Chapter 3
I was nineteen when I met Jovan at the International University Chemistry Olympiad. He was five years older, brilliant beyond compare, and disarmingly gentle—a man who, at first, seemed carved from the very mold of kindness.
We grew close. And then, one day, by pure chance, I learned that his former mentor had been none other than my father—who had only recently passed away.
At the time, I was reeling from that loss. My father had been my only family, and the world without him felt hollow.
All he left behind was a single, unfinished research manuscript.
In Jovan, I saw fragments of my father—his brilliance, his calm, the warmth of his presence in a laboratory.
He stayed by my side during long hours of research. He courted me gently, cared for me meticulously.
And whenever he spoke of my father, his eyes glistened with reverence and sorrow.
When I turned twenty, he was pressured into an arranged date by his family.
He told me he couldn't bear the thought of settling for someone he didn't love. That he loved me. That he wanted to care for me—for life.
With unshakable tenderness, he proposed.
We married but the mask fell quickly.
He had hidden a serious illness from me. He wept as he confessed it, begged for my understanding, and once I relented—believing, still, in love—his nature began to twist in ways I couldn't have foreseen.
The sweetness turned sour. His affection curdled into control. Violence crept into the quiet corners of my life.
Yes, he was gifted in chemistry. But he had never been my father's student.
He had set his sights long ago on my father's incomplete report.
He wanted it for himself—to finish it and put only his name on the cover.
By the time I pieced the truth together, we'd been married for half a year.
I filed for divorce and listed every offense.
But the legal process was a labyrinth. Under the crushing psychological toll, I was diagnosed with moderate depression.
That diagnosis—meant to help—ended up pinning me down. The courts questioned my stability. For months, my case was dismissed, delayed, disbelieved.
Jovan, in turn, flew into a rage. In public, he wore the mask of a wounded man. In private, he became monstrous.
Until that night, he forced me down, looped a rope around my neck.
His hand hovered over a small vial—just enough poison to kill.
In a final moment of panic, my hand found the fruit knife. I struck precisely. The blade sank into his carotid artery.
Jovan fell—eyes wide, blood flooding the floor.
I collapsed beside him, numb. I don't know how long I sat there, unmoving.
It was only when Adrian walked through the door that I lifted my head. He gasped sharply at the sight.
I had forgotten to close the door.
Adrian and I were from the same university. He studied law. At one point, he had even pursued me.
He was holding a book I'd asked him to help me find.
It fell from his hands, landing beside Jovan's body. His gaze shifted to the body.
I came back to myself all at once. I stumbled to my feet and muttered, "I… I'm turning myself in."
I walked outside.
Halfway through the courtyard, I heard footsteps behind me.
He caught up, face ashen but fierce with resolve. "I'll defend you," he said.
In the suffocating dark, I turned to him. "What did you say?"
Adrian grabbed my wrist. "Claire, I believe in you. I always will.
"No matter what. Jovan deserved to die. We'll fight for it—plead self-defense."
He took my case.
But claiming self-defense is one thing.
Proving it—especially between spouses—is something else entirely.
The Kingsley family—his family—was consumed with grief. They moved heaven and earth to destroy me, pulled every string, called in every favor. They wanted me imprisoned, ruined.
The court ruled my depression wasn't severe enough to impair judgment.
And so the case dragged on.
The Kingsleys manipulated public opinion. They leaked fabricated rumors: that Adrian and I had conspired, that we were lovers before Jovan died, that it was all premeditated.
The university couldn't withstand the pressure. Both Adrian and I were forced to withdraw.
When the first trial finally acquitted me, the Kingsleys appealed immediately.
Online, hatred was relentless. My mental health collapsed.
There's nothing ahead but darkness.
Adrian stayed. He took me to therapy. He stopped me when I tried to end my life. More than once, he cried with me.
He used to say, "Claire, no matter how long the night lasts, dawn always comes."
It took three years. Three years of darkness before I saw light again.
On the eve of our wedding, Jovan's father came for revenge.
He said he had rushed over at top speed. When he arrived, I was already bloodied, my clothes torn, the room spinning with terror.
He wrapped me in his arms and whispered, "Don't be afraid, Claire. I'm here."
But now, I know.
He had waited ten minutes outside that door before rushing in.
And now, I have heard it with my own ears: "She's killed before—who wouldn't be afraid?"