Jonathan had been standing quietly a few steps away, watching. He couldn't catch every word, but he knew enough from Clara’s expression and the fragments she’d spoken. A storm passed behind his eyes, but he swallowed it down and offered only a measured hand and a glass of warm water.

“Not worth your anger,” he said quietly. “Don’t let him steal what little strength you have left.”

Her fingers closed around the cup; they were ice-cold. She looked at him, decision settling like iron in her chest. “Jonathan, I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t stay here.”

He blinked, then nodded with steady support. “Where do you want to go? I’ll arrange it.”

“I don’t know yet. Just… let it end here.” Her jaw was set. “Everything here ends.”

“Okay.” He bowed his head slightly. “I’ll see you off at the airport tomorrow night. Before you go—dinner. One last farewell.”

She offered a faint, tired smile. “The Western restaurant. The one we used to go to.” It was where she and Adrian had first been young and hopeful. She wanted the place where their beginning had been to mark the end.

That evening the restaurant smelled of butter and old oak. She hadn’t expected to run into them — but there they were: Adrian and Vanessa, laughing, shoulder-to-shoulder as if the world belonged to them. Adrian’s face shifted the moment he saw Clara in the doorway—surprise cracking into something raw and animal: rage.

He shoved Vanessa away like an afterthought and stalked over, seizing Clara’s wrist with a grip that burned. “Where have you been? Who’s that man you were meeting? Don’t lie—who’s your adulterer?” His breath came hard. “I, Adrian, rule this city. I’ll find him and ruin him.”

Vanessa darted forward in a frenzy. Her nails hooked into Clara’s hair, claws raking a red line across her cheek. “Bitch! You dare show your face here and seduce my man?”

Clara—still weak from the fever—staggered backward. The shove sent her down; her forehead smashed the corner of the table. Pain flared hot and sharp. A shocked hush rippled through the room.

Adrian leaned over her like a conqueror. “Listen,” he hissed, voice low and threatening, “until those divorce papers are signed, you’re still my wife. Try to cheat and I’ll bury you—both you and whoever sleeps with you.”

At the sight of Clara on the floor, something in Jonathan broke open. The calm man became a blade. Without a word, he stepped forward and delivered a clean, brutal kick to Adrian’s stomach. Adrian doubled over with a strangled grunt, stumbling back.

“Adrian, you’re courting death,” Jonathan said, voice low and cold. He bent, gathered Clara in one careful motion, and planted himself between her and the wound Adrian had become.

Adrian clutched at his midriff, face flushing. When he saw Jonathan standing there—restrained fury in every line of him—his expression tumbled from pain into ugly, furious mockery. “Jonathan? Ha. So you’ve come to pick up the scraps. Clara, throwing yourself at your ex so fast? Jonathan, you belong to menial things—like picking up my old shoes.”

The words were bait. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed to slits. He stepped forward and, with a single, controlled motion, grabbed Adrian’s collar and drove a fist into his face. Blood split at Adrian’s lip; he staggered, dazed and defeated under the onslaught.

The restaurant broke into shocked noise. Vanessa shrieked and scrabbled at Fu’s sleeve, but he didn’t look at her. He turned only once to make sure Clara was on her feet, then faced Adrian like a man who’d finally decided the measure of what he would no longer tolerate.

Adrian—bleeding, humiliated—was a broken image of the man who once stood in the rain begging at Clara’s father’s gate. Now he lay crumpled by the consequences of his own cruelty.

Adrian staggered upright, blood streaking down his mouth, yet he laughed—a broken, manic sound. His finger jabbed toward Clara.

“Jonathan, hit me all you want! Even if you kill me, she’ll still love me. Clara loves me to death—she can’t live without me!”

His eyes burned with madness. “I regret everything, do you hear? I don’t acknowledge that filthy agreement. As long as I don’t sign, she’ll always be my wife. Mine!”

He turned that fevered gaze on her, raw and desperate. “Clara, come home with me. Enough of this nonsense. I promise—no more favoritism. One east wing, one west wing, both of you can live in peace. I was only hard on you to humble your pride. And Snowball—Snowball’s waiting at home. Don’t you miss it?”

He didn’t know Snowball was already gone, escorted away by Jonathan’s men and bound for the airport.

Clara looked at him—this man once admired, now pitiful and grotesque. His words were absurd, his eyes deranged. Slowly, firmly, she shook her head.

“Adrian, it’s over. I’m not going back.”

The ice in her voice cut deeper than any slap. His face twisted, first with disbelief, then fury.

“Fine! You think Jonathan is sincere? He’s just playing with you. You’ll see how long you last without me. Sooner or later, you’ll crawl back on your knees!”

With curses still spilling from his mouth, he yanked Vanessa by the arm and stumbled out, leaving only disgrace in his wake.

Jonathan shielded her with his body, then guided her quickly out of the restaurant.

“Jonathan,” her voice was hoarse but steady, “take me to the airport.”

His brow furrowed. “Not even one more night to rest? Your body—”

“No.” She shook her head, voice sharp with finality. “If I stay, even for one night, I’ll suffocate.”

For a moment, he searched her face. Then he nodded, decisive. “Very well.”

In the car, his voice softened. “Don’t worry. Snowball’s already been checked in through special channels. She’ll be on the same flight. Everything’s arranged.”

Her throat tightened. “Thank you.” It was all she could manage. Gratitude sat heavy in her chest, almost painful.

—

At the airport VIP lounge, the lights glowed sterile and bright. Clara sat in the corner, staring at her phone as it flickered with yet another incoming call.

She hesitated, then slid to answer. Silence pressed for a moment. Then came ragged, animal-like breathing, harsh and uneven.

“Clara!” Adrian’s roar cracked through the receiver. “Speak!”

Her lips parted, voice calm. “It’s me. What else is there to say? Goodbye.”

“No! I won’t let you say goodbye!” His voice spiraled out of control, a grotesque mix of rage and terror. “You’re not leaving! Come back here—right now! I was wrong, I admit it! Everything was my fault. Clara, come back… we can start again!”

Her face remained still, expressionless, listening as though to a stranger.

Then his tone snapped, switching to that familiar cruelty. “Don’t forget—in Baybridge, I’m king. Run as far as you want, I’ll drag you back. No one escapes me. Don’t force me to use my hands.”

The threats, the pleas, the arrogance—it was all the same script. For the first time, it no longer stirred her. Her heart was a stagnant pool, empty of him.

When his voice finally cracked into silence, she spoke, clear and resolute.

“No.”

“Goodbye, Adrian.”

She hung up. The screen went dark. With steady fingers, she pulled the SIM card free and dropped it into the trash bin.

From this moment on, Baybridge—and everything tied to Adrian—ceased to exist in her world.

Meanwhile, at the Cole family villa.

Adrian staggered in, dragging Vanessa behind him. The stench of alcohol clung to him, thick with violence and despair. He threw himself onto the leather sofa in the courtyard, knocking several bottles to the floor with a hollow clatter.

Vanessa hovered close, her voice syrupy with false comfort.

“Adrian, don’t be angry. She’s not worth it. From now on, I’ll stay by your side. I promise I’ll be a thousand times more interesting than that wooden woman…”

She leaned against him, fingers tracing lazy circles across his chest, coaxing, wheedling.

“Get out.”

The words were like a whip. Adrian shoved her away, his bloodshot eyes hollow, unfocused—not on her, but on the echo in his skull.

We’re over.

Clara’s calm, distant gaze replayed endlessly in his mind. That coldness, that finality—it was unbearable. She should have been weeping, begging, broken. Not walking away. Not cutting him off.

His chest heaved, alcohol fanning the flames of his paranoia. He paced like a caged beast, smashing his phone to the tiles.

“Hello? Hello! Clara! Clara!”

Only the cold, mechanical tone answered him. He redialed again and again, frantic, but the same merciless voice repeated: The number you dialed is powered off.

She had cut him off completely.

A chill spread through him, quickly boiling into fury. He barked, “Butler! Bring Snowball here!”

The trembling old man wrung his hands. “Sir… Snowball… Snowball seems to be missing…”

Adrian froze. “Gone?”

The unease lodged in his gut twisted into dread. He fumbled with his phone, trying to video call Clara—but the attempt failed instantly. Blocked. Again.

His roar tore through the villa.

“Clara! You’re still my wife. Even if you die, you’ll be the ghost of the Cole family! Where did you take Snowball? Return it to me immediately, or else—”

Before he could finish, the butler rushed back, face drained of blood, clutching a thick courier envelope.

“Sir… these just arrived. From the court. From the law firm…”

Adrian ripped it open with shaking hands. Paper slid out, crisp and merciless.

The divorce agreement. Official. Executed. Stamped in bold red seal.

His eyes locked on the clause—

The man voluntarily leaves the house.

The words stabbed into him, clearer than a knife.

“No… impossible… she wouldn’t… she couldn’t…” He muttered like a man possessed, his fingers trembling so hard the pages shook. His chest surged, breath caught—

“Pffft—”

A mouthful of dark blood sprayed across the papers, staining the black and white with grotesque red.

The room spun. His body convulsed once, then crumpled backward onto the floor.

Unconscious.

The documents, now flecked with blood, lay beside him—silent, undeniable proof that Clara was gone from him forever.