The Prison-Made Queen novel Chapter 891

He took a deep breath, trying to summon a shred of courage, and dialed the number that had practically vanished from his contacts.

The long, monotonous ringing echoed in his ear, each tone striking against his frayed nerves. It felt like a century had passed before the busy signal abruptly cut off, replaced by the cold, robotic voice of an automated operator: "The number you have dialed is temporarily unavailable."

That heartless prompt was like a bucket of ice water poured directly over his head, freezing him to the bone. He had prepared himself for the possibility that Winifred wouldn't answer, but facing the reality of it still left him completely hollowed out. It meant his last, desperate lifeline had been ruthlessly severed.

"Hah..." Clive let out a low, raspy chuckle, the sound dripping with self-deprecation and utter despair. He bolted upright from the bed, his eyes shot through with terrifying, blood-red webs from days of anxiety and illness.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he cranked the faucet. He splashed bone-chilling water over his face again and again, desperately trying to drown the fury rising in his chest.

But it was useless.

He lifted his head and stared into the mirror. The reflection staring back was an emaciated ghost of his former self—hollow cheeks, bruised under-eyes, looking every bit like a man standing at death's door. Only the flames of resentment and absolute unwillingness to surrender burned brightly in his gaze.

A reckless, self-destructive urge surged from the depths of his heart. Mixed with the humiliation of being trampled on and the cornered anger of a man with nothing left to lose, it burned away his final shreds of reason.

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