Page 141 of My Ruthless Husband

The blocks of sculpting clay are stored in clean, sealed containers. I reach inside and unwrap a block. The clay is still slightly damp, a sign that Dad kept it in good condition while I was gone. It’s a cruel irony that he can be so attentive to mysupplies but is also capable to shatter my trust in a way that’s impossible to fix.

I stop in front of the sculpting table. I push my hair out of my face, the curls tangled and knotted from days of neglect. It’s a mess, just like me. I haven’t bothered to brush it, haven’t cared about it like I used to, to keep it glossy and soft just the way Damian likes it. What’s the use of that when he isn’t here to appreciate it?

My chin trembles. Sniffling silently, I begin working on a new sculpture. Tears blur my vision as I work.

I press and pull at the material, but it refuses to take form. The more I try to shape it, the more it seems to mock my efforts. The sculpting tools in my hands becomes unsteady because of how much they are trembling.

Dad’s lies come crashing back, like a fresh wound that refuses to heal. I’m pulled into that memory again, the day I woke up in my old bedroom after being sedated. I remember how my confusion swiftly turned to dread. I remember throwing myself out of bed, stumbling toward the door, only to find it locked.

I remember how I screamed until my voice was a broken whisper. Cried until I could barely see through my swollen eyes. I begged for someone, anyone, to listen, but all that greeted me was the cold, suffocating silence. Not even food was brought to me that day. I wasn’t a person anymore—just a prisoner in a place I thought was home.

Being trapped in my childhood bedroom threw me back to when I was only five, back to the times when he would isolate me over the smallest things. I remember how I thought it was because of Mom’s death. I believed his strictness, his cold distance, was a way of coping, that he blamed me for her loss. But we worked through that… or so I thought.

Now I’m not so sure anymore. What kind of father locks up his daughter because she fell in love with his rival? What kindof father cuts her off from the world, taking her phone, her freedom, just to keep her away from someone he despises?

My hands move faster, cutting, shaping, destroying, rebuilding.

What kind of father tells his daughter to erase the one person she truly loves from her heart or else remain a prisoner forever? And what kind of father arranges his daughter’s marriage without her consent, threatening to destroy the man she loves if she doesn’t comply?

Mine does. My father is the kind of man who does all of that.

I choke on a sob, my throat tightening painfully as the tears spill over.

How do I explain to Dad that even though I love him, I can’t live without Damian? How do I tell him that while I’d do anything for him, I can’t leave Damian? It’s not even a choice anymore. Loving Damian is like breathing—I can’t survive without him. It’s beyond my control.

I carve again, faster this time, my hands moving on their own as I work with a desperation I never felt in my life before. The clay starts to blur under my frantic movements, its face shifting in and out of focus as my mind spirals. I can feel my sanity slipping, my heart beating too fast, too hard in my chest.

I pour everything into the sculpture. My pain flows out. Heartbreak spills through my fingers. The sense of betrayal. Loneliness. The deep hollowness in my chest. Everything. I don’t pay attention at what my hands are creating. I just let my instincts guide me.

I don’t know how long I have been working on the sculpture, all I know is my legs feel numb, my back hurts, and my cheeks are wet. But I don’t dare stop. Because I know if I stop, if I let my hands still, the silence will swallow me whole.

The harder I work, the further my mind drifts into chaos. Everything around me feels like it’s crumbling, and I can’t seemto find a way to stop it. How do I escape this prison of my father’s making? How do I convince him to understand?

In the past, I preferred this isolation. But now that I have Damian, every minute, every second without him is unbearable. I crave his presence. I want to see him. I need to see him. I want to feel the warmth of his palm against my face. I want his arms around me so I could feel safe again. I want to hear his gruff voice. I need him to tell me that everything is going to be okay.

My hands shake so badly I can’t hold the tool anymore, and it clatters to the floor, the sound echoing in the silence.

And then, just as I think I can’t take it anymore, just as exhaustion begins to take me under, I see it.

His face.

Damian’s face.

Perfectly formed in the clay, staring back at me with the same intensity. My breath catches in my throat as my vision swims again, black spots dancing across my eyes.

I reach out, my hand trembling as I trace the line of his jaw in the clay, my touch feather-light. My Damian.

But just as the warmth fills my chest, the world tilts on its axis. I collapse on the cold marble floor. A sad smile touches my lips and a warm, fresh tear escapes my eye as I longingly take in his features. That’s the last thing I see before surrendering to the darkness.

???

“You look just like your mother,” Dad says, stepping inside the lounge room where I’ve sat numbly for the past two hours, surrounded by stylists and makeup artists.

The compliment would’ve brought a big smile on my face in the past. But not today. Not only because my birthday remindsme of her loss but also because tonight I’m getting engaged to Edward.

Dad walks over to where I am sitting in front of the mirror. I feel his eyes probing my features but I keep them blank.

“Indeed! You look beautiful,cara.” The makeup artist croons, her rich Italian accent thick with warmth. The tension between dad and me must be really palpable if the famous makeup artist, Fiorenza, feels the need to step in herself.

---