Chapter 3

I panicked and wanted to call an ambulance, but she forced a smile and insisted she only needed some rest. She refused to go to the hospital.

In the middle of the night, Adrian had another episode. He became paranoid, convinced someone was trying to harm him, and spiraled into panic.

Clara grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. I blocked her path.

"Didn't the doctor say you need complete rest? In your condition, you shouldn't be running around!"

She looked at me, her eyes full of conflict.

"Julian, he's a high-risk patient, I can't just watch him die. Just this once. I'll be back soon."

When she returned, she looked utterly exhausted. There were even faint reddish stains on her pants.

Weakly, she said she was just overworked and told me not to worry.

My doubt and unease were interpreted by her as a lack of empathy, as if I simply did not understand her profession.

"Julian, you used to be so kind. Why can't you try to understand now? This is my responsibility."

She looked at me, her eyes tired–tinged with a hint of disappointment.

Because I was kind, I was expected to keep watching her put herself–and our child–in danger for someone else.

Eventually, she suggested making it up to me by taking me to an art exhibition I was looking forward to for a long time.

However, the moment we arrived at the entrance, her phone rang again.

She glanced at the screen and hung up immediately. Yet her expression changed instantly, and her hand moved instinctively to cover her lower abdomen.

"Is it him again?" My heart sank as my eyes fixed on the hand protecting her stomach.

"Just a telemarketer," she said, avoiding my gaze.

The phone kept vibrating relentlessly, stubborn enough to make anyone uneasy.

In the end, she gave in and walked to a corner to answer it.

"Adrian! Calm down! Don't do anything stupid! Okay, wait there–I'm coming right now!"

When she returned, her face was filled with anxiety, sweat beading at her temples.

"Julian, we can't see the exhibition. He's standing on the rooftop edge. He said if I don't come, he'll jump."

I looked at her pale face, at the hand that instinctively shielded her stomach. My voice sounded cold, even to myself.

"So our plans, our child, they all come second to another one of his performances? Clara, look at the state you're in."

She grabbed her hair in frustration, her body trembling slightly.

"Just this once! I swear it's the last time! I'll resolve this completely! If he really dies, I'll spend the rest of my life haunted by it. Our baby won't be happy either!"

Then she turned and ran toward the parking lot. Her steps were unsteady, yet there wasn't the slightest hesitation in her back.

I stood alone on the lively street as people passed by around me.

Inside my chest, everything felt ice-cold.

That night, when she returned, things were worse.

The abdominal pain intensified, and the bleeding was clearly heavier.

We rushed to the hospital, where the doctor diagnosed her with a threatened miscarriage and ordered strict bed rest.

On the hospital bed, she clutched my hand, tears streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry, Julian. I'm sorry, baby. I never thought it would turn out like this."

My heart felt as though it were being sliced apart, but all I could say was, "Let's focus on saving the baby first."

…

Clara's hospital was celebrating its anniversary.

She insisted that I accompany her.

"I want everyone to see how wonderful my husband is."

She gently stroked her slightly rounded belly, a fragile hope flickering across her face.

I saw the exhaustion in her eyes and the forced smile she tried to maintain. In the end, I nodded.

I chose a well-fitted suit and did my best to conceal the weariness that built up over the past few days.

The banquet was lively–glasses clinking, elegant guests mingling beneath the soft glow of lights.

Her colleagues came over to toast us, offering congratulations and blessings.

Clara responded with polite smiles. One hand rested gently on the back of my chair, while the other occasionally moved to protect her abdomen.