I Woke Up to Your Suicide

Outside the lounge, Blake asked the event manager about Julianna's condition.

The event manager glanced up from the guest list, his expression polite but firm.

"Medically, she's fine. She just needs a moment. There's really no reason for her to be occupying the lounge."

Blake froze. "Needs to rest… isn't it serious? Her assistant just said she was having a panic attack."

The manager paused, looking momentarily speechless. "It was a minor fright, sir, not a…"

"Blake, Blake!"

A sharp cry from inside the lounge sent Blake rushing back in before the manager could finish his sentence.

"What is it? Are you hurt?"

Hearing this, the manager simply shook his head and walked away.

Watching Blake fuss over Julianna, I had to laugh. I was almost due, bleeding out on the floor, telling him I was in agony, and he’d called me a liar.

Julianna barely stumbles, and he acts like the sky is falling.

I knew about the "scare" the manager mentioned. It was last month. The memory was seared into my brain because I’d felt guilty about it for days.

That night was my gallery opening. Blake was stroking my belly, murmuring to both me and the baby as we greeted guests.

Since I’d gotten pregnant, he’d scaled back his social life to spend more time with me. His constant, gentle presence had lulled me into believing he truly loved me.

I had treasured those moments.

But a single phone call shattered the illusion.

Blake glanced at the caller ID, then at me, and squeezed my hand. As if to prove there were no secrets between him and Julianna, he put the call on speaker.

Julianna's pathetic whimper filled the air.

"Bl… Blake…"

He frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Garrett's drunk again. I… I just tried to get him to go to bed, and he… he screamed at me. I'm so scared, I'm shaking all over. I can't move… I'm terrified. Why… why is he doing this to me…"

"Where are you?"

After Julianna haltingly gave him an address, Blake turned to leave without a second thought.

I instinctively grabbed his sleeve. "You're not his therapist. If she's scared, she can call her security team. Why is she calling you?"

Ever since my pregnancy became obvious, Julianna had started this routine, manufacturing crises and claiming her husband was emotionally abusing her. And every time, Blake was the one who rode to her rescue.

I couldn't stand it—him fetching her from high-end clubs, rushing to her house at midnight, booking hotel suites for her, taking her on drives to "clear her head."

It was suffocating, and it made me snap.

All the gentleness he showed Julianna vanished when it came to me; he had no patience for my temper.

"Clara Hawthorne, how can you be so cold-hearted? Weren't you two friends? Is this how you treat a friend?"

Back then, whenever he used my full name in anger, I felt a fresh wave of injustice. This was all because of her. Was a first love really that sacred?

I snapped back, "How should I treat a friend? Should I just let Julianna have my husband on speed dial for her nightly meltdowns? I could never pull a stunt that desperate!"

His face darkened. "You're being completely irrational!"

Later, after I’d calmed down, I wondered if I’d been too harsh. Then Blake sent a photo that crushed me with guilt.

It was a close-up of a wrist, marred by faint red marks.

I even asked myself, Maybe she's not lying. Maybe she really just sees Blake as a friend and needs help. Am I just being a jealous monster?

I convinced myself it was true. Looking back now, it was all just self-deception.