I was a fool. I was never his. I was merely a placeholder, a convenient balm for his wounded ego until his true love, Annis, decided to grace him with her presence again. The realization hit me years later, not like a sudden shock, but a slow, agonizing bleed. He had been using me, and I had been too blind, too desperate for his love, to see it.

The first time I tried to leave, the argument was explosive. Words were hurled like stones, each one leaving a bruise. I packed a bag, my hands shaking with a mixture of anger and despair. "I can't do this anymore, Coleton," I'd screamed, tears streaming down my face. "I can't be second best."

He chased me. Down the stairs, into the street. He dropped to one knee, a diamond ring glinting in the harsh streetlights. "Marry me, Clarissa," he pleaded, his voice thick with tears. "Don't leave me. I promise, it'll be different this time. You're the only one."

I stared at him, my heart a battlefield of conflicting emotions. Part of me, the part that still desperately loved him, wanted to believe. But another part, a small, quiet voice, whispered, liar.

"How can I believe you?" I asked, my voice raw.

He pulled a document from his pocket. A pre-nuptial agreement. "I'll sign anything you want. We'll add a clause. You can have half of everything if I ever betray you again. Just stay. Give me a chance to prove it." His eyes were red-rimmed, his voice cracking. "I can't live without you, Clarissa. You're my home. My anchor."

His tears, his desperate words, his promise of freedom, of true commitment… they chipped away at my resolve. I wanted to believe him so badly. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be chosen.

So I stayed. Again.

For a while, he was the perfect fiancé. Attentive, loving, showering me with affection. We were the envy of our friends, a power couple in the making. I blossomed under his attention, believing the past was truly behind us. I poured all my energy into making us work, into being the woman he deserved, the woman he chose. I curbed my fiery independence, softened my edges, became more accommodating, more agreeable. I wanted to be his perfect partner.

I spent years trying to conceive, enduring endless doctor appointments, countless treatments, all for a child with Coleton. I yearned for a family, a tangible symbol of our unbreakable bond. The emotional toll was immense, the physical pain a constant companion.

I thought I had finally found my peace, my true calling.

But it was all a lie. A beautiful, meticulously crafted lie. And the truth, when it finally revealed itself, shattered me into a million pieces. All those years, all that effort, all that sacrifice… it had led me to this. A hospital bed, a throbbing head, and an empty womb.

I had given up myself for him. I had given up my dreams, my passions, my very identity. I had molded myself into his ideal woman, only to find that his ideal woman was still Annis. My body, ravaged by treatments and the recent D&C, was a landscape of my failed devotion.

But this time, it was different. This time, there was no more love left to give. No more hope to cling to. Only a cold, hard resolve. I was done.

My lawyer, Beatrix, called later that day. "Clarissa," she said, her voice firm, "the divorce papers are already processed. Everything is in order."

A wave of relief, so profound it almost made me dizzy, washed over me. It was done. It was truly done. I booked a flight to my hometown. A one-way ticket. It was time to go home.

That night, alone in the hospital room, a strange sense of peace settled over me for the first time in years. I closed my eyes, drifting into the deepest sleep I'd had in weeks.

A cold drip on my forehead jolted me awake. My eyes flew open.

Coleton. He was standing over me, his eyes bloodshot and swollen, the harsh fluorescent light glinting off the tears tracking down his face. He looked like a ghost.

My heart didn't clench. It didn't ache. It just… lay there. A stone in my chest.

Coleton threw himself onto me, his arms crushing me in a desperate embrace. His body shook with sobs, and his breath hitched against my ear. "Clarissa," he choked out, his voice raw, "I'm such a bastard. A complete idiot. Please, please forgive me."

He had cried twice before in our seven years together. The first time, when Annis left him. The second, when he proposed, begging me to stay. Both times, I had seen his tears as a testament to his love, a sign of his vulnerability, a reason to forgive, to try again. I had melted, believing they were tears for me.

But this time, his tears felt cold on my skin, like icy rain. They didn't move me. They didn't soothe me. They were just… wet.

And then I smelled it. The cloying, sickly sweet scent of Annis's perfume. It clung to him, heavy and suffocating. My stomach churned. A wave of nausea washed over me.

My body reacted before my mind could process it. I pushed him away. Not violently, but firmly. My arms stiffened, creating a necessary distance between us.

He pulled back, his bloodshot eyes wide with surprise. "Clarissa? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Coleton," I said, my voice flat. "Just… tired."

He stared at me, a bewildered expression on his face. "You're… fine? You always used to yell at me. Or cry. Or hit me. Why aren't you doing anything?" He studied my face, searching for a reaction, a flicker of the old Clarissa. "Why aren't you telling me how much you hate me? Why aren't you asking me how I could do this?"

I remembered all the fights, the desperate pleas, the endless cycle of forgiveness. My love for him had been a bottomless well, always ready to pour itself out, to heal, to mend. But the well was dry now. There was nothing left.

"What's the point, Coleton?" I asked, my voice devoid of emotion. "We're old married couples, aren't we? No need for theatrics."

His body stiffened. The words hung in the air, a silent accusation. I remembered all too clearly. The times I'd reached for his hand in public, the times I'd tried to steal a kiss, only for him to pull away, muttering, "We're old married couples, Clarissa. No need for all that PDA. Annis thinks it's tacky."

Annis. Always Annis. Even then, her ghost was dictating our interactions. Her judgment, his command.

I also remembered Annis, standing nearby, occasionally chiming in with a smirk, "He's right, Clarissa. You're making a scene. It's so… desperate."

And I had believed her. I had believed them. I had tried to be less desperate, less outwardly affectionate, less me. I had tried to be more like Annis.

Now, his gaze was fixed on me, a flicker of something new in his eyes, something akin to fear.

He stayed by my bedside all night. Watching me. Waiting. Hoping for some sign of the old Clarissa, the one who would forgive him, again. The one who would rage, then weep, then melt back into his arms.

But I just slept. Deeply. Peacefully. Unburdened by his presence, by his silent vigil. His tears, his guilt, his hovering presence - none of it reached me. I was finally, truly, free.

The next few days were a strange charade. Coleton, in a desperate attempt to atone—mostly for the public perception—became my shadow. He brought me flowers, read to me from books I didn't care for, and tried to engage me in small talk. His presence, instead of being comforting, felt awkward, almost suffocating.

"Are you feeling unwell, Clarissa?" he asked one afternoon, his voice laced with forced concern. "You're so quiet. Not yourself."

"I'm merely growing up, Coleton," I replied, my gaze fixed on the hospital window. "Growing into my skin. Finding my peace."

He used to praise my fire, my passion. But I was never really his wild card. I was just the cheap substitute.

I remembered the arguments. The times I'd dared to challenge him. "Shut up, Clarissa!" he would yell. "You're acting like a lunatic!"

But I had fought back, too. I had screamed. I had pleaded. One time, after a particularly vicious fight, he had locked me in the bedroom for an entire weekend "to cool off," taking my phone so I couldn't "embarrass him." I had panicked, feeling the walls closing in. He had been so remorseful then, so full of promises. He even cut off contact with Annis for a while. He swore he'd change. He even talked about having a baby, a new beginning.

I had believed him. Again. I had pushed through the physical pain, the endless fertility treatments. I got pregnant. With twins. High-risk, but viable.

And then, when the cramping started, when I called him in terror, he sent me to voicemail.

He was with Annis, shielding her from "drama," while I lost our future on a cold bathroom floor. And when he finally returned, he didn't cry for them. He didn't hold me. He told me it was "nature's way" and asked me to apologize to Annis.

He had personally severed the last fragile thread that connected us.

He was here now, begging for forgiveness, promising to make it up to me. "I know I messed up, Clarissa," he pleaded, tears glistening in his eyes. "I should have answered the phone. I just didn't think... I didn't think it was serious. Please, don't shut me out."

But there was no punishment I could inflict that would bring back what was gone. The tiny heartbeats, the dreams we'd woven—they were all gone. And with them, my capacity to love him.

"Go, Coleton," I said, a wave of profound weariness washing over me. "Go do whatever it is you have to do." His presence was suffocating. I couldn't breathe.

He paused, then looked at me, a question in his eyes. "You're not angry?"

"No, Coleton," I said, my voice flat. "I'm not angry." The lie came easily now.

He seemed to relax a fraction, his movements less guarded. He fumbled for his phone, which he had kept off for the last two days. The moment it powered on, it exploded with notifications. Messages, calls, emails. His face paled as he scrolled through them, his eyes wide with alarm.

"I… I have to go," he stammered, already halfway to the door. "Something's come up. An emergency at the office." He didn't even try to make eye contact.

I watched him go, a sense of grim satisfaction settling in my chest. Annis. It was always Annis.

I picked up my phone. A quick check of Annis's social media confirmed my suspicion. A picture of her looking distraught, clinging to some executive from Coleton's company, a caption about "malevolent forces trying to destroy good people."

My gaze fell on my left hand, bare without the engagement ring. I slipped it off, its weight suddenly foreign and heavy. I walked to the open window and, without a second thought, tossed it out. It glittered for a moment in the afternoon sun, then disappeared into the hospital garden below. Good riddance.