Ian's grip tightened on his glass, his knuckles almost turning white. His heart felt like it had been stabbed at that very moment.
The day Heidi attempted suicide, Clara had bombarded him with calls about her excruciating cramps, and although he had answered at first, in a fit of anger, he eventually hung up on her. He couldn't shake the thought that she would break up with him over this.
With his gaze cast downward, Ian listened to Edwin and Chase spewing venom at the scumbag of a husband. He was so lost in thought that he didn't even feel the cigarette burning into the back of his hand.
Restlessness consumed him all evening. At times like these, Clara would have already called, concerned. Yet now, well past midnight, not a single message had pinged his phone.
A bad feeling suddenly gripped him.
He stubbed out his cigarette and, clutching his phone, left in a hurry.
Stepping out of the bar, he saw a little girl approaching him, her basket brimming with fresh flowers. "Sir, would you like to buy some for your girlfriend?" she asked with a smile.
Ian's eyes fixated on the vibrant champagne roses in the basket, and Edwin's words echoed in his head—"Just butter her up."
"Pack them all up for me," he said.
The girl beamed, swiftly bundling the flowers and handing them to Ian, her words a stream of cheerful blessings.
For the first time that night, Ian's stern face softened. He pulled out a few crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to the girl.
But when he got home, flowers in arms, he wasn't greeted by that petite figure he expected, but by the housekeeper instead.
"Sir, welcome back. I've made you some chicken noodle soup. Would you like a bowl?" she offered.
Ian's brow furrowed as he glanced upstairs, "Is she asleep?"
The housekeeper hesitated, then said, "Ms. Clara's gone. She asked me to give this to you."
Ian took the envelope from her. It was a list of Clara's clothes. Fury pulsed through him, and he crumpled the list and tossed it in the trash.
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