and experienced a sense of release.

My phone buzzed again.

I mustered the energy to look at the message. Miranda had sent me a photo of Rowan holding her waist while whispering something into her ear.

She wrote, "He says he wouldn't bother going home to take a look at you, even if you were to die now."

My fingers twitched involuntarily, making the fruit knife I'd placed on the edge of the bathtub clatter to the floor.

A maid heard this and came searching for me. When she saw me, she screamed and bolted out of the room.

As I started drifting out of consciousness, I heard the bedroom door fly open. When Rowan kicked the bathroom door down, his eyes widened in shock.

The glaring crimson filled his vision, and my blood snaked across the tiles in a shocking trail.

He stumbled and fell, not even flinching as his knees smacked against the floor. He pressed his trembling fingers to my bleeding wrist.

"Wake up… Clara, look at me!" His voice was hoarse as he yelled, "Get an ambulance now!"

He roared toward the door, but his hands were cautious and gentle as he pulled me into his embrace. It was almost as if I really meant something to him.

In the ambulance, he held my hand tightly, refusing to let go even when the doctor wanted to check on my wound.

"Hang in there, Clara. I'm begging you. I can't live without you," he pleaded.

In the hospital, Rowan sat by my bedside as he subconsciously traced the edge of my medical chart.

"Why can't you just let this go?" he asked in a voice so calm that it was almost devoid of emotion. "Are you using self-harm as a way to get my attention?"

I looked at him. He frowned at me like I was an insensible child.

"Miranda's situation isn't like yours," he continued. "After she lost her memories, I became all that was left in her world. She and I grew up together. Her parents are abroad and barely have time for her, so she's always thought of me as her only family."

He paused and looked at my bandaged wrist. "And now, she doesn't recognize anyone but me. After that car crash, I became all that she remembered…"

Rowan subconciously fidgeted with my IV tube, his eyes fixed on the window. "The psychiatrist said that she's acting like this because she's deeply insecure."

He turned to look at me as his brows furrowed. I stared back at him, noting the resigned and weary look on his face.

"Things between us aren't like what you think." A hint of urgency crept into his voice. "She's like a sister to me. You can understand that, right? Besides, you know what the situation is like."

His gaze cooled. "You know she's sick. Why do you keep picking fights with her?"

He sighed. "Stop this tantrum, alright? You'll always be my wife. That will never change."

Rowan brushed my hair lightly and quickly withdrew his hand. "I'll make it up to you once Miranda is better. We'll go on that honeymoon we missed, okay?"

I looked at the tips of his ears, which were flushed. They were a telltale sign that he was lying.

"For now…" He lowered his voice. "Can you just… be considerate of me?"

Rowan's gaze turned pleading. "Miranda really needs me now. It's temporary, okay?"

I listened to his so-called explanation without saying anything. Then, I turned to stare at the ceiling, my gaze empty.

Every word seemed to come from a faraway place. They were muffled yet impossible to ignore as they burrowed their way into my ears.

I made a soft sound of acknowledgment, my voice so hoarse and bitter that it didn't sound like mine.

The numbness from severe depression left me too drained to even get angry anymore.

Rowan wanted me to wait for him. He said he would make it up to me and that he hoped I would be considerate of him.

His words fell like feathers. They were light, fleeting, and they failed to stir anything in my heart.

I watched as Rowan kept glancing at his phone and inching toward the door.

Suddenly, all of this seemed laughable to me. He'd made the same excuses for the past three years, yet I was dumb enough to believe them each time.

"Go on," I said, so calm that I even surprised myself.

The relieved look on Rowan's face stabbed at my numb nerves. He hurried back to my bed, wanting to stroke my hair.

However, I instinctively ducked to avoid his touch.

"You…" He was taken aback. Then, he smiled helplessly. "No more tantrums, alright? I'll be back soon."

I watched him turn to leave, and I heard how gently he spoke when he answered a call. It was then that it hit me—my heart was dead.

It had been killed my Rowan's repeated choices, Miranda's gloating, and my stupid expectations.

The door shut with a soft click. It felt like a lock, sealing Rowan and me in separate worlds forever. I slowly shut my eyes, allowing the darkness to swallow the last shred of light in me.