She didn’t sleep a wink all night.
The next day, Clara didn’t touch a single meal. No breakfast, no lunch, no dinner. The housekeeper kept popping in and out of Dylan’s study, clearly anxious but totally in the dark about what happened this time. “Sir, neither you nor Mrs. Bennett has eaten anything today...”
Dylan finally stood up, went to the master bedroom, and opened the door. There she was—just a lump under the covers.
He walked over, sat by the window, and looked at her. “Come on. Eat something.”
Clara kept her eyes shut, only half her face peeking out from the blankets.
He left without another word.
She thought maybe, finally, she’d get some peace. But it didn’t last. Before long, his voice was back, and the smell of soup drifted into the room.
Dylan stood by her bed. “If you won’t eat, I’ll feed you myself.”
Her lashes fluttered. Slowly, she sat up.
For a moment, the tension in Dylan’s face eased. But then he saw her pull a knife and press it to her throat.
The bowl crashed to the floor, shattering. His eyes went wide in shock.
Everything—her, the blood, the fear—reflected in his gaze.
Clara noticed the panic in him. She held on to that, as if it was her last hope, and pressed the blade closer. A thin red line appeared across her pale skin.
The last bit of color drained from his face.
For the first time, she saw him truly break.
“Let me go.”
Her voice was steady, but she pressed the knife even harder. Blood started to trickle down her neck.
“Clara!” His voice trembled, eyes rimmed red. “Don’t do this. Please.”
Clara slid off the bed, never looking away from him, backing up slowly. Her voice was the same—firm, cold.
“Let me go.”
Suddenly Dylan started coughing—really coughing, not faking it. He doubled over, face flushed, one hand gripping the window ledge so tight the veins bulged under his skin.
Clara didn’t care. Her patience was gone. “Dylan, just let me go.”
She wouldn’t look at him. All she wanted was to leave.
He kept coughing, then suddenly fell silent.
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