Chapter Two

Clarissa’s POV

My chest felt tight as my eyes lingered on the faint smear of lipstick pressed into Bruce’s pillow.

“Bruce,” I whispered, struggling to breathe through the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. “What’s that… on your pillow?”

He hesitated for half a second. I saw it—the flicker in his gaze, the subtle shift in his posture. But then, he laughed. A dry, practiced sound.

“That?” He rubbed at the pillow like it meant nothing. “That’s yours, babe. Didn’t you kiss me this morning before you left? You must’ve forgotten.”

I blinked, trying to sift through the fog in my head. My mind, trapped in the loop of Sophia’s blue lips and tiny cold fingers, couldn’t grasp simple memories. Did I kiss him this morning? Did I? I couldn’t remember.

“I… I can’t recall.”

Bruce reached for me gently, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “Clarissa, you’re exhausted. Come here.”

I didn’t resist when he pulled me onto the bed beside him. His heartbeat drummed steadily against my ear as he held me close. His warmth should have soothed me, but it didn’t. Not this time.

My gaze drifted to his neck, to the faint red mark just beneath his hairline. Almost like—

“What’s that on your neck?” I heard myself ask before I could stop the words.

Bruce stiffened, just for a moment. Then, he laughed again. “Probably a rash. You know how stressed I’ve been lately.”

I said nothing.

His hand moved down to my waist, his touch light as he gave me a gentle squeeze. “Let’s not worry about that now, Clarissa. Focus on what matters. We need to be strong. Sophia needs to be buried properly. We have to stay strong for her.”

I nodded numbly, pressing my face against his chest to muffle the sob that crawled up my throat. His hand moved slowly in circles over my back, and I clung to the physical comfort even when my mind felt detached from it.

All I could smell was perfume on his sheets. Not mine. Not familiar. Something light. Floral. Feminine.

Later that afternoon, I sat like a stranger in my own kitchen, staring blankly at the funeral brochures scattered across the table. Lilies. Roses. Little white caskets. None of it felt real. I didn’t want to choose.

Bruce sat opposite me, speaking in low tones to the funeral director over the phone. His voice was calm, steady. Efficient. I watched him, unable to feel anything except exhaustion. My daughter was dead, yet everything around me kept moving. He kept moving. Making arrangements. Discussing flowers and times and costs if it didn’t matter that our nine-year-old child was being discussed as a corpse.

“Private service. Tomorrow morning,” he said finally, ending the call and slipping his phone into his pocket like it was any other business matter. He reached for my hand and squeezed gently. “Everything’s taken care of, Clarissa. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

I said nothing.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “Please. Look at me.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes. His face was pale but composed. I kept searching for pain in his expression, but there was none. Not really. His eyes were red, yes, but hollow. Like someone trying to appear devastated, but not quite succeeding.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured. “I’ve already lost Sophia. I can’t lose you too.”

I closed my eyes, tears burning, but none fell. It was like I’d cried myself empty.

His phone vibrated on the table as he stood to kiss my forehead, his lips cold against my skin. “Try to eat something. I’ll be in the study if you need me.”

Then he walked away.

I sat there, staring down at the phone he left behind.

It vibrated again. I stretched my hand and picked up the phone, Just before I could press the red icon, the call ended, and then the call logs came to view 

I froze. My blood turned to ice as I stared at the phone, my fingers trembling uncontrollably.

Twenty-three missed calls.

Twenty-three. From Sophia.

I couldn’t breathe. My chest heaved as tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t wipe them away. She had called him. Over and over. While she was dying. While her tiny lungs were closing. Her voice broke as she screamed for help. She had called him. And he hadn’t answered.

Why?

I stumbled from my chair, my knees weak as I clutched the phone like a lifeline and walked toward the study.

“Bruce.” My voice cracked when I pushed the door open. He looked up from his laptop, brows knitting together.

“What’s wrong?”

“She called you.” My voice was small. Broken. “Sophia called you… again and again. She kept calling you. Why didn’t you answer?”

He stood slowly, his face pale. His eyes flicked to the phone, and then he let out a heavy sigh as if bracing himself for something.

“I told you, Clarissa,” he said softly. “The sleeping pills. I didn’t hear anything. I swear to God, I didn’t hear her. If I had known… if I’d heard her…”

He stepped toward me and took the phone from my shaking hands. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me into his chest.

“I didn’t know. Please don’t torture yourself. Or me. I can’t… I can’t bear it.”

His voice cracked, but I wasn’t sure if it was from emotion or exhaustion.

“I let her down too,” he whispered against my hair. “I’ll never forgive myself either.”

I sobbed against his chest, hating him, needing him, loving him, resenting him—all at once. 

He led me back to bed later that night. I lay there, staring at the ceiling while Bruce slept beside me. His breathing was even, steady, and almost peaceful. The world felt distant. The house smelled like antiseptic and lilies now—the funeral director’s samples still left behind.

I turned on my side, unable to sleep.

Bruce’s phone vibrated again.

I flinched. I reached for it hesitantly, afraid of what I might see.

A message preview glowed softly in the dark:

‘I can’t get you out of my head. When will I see you again?’ — F.

I read it once. Then again.

My stomach twisted into a sick knot. My fingers went numb.

Who was F?

The logical part of me wanted to ask questions, to react, to confront.

But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the energy.

I put the phone back down carefully, like it might explode. I crawled out of bed silently, locking myself in the bathroom as tears spilled down my cheeks for the first time in hours.

Sophia. My poor baby. When she needed us the most, both her parents had failed her.

Bruce’s drowsy voice called out to me outside the locked door, “Clarissa? Where are you?”