After my husband forged a false testimony for his mistress, I could no longer tolerate it

“Do you think Liam will blame me for this?”

The next second, Liam walked in.

He froze for a moment as he took in the scene, his eyes shifting back and forth between us.

After holding it in for a long time, he finally said:

“Shuhan is still young and doesn’t understand things. Your dad’s condition was hopeless anyway. Ending it earlier is better.”

“I’ll give your mom more money from now on.”

The beeping sound beside me continued, and each beep announced my father’s death.

I stood there in a daze.

Besides sadness and grief, what I felt even more was a kind of release.

Liam didn’t care about me anymore.

He picked up Vanessa and walked out.

Collapsed on the floor, I kept apologizing to my father, over and over, but I no longer knew who in this world owed me an apology.

I took out the business card and dialed the number.

“Mr. Gregory, come pick me up tonight.”

The same cremation—I went through it again.

This time, I left my father’s ashes on the memorial stand in the mourning hall.

When I returned home, Liam wasn’t back yet.

Vanessa whispered in my ear that Liam was furious and that I was doomed.

I ignored her.

She kept pestering me, asking whether I really wanted a divorce.

I didn’t answer.

I only opened the door.

“Choose. Everything in here belongs to you now.”

Hearing that, Vanessa rushed inside, immediately rummaging through everything.

Only a few photos of Liam and me from our youth scattered onto the floor—ignored by everyone.

I locked myself inside my room and stayed there until nightfall.

During that time, Liam sent the housekeeper to check on me, but I only asked the housekeeper to deliver my divorce agreement.

“How long is this going to go on, Clara? Are you still not done playing?”

Liam tore the divorce papers into pieces.

“Don’t feed her! She’ll get food only when she stops acting out!”

Liam thought my demand for divorce was fake, thought my confession that I didn’t love him anymore was fake too.

But love—can truly run out.

Ten years.

I really couldn’t love him anymore.

Now that I had nothing left, what was there that I couldn’t walk away from?

That night, I climbed out of the window and got into Gregory’s car.

The next morning, Liam didn’t see my busy figure in the dining room.

There were no little wontons he loved to eat, no coffee I brewed by hand, and none of the neatly ironed and matched clothes on the rack.

Liam rushed upstairs and opened my room door, only to find it completely empty.

He picked up a few photos scattered on the ground, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Housekeeper! Where is Clara?!”

The housekeeper rushed over, spatula still in hand, glanced at the empty room, and shook his head—he didn’t know.

“I’ll call her mom.”

The housekeeper froze and instinctively replied:

“Young master… didn’t Clara’s mother already pass away? She was cremated the next day.”

Liam’s mind flashed back to the scene of me holding the urn that day.

His breath stalled for a moment.

He bent down to pick up another photo, his pupils unfocused, as if all life had been drained from him, leaving only an empty shell.

In his hand was a photo of the two of them in their early twenties, taken on a street in Paris.

Back then, they had just gotten together, and he didn’t even dare put his arm around her shoulders.

But she had seen through his shyness and leaned her head against him.

Liam carefully wiped the dust from the photo.

He tried to smooth out the wrinkles, but no matter how hard he tried, it was useless.

In ten years, he had never imagined that Clara would really leave him.