But now, standing in front of that face, I couldn't get a single word out.
He wasn't the only one who could put on an act.
I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around his waist.
"Everard, don't send me away again. Please?"
"I feel so much better now. I won't cause any more trouble, and I won't..."
"I won't try to kill myself again."
His body went rigid for a split second, then he recovered and laughed softly, patting my back.
"Okay, okay. If you're really doing better, then you can stay wherever you want."
That night, before bed, Everard brought me a glass of juice, same as always.
"Fresh-squeezed. Made it with my own two hands."
I looked up slowly, staring at the glass.
Ever since my miscarriage, under the guise of making sure I got enough vitamins, Everard had personally brought me a glass of juice every single night.
I used to believe it was because he loved me that much.
Something as small as squeezing juice could easily have been left to the housekeeper, but he never let anyone else do it. He insisted on making it himself.
But it was that conversation I'd overheard by accident that finally made everything clear.
The juice. Everard had been lacing it with depressive hormones.