He was dumped at the entrance of a garbage-filled alley. His belongings were scattered across the filthy ground.
Inside the sack, he struggled wildly, cursing through muffled screams.
“Clarissa, you fucking bitch! How dare you treat like this! You slut—I’ll kill you sooner or later—!”
A calm voice cut through the darkness.
“Who are you cursing?”
Xerxes’ voice died in his throat as he saw Clarissa standing at the entrance of the alley, smiling faintly.
“Clarissa?! What are you doing here?!”
She walked toward him slowly, the crisp click of her heels echoing clearly. “Xerxes, I’m usually a pretty easygoing person. But you nearly cost an employee worth billions.”
Her smile vanished. “This debt needs to be paid.”
Several n erged behind him and lifted him up again.
“You like hitting won, don’t you?” soone sneered. “Then today, you’ll get a taste of it yourself.”
Terrified, Xerxes scread, “Clarissa! How dare you! I’ll sue you! I’ll sue you!”
Clarissa laughed softly—beautiful, cruel. “Go ahead. If you still have evidence. Or money.”
She had removed every surveillance cara in the area the day before under the excuse of construction. As for Xerxes—starting today, no one in S City would ever hire him again.
Trash like him, even when chased away, always crawled back.
To truly free Whitney, the root had to be burned out completely.
Clarissa stood at the alley entrance and calmly watched as the n beat him into the ground, slamd his head against the wall, again and again.
Once he collapsed in a bloody heap, she lifted a hand. “That’s enough.”
Just then, Xerxes suddenly grabbed a shard of broken glass from the ground, lunged to his feet, and charged at her in a frenzy.
“Clarissa, you bitch! Even if I die, I’ll drag you down with !”
“Miss Clarissa—watch out!”
Before anyone could reach her—
A sharp, brutal kick landed between his legs.
Xerxes let out a scream.
Clarissa seized the arm holding the glass, twisted it viciously, and flung him over her shoulder with ruthless precision.
He crashed to the ground like a broken doll.
Clarissa clapped her hands and let out a soft breath. “Phoenix said I’m too weak. When dealing with a man, always aim straight for the groin.”
With that, she raised her high-heeled foot and delivered several brutal kicks to Xerxes’ groin. He foad at the mouth, tears streaming down his face, collapsing to the ground, completely incapacitated.
Whitney, who had been hiding nearby, ran over.
“Miss Clarissa… are you… are you okay?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“I’m fine,” Clarissa said, offering a faint smile. “What do you need to say? Just say it.”
Whitney nodded, stepping forward slightly.
Xerxes’ eyes imdiately lit up when he saw her, as though seeing a lifeline. He crawled over and knelt before Whitney, desperately clutching the hem of her skirt. “Whitney… you’re finally here! They’re trying to kill ! I… I love you so much. I couldn’t control myself! I was just so scared of losing you! Please forgive one last ti. I swear I’ll find a decent job… I won’t fail you again…”
He had knelt like this before, begging her forgiveness. And she had foolishly believed him. Only after nearly dying did she realize how utterly pathetic it had been to trust him.
Whitney looked down at him, eyes cold and unwavering. “Xerxes…”
“What?” His head snapped up—only to et a sharp, brutal slap from Whitney.
“Scumbag. Die.”
She followed up with a kick to his groin, mirroring Clarissa’s earlier strike, delivering it with all the force she could muster. Xerxes scread in agony, crumpling to the ground, unconscious.
Whitney exhaled, a mixture of relief and satisfaction washing over her. She turned to Clarissa and hugged her tightly, eyes glistening red.
Clarissa patted her back gently. “It’s okay. He won’t bother you anymore.”
Whitney inhaled deeply. Her status and family ant this incident could never go public—if they found out, she’d be punished severely.
Even after Whitney was safe, Clarissa couldn’t calm down. Xerxes’ words echoed relentlessly in her mind. He had said Atticus was hers…
Her head throbbed, a heavy emptiness settling deep in her chest.
The world passed by in a blur—cars, buildings—and Clarissa wasn’t paying attention. The traffic light suddenly turned red. She slamd on the brakes, startled.
Breathing deeply, she gradually regained control and continued driving ho.
It was late when she arrived. Collapsing onto the sofa, she rubbed her temples, her chest heavy with exhaustion.
Her mory felt fragnted. Xerxes had claid she had dated Atticus? She couldn’t rember ever being with a man.
anwhile, elsewhere, Callum noticed the weather had turned gloomy. He decided to brew tea before collecting herbs, but his teacup slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor.
He clicked his tongue and cleaned up the ss. Seeing the overcast sky, he skipped dinner and went out to gather the last of the herbs.
Only after collecting the final basket did the drizzle begin. Sitting inside, he looked out the window and murmured, “Clarissa…”
There was a faint worry in his voice. The hypnosis wasn’t just about erasing mories—it was about filling in gaps, replacing missing fragnts. Clarissa had no mory of Atticus; it was flawless, almost surgical.
“Hopefully… Atticus will keep his promise and leave her be,” he muttered.
.......
Back at the company, the mountain of unfinished tasks waiting for Clarissa was suffocating. She bumped into Mark at the entrance.
Having not seen each other for so ti, he greeted her first. “Clarissa…”
She nodded, smiling faintly. “Mark.”
His gaze lingered, intense and unblinking. Clarissa shifted uncomfortably and turned away. “You’re… so early. Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Not yet. I’ll eat later. What about you?”
“I already have.”
Side by side, they walked into the building. Their movents were so perfectly in sync that it drew attention.
Not far away, soone’s gaze followed them. Atticus clenched his fists, red drops of anger—or perhaps jealousy—falling like plum blossoms onto the ground. Eleven noticed him, and only after Mark and Clarissa disappeared from view did she gently nudge him.
Atticus blinked, forcing himself to focus. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.
Eleven glanced around at the distant buildings, then followed him quickly.
After so ti, Atticus stopped. Eleven looked around, confused—there was no one else in sight.
She ran to him, signaling him urgently. “Go find her!”
“Find her?” Atticus shook his head gently. “Eleven… it’s too late for .”
Seeing him try to walk away, Eleven’s eyes reddened. She dropped to her knees, gathering every ounce of strength to drag him back, her knees scraping the ground.
A voice in her head warned: if she didn’t stop him now, she might never see him again.
Atticus stopped and looked at Eleven. “Are you afraid I’ll kill myself?”
Eleven jerked her head up and stared at him.
Atticus suddenly laughed—a hollow, broken sound. “Eleven, why are you crying? I don’t have any family left in this world. She doesn’t want anymore. I haven’t even been good to you all these years… so why are you crying for soone like ?”
He truly didn’t understand.
Only a foolish girl like Eleven would cry for soone like him—just because he had once reached out and pulled her from the dirt.
To the Atticus of the past, saving Eleven had been no different from picking up a stray cat off the street.
Now, the decaying aura clinging to him terrified her. The despair rolling off him was suffocating.
She made the sa gesture again and again, her hands shaking.
“Go find her… go find her…”
She refused to believe Clarissa would really accept another man.
Seeing that Atticus still wouldn’t move, she hurriedly added, voice trembling, “If you can’t be with her—then at least protect her! And if she really marries soone else…” Eleven swallowed hard, “…I won’t stop you from doing whatever you want after that.”
Her words finally made him pause.
Atticus took a deep breath. After a long mont, he said softly, “Okay. I promise you.”
It was late at night when Atticus returned to his apartnt. He grabbed a bottle of liquor and tipped it back in one long gulp.
The alcohol scorched his throat, making his stomach churn, but it dulled the sharp edge of the pain in his nerves—if only slightly.
He had already been sick before. After Clarissa left, the fever dragged on for two more days, and he’d been trapped in endless, chaotic dreams.
In those dreams, he returned to two years ago.
That year, Clarissa had just been sent to Callum.
Every day, he would secretly watch her from a distance.
The woman who used to bloom like a peach blossom had beco skin and bones, as if a single gust of wind could knock her over. He watched her struggle to eat. Watched her swallow endless dications. His heart ached with every breath she took.
Then one day, she didn’t co out to sunbathe in the yard.
Panic seized him. He searched everywhere in a frenzy—until a cold voice sounded behind him.
“Why aren’t you leaving?”
Atticus spun around and saw Callum standing there, his gaze sharp as ice, cutting straight through him.
“Master…”
“I’m not your master,” Callum cut him off. “We have nothing to do with each other anymore.”
Atticus pressed his lips together and fell silent.
Callum looked at him and shook his head slowly. “Atticus, why are you doing this?”
“I just wanted to see her…”
“So what?” Callum’s eyes were rciless. “Let be honest with you. Even if Clarissa truly loves you, I will never agree to the two of you being together. My Clarissa only needs a carefree, happy life. What can she possibly gain from being with you?”
Each word was like a block of ice, slamming straight into his chest.
“You will only bring her pain. The truth is—Clarissa will be better off without you.”
“Atticus, you’ll only drag both her and yourself into an endless hell. If you truly love her… then let her go.”
The mory shattered there.
Atticus couldn’t rember what happened in his dreams after that—only that Callum’s words had been as cold and sharp as knives, carving into his heart.
After he recovered, he didn’t dare go see her again.
Later, sothing happened on the eleventh that forced him to leave temporarily. He only returned now.
And he never expected to see what he saw.
His grip on the bottle tightened.
Clarissa would forget him… and return to the arms of her childhood sweetheart.
A violent ache surged in his chest. He pressed his hand there, gasping. The pain only worsened.
He lifted the bottle and drank again and again until it was empty.
The next second—crash.
He hurled the bottle to the floor. The thick glass shattered instantly.
His eyes were bloodshot, but his mind was clear. Not a trace of drunkenness.
Atticus pushed himself up from the sofa and went to the dicine cabinet beside the refrigerator.
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