Chapter 1
I was twenty-one when I killed my husband.
The press circled like vultures, but Adrian Lockwood stood by me.
While the world screamed for blood, he said calmly, "Claire, I believe in you. I always will."
We got engaged. But the night before our wedding, the nightmare came back.
Adrian didn't make it in time.
Long after that night, I learned the truth—before he opened that door to save me, he stood outside for ten minutes.
One day, I heard what he told a friend, "She's killed before. Who wouldn't be scared?
"Things get tense in a marriage. You never know.
"But she didn't snap that night.
"It's been two years, and she's been steady. I guess I can breathe now."
I left without a word.
They said he lost his mind looking for me. Across countries, across oceans. But he never found me again.
Adrian called just as I stepped out of the lab.
A ten-day experiment finished two days ahead of schedule.
It was late, and over the phone, his voice carried a trace of grievance. "It's my birthday tomorrow. Still can't make it back?"
I was about to reply honestly when I suddenly recalled something he'd joked about a few days ago—how I spent half my life buried in the lab, so absorbed in research that even he, with his patience, was beginning to find me dull.
So I decided to surprise him.
"It's unlikely... I'll try my best," I said.
After hanging up, I hailed a cab, picked up the cake I'd ordered in advance, and headed home.
The front door was ajar.
Warm light spilled out, mingled with bursts of laughter and chatter.
As I reached out to push it open, I heard a young woman's voice rise in amusement. "That night? Adrian had actually arrived much earlier."
I froze, not understanding what she meant—and caught off guard by how casually she used his name, her tone tinged with a familiarity I hadn't anticipated.
Then came a man's incredulous voice: "Don't joke. If Adrian had arrived even a few minutes earlier, maybe it wouldn't have ended like that."
My hand tightened on the doorknob, the motion suddenly suspended midair.
People often said I was as thick as a plank—slow to react to anything outside the confines of chemistry and lab work.
But in that moment, I could even piece it together.
They were talking about that night—the second nightmare of my life, the one that followed after I killed my husband with my own hands.
Adrian had once told me he could never bring himself to speak of either incident again.
Just remembering them made his heart twist in agony, that his deepest regret was not being there to protect me.
But now, I heard his voice—calm, measured, almost amused—as he responded, "I suppose... I just wanted to see if she'd do it again."
I stood motionless outside the door, as though something sharp and unseen had driven itself straight into my chest.
Inside, the laughter swelled. Someone slapped their thigh, voice cracking with amusement. "No way!"
Another voice piped up, laced with disbelief. "Adrian, you just stood outside the door?"
"Man, respect!" The third exclaimed, followed by a chorus of chuckles.
Maybe they had finally realized his so-called love wasn't anything extraordinary after all.
The conversation turned careless, cruel in its ease.
"Claire's been unstable for years, hasn't she? Hasn't gotten better yet?" A nasal voice sliced through the laughter, punctuating each word with a smirk.
"Think she ever snaps and bites people when she's off her rocker?" Another joined in, elbowing the person next to them.
"I'm honestly a little worried about you, Adrian!" A third chimed in, feigning concern with a dramatic gasp.
It must've been a fun topic—everyone seemed giddy with excitement.
So much so that when I finally pushed the door open, no one even noticed.
Adrian was lounging on the couch, letting the young woman beside him lean in close as he raised his glass for another sip.
His voice was indifferent, detached, as though everything they were discussing no longer involved him.
He began, "I mean, that's why I wanted to test her.
"She never laid a hand on me.
"But every time I got close, I'd remember the image of her stabbing her ex-husband in the neck.
"Sometimes I worry she'll mistake me for someone else and stick a knife in me."
So that was it.
Two years ago, on the night before our wedding, when I was nearly killed in a revenge attack, Adrian hadn't been late.
He'd been standing outside the door the entire time—waiting to see how I'd react.
And only when he was certain I wouldn't raise a blade did he finally barge in, pretending to be just in time.
Adrian frowned slightly. "Things get tense in a marriage. You never know.
"She's killed before—who wouldn't be afraid?
"But even that night, when she almost died, she didn't pick up a knife again.
"It's been two years, and she's been steady. I guess I can breathe now."
The pain in my chest was suffocating.
I suddenly wondered—if that night I had lost control, and if I'd killed again as I had before—would Adrian have still married me?
Of course not. It had always been a test.
With sourness stinging my eyes, my body can't stop trembling.
And I was nothing more than a fascinating, dangerous little experiment for him.
The party continued, the noise relentless.
Eventually, I raised my hand and knocked.
Heads turned at the sound.
Adrian took another sip of his drink before finally glancing toward the door—casual, unhurried.
Then his eyes locked with mine. His expression froze.
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered as he lurched to his feet in panic.