The fragile calm we were maintaining lasted only until Adrian appeared.

He was dressed in a glaring white suit, his pale, gaunt face making him look almost ghostlike. His gaze cut straight through the crowd and locked onto Clara.

Then, in full view of everyone, he rushed forward and grabbed her arm.

Tears streamed down his face. His voice was not loud, but every word rang out clearly, trembling with raw emotion.

"Dr. Miller! You once said I was the person who needed understanding more than anyone you'd ever met! Why are you abandoning me now? Is it because you have a family now, because you have a child, so I've become an unnecessary burden? Or is it because Mr. Vance can't tolerate my existence?"

The entire room fell silent.

All eyes turned toward me like spotlights, filled with shock, curiosity, and a quiet kind of pity.

Clara was completely stunned.

A moment later, instinct seemed to take over as she slipped into professional mode, her voice gentle and calming.

"Adrian, please don't do this. Calm down. This isn't the right place. Let's talk somewhere else."

I stood there as if stripped bare, every last piece of dignity crushed into the dust by the two of them.

In the end, it was the hospital administrators–faces dark with anger–who signaled the security guards to remove him.

He struggled as they dragged him away, twisting around to stare at Clara, his voice breaking as he shouted:

"Clara! Without you, I'll die! You promised you'd never give up on me!"

The drive home was suffocatingly silent.

Only the low hum of the engine and the roaring sound of blood pounding in my ears filled the car.

Clara's face was deathly pale. One hand clutched her stomach tightly. Her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Suddenly, she groaned and curled inward.

"Clara?" My heart lurched.

Cold sweat appeared on her forehead as she whispered shakily, "My stomach, it hurts."

I looked down.

On the hem of her light-colored dress, a small but glaring patch of bright red blood was spreading.

"Hospital. Now."

In the emergency department, the doctor's expression turned grave after examining her.

"She needs to be admitted immediately for pregnancy stabilization. The mother must not experience any more emotional stress."

Clara was wheeled into a hospital room and laid onto a stark white bed, her face drained of all color.

Standing beside the bed, watching her closed eyes and the way her hand instinctively guarded her lower abdomen, a cold emptiness spread through my chest.

What exactly was I–and this family–to her?

…

On the third day of her hospitalization, Clara's condition finally stabilized a little.

She grew quiet, often staring blankly at the ceiling, one hand resting protectively over her stomach.

"Julian," she said hoarsely one afternoon, "when I'm discharged, let's leave this place. We'll move to another city, alright? I'll finish handing over all my work, and I'll never see him again."

I did not reply.

I heard promises like this too many times before.

That afternoon, my phone screen suddenly lit up.

A message from an unfamiliar number appeared.

"Mr. Vance, guess what? If I walk onto the rooftop right now, do you think your Dr. Miller would abandon your child just to come save me? How about we make it a bet?"

Attached was a photo.

A wrist wrapped in bandages. And in the background–clearly visible–the corner of the hospital rooftop.

It was Adrian.

A chill shot up from the soles of my feet.

This was a blatant provocation. A declaration of war.

Almost the moment I finished reading the message, the phone beside Clara's pillow began to ring.

She answered it.

After hearing only a few words, she suddenly sat upright, her voice rising in alarm.

"What? The rooftop?! I'll be right–"

She stopped mid-sentence.

"No, I can't, but-"

She ended the call. The color drained from her face. When she looked at me, her eyes were full of conflict.

"Julian, Adrian, he's standing on the edge of the rooftop. He's completely broken down and says he wants to see me one last time. Dr. Hayes says I might be the only one who can talk him down."

"So?" My voice was frighteningly calm.

"I have to go! I can't just stand by and watch him jump!"

She threw off the blanket and tried to get out of bed.

I stopped her and held my phone up in front of her face.

"Clara. You're not going."

She whipped her head around, shock written all over her face.

Looking straight into her eyes, I said each word slowly and clearly.

"He's lying."

"He just sent me a message taunting me. He's using suicide to force you to make a choice. Can't you see that?"

I lifted my phone and shoved the message toward her.

Her eyes darted across the screen. Her expression shifted rapidly–first shock, then something else replaced it: agitation and impatience.

"Julian! At a time like this, you're still focusing on that? This is someone's life! Even if he's forcing me, I can't gamble with his life!"

I looked at her. Inside my chest, shards of ice seemed to collide and crack.

"Clara, you've been gambling with my life–and our child's life–on his conscience."

She reacted like a lit fuse. She violently shook off my hand, her eyes filled with disappointment and accusation.

"What are you talking about?!

"Julian, how did you become like this? So cold. So heartless!

"This is suicide! It's not a joke! I never thought you'd turn into someone like this!"

All the grievance, anger, and despair I was holding back finally exploded. My entire body trembled.

"This is who you made me!

"If you dare walk out that door today, we're finished!"

She looked at me. The last trace of hesitation in her eyes vanished.

"Julian, I didn't expect you to be this unreasonable. I'll explain everything when I get back."

Gritting her teeth, she staggered out the door.

I stood there, listening to her footsteps fade away until the world fell into a dead silence.

I don't know how long passed before my phone rang. It was Dr. Hayes, his voice urgent.

"Mr. Vance! Dr. Miller fell on the stairs. There's heavy bleeding–the baby couldn't be saved!"

When I rushed into the hospital room, Clara was already awake.

Her face was as pale as paper. Her hand rested on her now-flat abdomen, her gaze empty.

"Adrian, they pulled him down. He's fine."

Her voice was hoarse. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"The baby is gone.

"I'm sorry."

I looked at the pain and regret written so clearly on her face.

However, inside me, there was nothing left.

"Clara," I said quietly, "you made your choice."

My voice was soft–almost like a sigh–but heavy as a mountain.

"Now it's my turn."

I stayed at the hospital for two more days.

Long enough to confirm that her body was no longer in danger after the miscarriage and that the medication temporarily stabilized her emotions.

Then, calmly, I blocked everything related to Clara.

Then, I bought a one-way ticket to Northspire.

As I boarded the plane, I remembered five years ago, when I clutched another one-way ticket and flew without hesitation to Northwood City–the city where she was.

Back then, I believed love could overcome anything.

Now I was holding another one-way ticket, flying south to a place where she was not .

nly then did I understand that all those hardships existed because of love.

Now, both the love and the hardships were gone.