After His Ex-husband killed his son for his mistress, he went insane

Just as dawn broke, the door was struck violently, and Liam’s voice—void of warmth—cut through the crack and pierced Clara’s eardrums. “Get up. You’re coming with me.”

Clara hadn’t slept all night. The dark circles beneath her eyes spread like ink stains, exhaustion seeping from every joint in her body—the bruised ache on her neck from last night lingered, and the revolting scene in her son’s room replayed over and over in her mind, suffocating even when she blinked. She rose slowly, pulling on clothes without thought. The woman in the mirror looked ghostly pale, her eyes empty like a soulless puppet—none of the brilliance of the genius scientist she once was remained.

Liam was already waiting downstairs. When he saw her emerge, his brows knitted, as if irritated by her pace, though he said nothing—he simply shoved her into the car.

The car stopped beside a beach overlooking the sea, where a top-tier luxury couture fashion show was about to begin. A snow-white carpet stretched along the sand, the distant ocean shimmering blue, perfume and diamonds glimmering as the elite gathered—every corner dripping extravagance and splendor. Yet to Clara, it all felt blurred under a sheet of fog—dull, meaningless. Her heart had been buried with Noah; all worldly glamour was nothing more than a blinding mockery.

Until the stage lights lit up and the first model stepped onto the runway—Clara’s gaze froze, her blood seemingly halting mid-flow.

That moon-white floor-length gown, embroidered with scattered starlight across the hem and trimmed with pearls along the neckline—was unmistakably the sketch she had drawn casually in her yellowed notebook during her school days.

Memory rushed in like a flood. Back then, she had just entered university—studying genetics while harboring a budding fascination for fashion design. Late at night, she sketched at her desk, then rushed excitedly to Liam’s rented apartment, tiptoeing to hold the notebook up to his face, her eyes gleaming like stars. “Liam, look! Someday I want my own fashion show—wearing clothes I designed—standing in the brightest place!”

Back then, Liam wasn’t the cold man he was now. He would ruffle her hair gently and pull her into his arms, his voice tender and lingering. “Alright. When our Clara returns with her achievements, I’ll give you the grandest fashion show—let the world see your talent.”

Those vows still echoed faintly, but the man before her was no longer the one who once promised forever.

Clara stared blankly at the runway as one familiar design after another appeared—there was the floral dress she’d doodled, the sharp tailored suit she once imagined, and even a little formal dress for children—one she had dreamed of her future daughter wearing—now worn by strangers under the spotlight, glowing brilliantly.

She suddenly turned, looking at Liam with bewilderment and an unconscious flicker of fragile hope she didn't even realize she still held. He remembered? He actually remembered her dream from youth?

Liam seemed to notice her gaze. He cleared his throat awkwardly and quickly turned his face away, his voice iced with frost. “Don’t overthink. Know your place.”

His words were a bucket of cold water dousing the flicker of hope. Of course—why would he suddenly care? A momentary whim, nothing more.

“Pick one to wear.” Liam’s voice held no emotion, as if commanding a servant unworthy of attention.

Clara lowered her lashes, concealing her disappointment, and pointed at the simplest white dress. She had no desire to choose; to her, anything she wore was just another tool for Liam’s convenience.

“Go change.” Liam ordered without room for protest.

Clara frowned, confusion mounting, but she didn’t ask. She took the dress into the fitting room, her fingertips brushing the familiar fabric—excitement and hope she once felt turning into heavy bitterness now.

When she stepped out wearing her own design, poised again in the center of the show, fireworks suddenly exploded across the sky above the sea, painting the night in dazzling colors. Then several performers dressed as mermaids emerged from the water, carrying flower wreaths and serenading her with a birthday song.

“Happy birthday…” Their soft voices mingled with ocean waves, and Clara’s entire body stiffened.

So—today was her birthday.

She had long forgotten it. Ever since Noah passed, time existed only as pain and torment—birthdays, holidays, days once worth celebrating had all lost meaning.

Emotions crashed into her—shock, confusion, and a bittersweet sting she couldn’t name. She bit her lip unconsciously until blood filled her mouth, snapping her back. Did they think this shallow imitation of warmth could make her forget her son’s death, forget Liam’s betrayal and cruelty?

After the fashion show, Liam brought her directly to a nearby private clubhouse. When the heavy wooden doors opened, the room was filled with men—middle-aged, eyes clouded, their gazes assessing her like merchandise.

Liam, expressionless, nudged her forward slightly, speaking in a casual tone—as if relaying an insignificant task. “This dress suits you. Entertain the guests and drink with them. They’re all business elites. Make sure they attend Vanessa’s conference.”

Clara felt as though thunder struck her, her blood turning ice. So this was his real purpose.

The fashion show, the birthday song—all a carefully laid trap. He remembered her sketches, remembered her birthday—not out of sentiment—but to exploit her, to curry favor for Vanessa’s event.

Clara let out a faint, mocking breath, her eyes filled with despair and irony. “I’m not well. I can’t drink.” After donating her spleen and enduring the loss of her son, her body had never recovered—alcohol was forbidden.

“You don’t have the right to refuse.” Liam dismissed her words entirely, grabbing her wrist and dragging her into the private room, his grip so tight it felt like her bones might snap.

The moment they entered, every man’s gaze latched onto her—sticky, crawling like insects across her skin. Disgust rolled through her stomach.

With Liam present, they held back at first—only throwing occasional crude comments, nothing overt. Clara sat rigid, hands gripping her dress, wanting only to escape this nauseating place.

Just then, Liam’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and his expression changed immediately. He answered without hesitation.

Vanessa’s voice came through with a weak sob, delicate and pitiful. “Liam, my stomach hurts… I don’t feel well…”

“Wait—I’m coming right now!” Liam’s voice brimmed with panic and urgency—a stark contrast to how cold he had been with Clara moments ago.

He hung up and stood to leave, tossing a careless parting remark over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”

Clara’s heart sank, dread surging through her. She instinctively rose to leave as well—but the moment Liam exited, the men in the room broke loose like beasts freed from chains, surrounding her instantly.

A heavyset man pushed her back into her seat, while another, crew-cut and smirking, sat beside her—his greasy hand sliding shamelessly onto her thigh.