It wasn't until she was at Ian's side that she truly understood how vicious the curse was. Her cultivation was still shallow. The only way she could sustain his health was to drain her own life essence—her vital blood. Every night, the agony tore through her organs, and she endured it until dawn.
She had told herself it was worth it. Every last drop, for the man she would spend her life with.
She never imagined that the love on his lips had been nothing more than a cheap trick to satisfy his curiosity and claim her body.
Clara wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth. She swallowed the dense, suffocating ache in her chest and left the hotel.
She thought it was finally over.
But the moment she stepped into her building, the sight stopped her cold. Red paint slashed across the hallway walls. FRAUD. CHARLATAN. WHORE.
And the small apartment she had so carefully arranged—the one filled with years of sacred texts and talismans painstakingly inscribed with her own blood—was engulfed in flames.
She ran toward the fire like a woman possessed, heedless of everything.
One step forward, and the flames lunged. They caught her without mercy.