The bedsheet beneath her was soaked through, dyed a deep crimson.
And in her chest—was a kitchen knife.
For a moment, I was paralyzed, every hair on my body standing on end.
I scrambled off the bed in panic.
“Emma?”
I called out, testing if she might respond.
But she didn’t move.
My mind spun.
I could understand Emma sneaking into my bed at night to fabricate evidence of an affair, so Sophia would misunderstand and our relationship would collapse.
But what I couldn’t understand was why she would climb into my bed and then kill herself.
What the hell was she trying to do?
Did she want the whole world to believe I was her killer?
Her words from a week ago flashed back into my mind.
She had said I would regret rejecting her.
Was this what she meant?
If so, then she was completely deranged.
Who kills themselves just to frame the man who rejected them?
She wanted to trade her young life for my lifetime imprisonment.
The more I thought about it, the colder I felt.
Her pale face seemed more grotesque and terrifying by the second.
A woman ruthless enough to kill even herself…
My scalp prickled, and I shivered.
After a long moment, I forced myself to calm down. I had to check if Emma was still breathing.