Just like in the book, the left side of his face was fine—perfect, even—while the right side was a mess: pitted, scarred, ugly wounds crisscrossing the skin.
Everything screamed at me: I’d been transported into a novel, and not just any role. I was in the body of the novel’s vicious supporting villain, Claire Bennett—the kind of expendable antagonist with a horrifyingly tragic ending.
The book was called Please Guide Me Through Life, a gorgeous campus romance.
The male lead, Ethan Cole, was sunny and popular—the school heartthrob. The heroine, Grace Martin, was the helpless, kind Cinderella. The big antagonist, Lucas Hart, was a dark, volatile, sickly obsessive.
And me—Claire Bennett, heiress of Bennett Enterprises—was the indispensable poisonous pawn in Lucas’s fall into darkness, the accelerant that pushed him toward becoming a notorious serial killer.
Yep. In the book, Lucas would become a monstrous, infamous murderer, and I would be his first victim.
The description of my death in the novel was brutal. I was basically cut to bits—smashed into meat paste.
Thinking about that made the food in front of me suddenly lose all appeal. Tears pricked my eyes as I put down my chopsticks, my future looking bleak.
“Dad, I want to talk to you about something.”
“Can I transfer schools?”
Mr. Bennett rejected me coldly and flatly, and told me if I didn’t rank in the top ten on this midterm, he’d cut off my allowance and support.
Ugh—this poor woman.
I got into the Bennett limo sniffling and swore I’d cozy up to Lucas Hart to save myself from that miserable fate.
No sooner had I arrived than I saw Kid A and Kid B beating up the antagonist—really roughing him up. Blood was at his mouth.
“What do you think you’re doing? Stop right now!”
I barked, slammed my hand on the table. “How dare you beat up Lucas Hart? Are you trying to die early?!”
My domineering shout shut everyone up. They all froze under my royal presence.
As expected, dealing with a bunch of middle-school pests was easy for me.
Kid A: “It’s not like that, Big Claire—you told us to pick on him! You said he was an eyesore!”
Kid B: “Yeah, Big Claire—didn’t you say ugly freaks like him shouldn’t even be in front of you…?”
Lucas glared at me viciously. I felt a tingle run through my scalp.
“That was then. I declare, from today on Lucas Hart is under my protection!”
I hurried over to help the antagonist up and patted the blood from his lip like a considerate friend.
Lucas didn’t appreciate it. He shrugged my hand away coldly and went back to his seat.
The class stared at me with oddly strange looks, as if I’d crawled out of a rock crevice.
I tossed my hair and had my followers move my desk right next to his—friendship starts with being desk mates.
Lucas Hart, I refuse to believe I can’t win you over!
“Lucas Hart, please take care of me from now on.”
I took a white rabbit candy from my pocket and set it on his desk.
His long bangs covered half his face; he turned his head and stared at the wall as if I were invisible.
Fine, Lucas Hart. You clearly don’t put Claire Bennett in your world!
I narrowed my eyes, chilling my expression. The kids beside me trembled.
“Good. Lucas Hart, you’ve successfully caught my attention.”
“I will make you understand how powerful the Bennett family is!”
I pulled out my phone and made the call at once.
“Hello, is Mr. Collins there? I need ten pounds of White Rabbit, ten pounds of Alps candies, ten pounds of Oishi snacks, ten pounds of Golden Monkey candy—deliver to Westbrook High immediately.”
“Lucas, which one do you like best?” I asked, oozing sugar as I leaned in.
The class died laughing. Lucas finally glanced over, looking at me like I was two sandwiches short of a picnic.
“Claire Bennett! Who allowed you to bring a phone to school? Confiscated!”
Ms. Harper materialized at the window like doom and took my limited-edition, diamond-studded phone. Silence fell over the room.
The brooding boy gave me a faint, almost imperceptible smile, then slid back into his distant shell. If my eyes hadn’t been so sharp, I would’ve missed it.
Ah, history has its fools. Ancient kings lit beacons to win a smile; Claire Bennett throws money at the brooding hero to make him grin!
Oh, Claire—what a foolish monarch you are.
To save the antagonist, I reformed myself. Every morning, I’d stand by Lucas and recite lofty socially conscious mottos and the heroic deeds of great figures. When I got to the moving parts, I’d tear up and get emotional.
“Lucas, don’t you find this so touching?”
I asked teary-eyed.
He looked at me with disgust and tossed, “Is that it?”
Of course—you’re the antagonist!
I was stunned into admiration.
One day I tried, like usual, to slip copies of Lei Feng sayings into his desk, but he didn’t come. That was odd—Lucas never skipped school.
As soon as the bell rang, I sprinted to the office.
“Teacher, Lucas Hart isn’t here today. His notes are with me. I’m going to bring them to him.”
I blinked and lied without a flinch.
“He seems sick. Since you’re going, just take today’s homework to him.”
Ms. Harper flipped through the attendance book and handed me a stack of worksheets.
“All right, Ms. Harper! I’ll make sure they get done!”
I stood outside what passed for Lucas’s front door with my little backpack, hesitating.
“Lucas? Are you home?”
No answer. I lifted the tattered curtain that served as a door.
It was winter but his bed had nothing but a thin mat and a piece of cloth thrown over it. A small figure curled against the wall.
I rushed over. Lucas’s face was flushed like he had a fever.
I reached out and confirmed it—he was burning hot.
“So hot,” he mumbled, clutching my hand where it rested on his forehead; sweat soaked his black hair.
He felt like a furnace. I pulled my hand back. “Lucas, let go—I’ll go get you medicine.”
He held on, clinging with surprising strength. He blinked sleepily, his eyes misty and pitiful as they fixed on me.
I noticed the dense rows of bruises and scars on his exposed arm and suddenly couldn’t bring myself to refuse him.
“Mom, I’m hurting.”
He said weakly, coughing a little, and leaned his head against my shoulder. His long lashes trembled like tiny brushes against my palm.
My mind snapped: Lucas’s mother had killed herself when he was very young. Somehow, at my young age, I’d become his surrogate. Who knew why—maybe because Claire Bennett was pretty and kind after all?
I sighed, smoothed his fuzzy hair, and whispered, “Be a good boy, Lucas. Sleep and everything will be better.”
I hummed the lullaby about little stars and trilled through it; his head slowly drooped and his breathing flattened—though he still coughed now and then.
I carefully eased my hand away, went to the drugstore, bought fever medicine, left a sticky note with instructions and a smiley face, then pulled out the worksheets Ms. Harper had given me.
Originally I meant to wake him to have him do his own work, but he was sleeping so peacefully I couldn’t bear it.
So I crooked his name into the name column and got to writing his answers like a madwoman.
“Ah? How do you set up this equation…help…?”
“What does ‘as the willow fluff is stirred by the wind’ even mean?”
“Damn, why is this so hard?”
I—Claire, the studious dunce—grumbled through the homework.
The next morning I got up with a runny nose. The jerk! He must’ve passed it to me! I wrapped my scarf tighter.
When I arrived in class, Lucas was sitting perfectly straight, reading.
I glanced—an advanced math text for ninth grade—but I cleared my throat and said, “Lucas, I think you’re holding the book upside down.”
I meant it as a helpful hint. Suddenly his face flushed red and he barely spoke to me the rest of the morning; probably embarrassed and annoyed.
But whenever I bent my head to copy notes, I felt a gaze locked on me.
I put down my pen and looked up at the one who couldn’t even fake reading in time. Sincerely, I said, “Lucas, if you think I’m pretty, just say it. You don’t need to secretly praise me behind my back—I can handle it.”
His ears turned red. He buried his face in his book, then opened his hand toward me. In his palm was a crumpled wrapper from a White Rabbit candy.
“Thanks,” he said, like the words crawled from a crack in the floor. If my hearing wasn’t great I might’ve missed this memorable moment.
“How big a deal,” I replied, taking the candy. Hesitation made me ask, “Lucas, did your dad beat you the day before yesterday?”
Lucas snapped his head up, those wide dark eyes fixed on me without blinking, startling me.
“I was just…worried. You don’t want to talk about it… that’s fine…”
My mouth got dry; I waved my hands and backtracked, nearly biting my tongue.
A small curve lifted the corner of Lucas’s mouth; he beckoned me closer. We propped the book between us and leaned our heads together to whisper.
“He lost at cards two days ago and was in a bad mood. He beat me and left me outside to kneel all night.”
Lucas’s smile faded. He was calm as he said it. “I only came back home yesterday morning after I saw he’d left.”
I remembered thick ice on the roads that night—my fall, my hands pressed raw to the ground, gooseflesh everywhere. If Lucas had been forced to kneel on that, it must’ve hurt like hell.
My stomach churned. I murmured, “Couldn’t you call the police?”
“Yeah,” Lucas said with a bitter smile. “If you call the police, they’ll beat you even worse.”
“…”
“Why are you crying?”
His voice was a little bewildered, a little lost.
“I’m not crying!” I snapped.
I looked up and snapped at him, then unexpectedly ran straight into his clear, watery eyes — and inside them was a girl on the verge of tears.
"Claire Bennett, Lucas Hart, both of you stand up!"
Mr. Dawson’s chalk hit my forehead with surgical precision. With red-rimmed eyes I slunk to my feet and sniffed.
"Explain this homework to me. Lucas, when did you forget how to write the character for ‘catkin’?! You even need pinyin now?"
"And—Claire, your handwriting looks like a dog’s crawl. Do you think I can’t tell?"
Mr. Dawson waved the test paper I’d done for him, his lips trembling with anger.
I couldn’t hold it in. A high, keening "waa" tore out of me, echoing through the classroom.
He looked startled; his whiskers trembled. He quietly took the paper back.
"Claire, I won’t yell… let’s not cry, okay?"
I hiccuped. Lucas couldn’t hold his laughter and let out a small snort; for a second he actually looked a little cute, and I froze, staring.
"Don’t cry, Claire."
He said it softly, and under the desk he hooked my pinky like he was comforting me.
Just like that, I stopped crying. Heat rose to my face — I felt ridiculous, like someone much older being teased.
I was mortified.
The next day I slipped out to a street corner.
"Yeah, that’s the guy. Beat him up good."
I pointed to the passed-out drunk and gave my allowance to a pack of local troublemakers. "Tell them if they ever touch Lucas again, they’ll pay."
"Don’t worry, miss. Boss’s orders—we’ll take care of it."
They sniggered and swaggered off.
Sure enough, after I bribed those thugs to watch Lucas’s dad, his bruises got fewer and he looked a lot more alive.
I stared at Lucas’s face and felt like spring had come.
I arranged to do homework with him after school.
Lucas looked expressionless and pinched the soft flesh on my cheek hard.
"Ouch, ouch! Lucas, what are you doing?!"
I slapped his hand away and glared.
"You asked me to tutor you in math, but you’re daydreaming here."
He tapped my 60-point math test covered in red X’s.
Guilty, I lowered my head and couldn’t meet his eyes. For a moment he was my strict, unfriendly math teacher.
"Lucas… can I copy your answers for the midterm?"
I plopped my face on the desk, miserably.
"No."
He refused flatly and tapped my desk. "Do this problem now. I wrote the steps beside it."
"But if I fail the midterm my dad will beat me to death!"
I looked up with pleading hands clasped. "Lucas, can you be heartless?"
The brooding boy stayed silent. The next day at the midterm he handed me a little folded note as he passed by after turning in his paper early.
"Lucas, I really love you so much!"
I lunged into his arms. He caught me off-guard, his earlobe flushing.
"Claire, can you contain yourself?"
He said it low, with no real force.
I hooked my arm around his neck, grinning. "Thanks to you, Dad won’t beat me this time."
"Tell me what you want to eat. I have plenty of money."
After the midterm I, Claire Bennett, was fired up. I planned to treat Lucas to a feast.
"…Whatever."
He slumped awkwardly against me, finally answering after a long pause.
"Let’s go to KFC. You must like it!"
My eyes lit up. KFC, I’m coming!
We strode into KFC like conquering heroes and ordered two family buckets.
"Lucas, try this—it’s amazing!"
"That one’s good too!"
I shoved fried junk into my mouth, washed down with a soda. Peak life. I rubbed my rounded belly in satisfaction.
Lucas barely ate, watching me take down the food like a hurricane.
He pulled a napkin off the table, gestured for me to lean over, and wiped the grease from my mouth.
Nice—someone to wipe my face. Is this what Claire Bennett, boss lady, life feels like?
I was swooning.
Then a toddler with a bottle staggered toward us and tripped, landing at Lucas’s feet.
Lucas frowned and bent to help him up.
"Zack! What are you doing here? You made your mom panic!"
A woman with big, permed waves and bright lipstick hurried over and yanked Lucas’s hand away.
The kid looked up at Lucas’s face and immediately burst into a terrified wail.
"Mommy, save me! There’s a monster coming to eat me!"
What?
What is that little brat even saying?
My face darkened. Fine, brat—you’re playing with fire.
Lucas’s expression visibly clouded. He stood cold and quiet, which made me uneasy.
The woman followed the child’s pointing finger and let out a shriek. "Waiter! How could you let people like this in here? You’re scaring the children!"
Is everyone invisible to me now?
I grinned wickedly, dragged Lucas behind me, and shouted with authority, "Manager, come out here!"
Like lightning, the manager appeared with a flattering smile. "Miss Bennett, how can I help you?"
I sneered at the woman still seated on the floor. "They have three seconds to leave this restaurant. And from now on, no KFC branch will serve them ever again."
"Lucas, didn’t I look especially handsome just now?"
I walked ahead of him, smug.
"Hmm…"
He sounded a little down and followed behind, answering only when prompted.
I turned and saw Lucas’s shaggy head bowed.
"What’s wrong? Our Lucas is sad? Which jerk acted up? I’ll beat him up next time!"
I teased in a playful tone, lifting his chin with one hand and pushing aside the hair on the right side of his forehead, revealing the scars that ruined half his face.
The left side of his face was fine—handsome, even. The right was mangled. The stark contrast made my chest ache.
In the book, his mother had set herself on fire to escape long-term abuse, dragging little Lucas with her. He survived, but half his face was destroyed.
My fingers tightened before I realized it, whitening as I pinched his chin.
He looked at me quietly. Long lashes fluttered. Cool drops fell on the back of my hand and I pulled away as if shocked.
"Claire, am I scary?"
He forced a small smile, then hurriedly looked down like he was afraid he’d frightened me. "Sorry. My smile looks bad."
I shook my head, cupped his face, and wiped his tears.
He stared at me, eyes rimmed red, like a rabbit with no idea what to do.
I admit it — I softened. I wanted to be good to him.
If being nice before had been for survival, at this moment I felt I was giving him a tiny bit of genuine heart.
"Lucas, don’t cry. I’ll always be good to you."
I took his hand and led this bewildered rabbit back into my strange, glittering world.
"Claire! Come look!"
During morning reading, one of the troublemakers burst up to me, thrilled, and whipped out his phone.
So excited—what could it be?
I leaned in. My face dropped.
Huge letters flashed on the screen: School Storm — Boss Claire and Her Shy Little Wife.
"It read: Claire flashed a wicked smile, pinned Lucas between her arm and the wall, trapping him. Lucas could only look at her helplessly, his face flushing."
"Claire’s hand slid down from his waist to his hip, the other hand ravaging his lips."
"Lucas couldn’t help but moan softly, pressing his body to Claire…"
Nope. I couldn’t watch.
I scolded the kid and demanded the link.
"Claire…what are you looking at?"
Lucas passed by with a stack of math papers, blushing as if he was about to bleed, and left his homework on my desk.
"Nothing, nothing!"
Reborn Villainess: I Refused to Die
I panicked. My hands shook and the phone flew out of my grip. Then, an emotionless female voice started reading aloud.
"Lucas cried, 'Ah, ah, ah, Claire, no!'"
"Claire didn't hear that; she soothed, 'Lucas, don't be afraid. I'll make you feel good.'"
My face went from red to green. Of course—of course the page started reading aloud at this moment!
The flat moans kept coming from the phone. Everyone in class looked at me. That wasn't new—I was always the center of attention—but still…
I trembled and stared at Lucas, who'd said nothing. Please don't snap and kill me next. Amen.
He stood there a long while, expression unreadable, math papers hugged to his chest. At the end he asked me, puzzled,
"Claire, how are you going to make me feel good?"
Kids don't need to know that!
I snatched the phone back, furious. Goodbye, Boss Claire and Her Little Wife.
After that episode, everyone at Westbrook High looked at Lucas and me even more strangely.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hart!"
A rebellious blond swaggered by the school gates.
"Morning, Mrs. Hart!"
A flashy redhead walked past.
"Mrs. Hart?"
Now Mr. Fletcher, the dean with glasses, was passing by.
As soon as class let out, Lucas and I were hauled into the principal's office.
"Claire Bennett, care to explain what's going on here?"
Principal Rhodes smiled sweetly, but his eyes were cold as steel. "At your age and you're already flirting with the boys, huh?!"
Lucas flushed and hurried to explain. "No, sir, they were teasing—Claire and I aren't dating…"
I lifted my chin defiantly at Principal Rhodes, my expression shouting my innocence.
"She already called you by name?
You two are quite cozy."
Rhodes sneered. "Lucas, your high school entrance exam is coming up. Early relationships can be very harmful!"
"Women are trouble!" he added melodramatically, gnashing his teeth.
I stared at him, struck by how ridiculous he looked—suddenly a mischievous idea popped into my head. "Sir, are you… being cheated on?"
The next morning I spent the entire flag-raising session writing an apology.
I thought Lucas and I would keep living our quiet, uneventful lives.
I was wrong.
Lucas's father was a raving lunatic.
As I walked out the school gate, the apple in my hand slipped and rolled to the ground. I froze, then let out a shrill cry. "Lucas!"
What was happening?
How could this be?
He had been perfectly fine when school let out—standing there smiling, saying goodbye. Tonight was Christmas Eve. I had snuck back to campus because I forgot the apple I wanted to give him as a peace-night gift. I never expected to see a scene that tore my heart to shreds.
My legs went numb, my head swimming.
The madman's eyes were bloodshot. He was slamming Lucas's head against the wall, over and over. Dark hair was matted with bright red blood that streamed down his face.
Lucas struggled, trying to look at me. His pretty eyes were wet with tears. Cuts covered his body, glass shards embedded in his skin. His hands were tied with a belt; he knelt, powerless.
His lips moved slowly—I forced myself to read them: …Save…save me.
"Get away!"
"Who brought a little girl here? Want to die?!"
The man let Lucas go and stalked toward me with a twisted grin, grabbing a liquor bottle off the table.
Run!
Run now!
My brain screamed commands, but fear froze me.
A figure barreled between us. The bottle smashed into his back; glass sliced his skin.
I stared, tears flooding out, as Lucas dropped his head. His face had gone white—no color left—he slumped down and breathed the faintest words.
"Claire…run…run."
He grabbed the madman's leg; blood welled from his wrist where the belt had cut into him. He looked at me with pleading eyes.
I nodded desperately. My senses returned. I turned and fled, ignoring everything—Lucas, wait for me… I'll save you!
I ran like a lunatic toward the police station—only to find… nothing.
The station that should have been just down the street—was gone.
I bent over, gasping. The shoes I saw before weren't my cute pink Mary Janes but my familiar old white canvas sneakers.
I couldn't believe it. In slow-motion, I looked up. The street bustled with people, a luxury mall loomed at my side. Everything screamed at me—I've transmigrated back?!
"Claire, you look awful. Are you okay?"
"Huh? Me?"
I forced a smile, but the words in the book wouldn't make sense to my brain.
"Do you want to see what you actually look like?"
My roommate handed me a mirror. The girl staring back was pale, hair a mess—a face that looked like it might die at any second.
"…"
"Claire, what's wrong?"
She grabbed my hand, worry etched on her face.
I stared at her, and the tears I had been holding back finally fell.
"Waah! I'm scared, Maya… I'm so, so scared!"
I'm so scared Lucas is hurt. I'm so scared no one will save him. I'm so afraid I won't change anything… What do I do?
Lucas, what do I do?
Another nightmare.
I jerked awake, soaked in cold sweat, hair plastered to my skin. Habitively I reached for the cup on the nightstand—my hand found nothing but a clattering sound.
What is happening?
I looked at my hands and feet in horror. They were bound in silver chains, locked to the bedpost.
Was I kidnapped?
Help!
I scanned the unfamiliar room: stark black and white, spare and empty.
Click.
The door opened. My heart tightened.
A young man in a black hoodie came in—tall and thin, sickly pale, eyes shadowed. When he looked at me, I felt like I was drowning. The vivid scar that marred half his face made his identity unmistakable.
I swallowed and hesitantly said the name, "Lu—Lucas?"
He paused, pulled down his hood. Black hair lay flat by his ears. His long lashes fluttered like a tiny butterfly.
He stood in the doorway, sizing me up head to toe.
I shrank back. He looked so different from the Lucas in my memories—I wondered if I had the wrong person.
He walked toward me slowly, deliberately, emotionless as winter. His cold fingers traced my cheek and I shivered.
"Is it you? Lucas?"
I turned my head in panic, a wave of unfamiliarity and fear rising inside me.
His long fingers curled, mapping my face, then gripped my chin.
He sighed and said in a wounded tone, "Claire, you came back, huh."
I stared into those familiar yet foreign eyes. For a moment my mind snapped back to the past—his voice shielding me, his pleading eyes when he begged for help.
My throat tightened, as if cut by a blade. "Lucas…Lucas…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
I kept repeating it. Those three words are the source of my nightmares. Seeing him now, everything collapsed.
The sharp scent of tobacco surrounded me. His hand covered my eyes and the room went black.
Something soft and cold pressed to my lips. It was a feather-light kiss.
"Mm."
I couldn't move—only endure.
His kiss turned brutal. He bit my lip; iron filled my mouth. His aggressive hunger invaded me, a raw need that wanted to consume me.
The chains clinked. His hand squeezed my waist; his mouth moved, leaving a deep bite on my shoulder.
He was like a beast barely holding back savage instincts. I could feel blood on my shoulder.
"No…Lucas! I'm scared…"
My voice trembled.
He paused and removed his hand from my eyes. Sweat soaked his dark hair, disheveling it. His face held desire tangled with madness.
He spoke in a low voice: "Be good, Claire."
I fought back, eyes red. "No, Lucas…please, no…"
He sighed almost like giving in and kissed my eyelids. "Claire, I'll carry you to bathe."
"I can bathe myself."
I resisted—this version of him was not the boy I knew.
"Do you think you have a choice?"
He scooped me up without asking, cold and brutal. He wasn't the Lucas I'd known—no wonder. In my world I had lived three years; here seven years had passed. Fifteen-year-old Lucas had become twenty-two, a man I didn't know.
"Lucas…do you hate me a lot?" I fumbled with the chains on my wrists and asked, blurted and raw.
He froze mid-gesture, eyes frosty. "Why would you say that, Claire…"
I lowered my head and fell silent.
I'd been in this world three months. In that time I never left the house. My days revolved around waiting for Lucas to return. I felt like his pet. I didn't understand why.
"I know I hurt you before. I…I couldn't—"
My words tumbled. "It's not what you think, Lucas. I wasn't trying to…I wanted to save you. I really did."
"Claire."
He cut me off. "I don't care anymore. I don't care."
Those things were in the past—the darkness, the despair, the cruelty. He only wanted Claire back.
"Could you let me go?" I begged, looking at him. "Please, Lucas."
He softened, came closer, hugged me, murmured, "Claire, you'll never leave my side for as long as you live…"
"What a lunatic," I muttered under my breath, staring at him as he slept.
I rolled over. Strong arms wrapped around me from behind, chin resting on my head.
Lucas's clear voice whispered from above: "You won't sleep and then you secretly curse me behind my back?"
I jumped—he had seemed to be asleep a moment ago.
"Why aren't you asleep?"
He didn't answer; he only hugged my hands tighter.
"Go to sleep. I'll wait until you do."
Lately, when I woke up, Lucas always had red-rimmed eyes and looked exhausted.
"Lucas, are you having trouble sleeping?"
I hesitated, then turned back to face him. I could feel the warmth of his breath.
"Claire…"
He sighed.
He didn't know how to say it.
Ever since she left, he'd never had a good night's rest. Night after night her shadow haunted his dreams.
"Be good."
I thought for a moment, reached out and patted his back, humming the little song off-key.
He obediently bowed his head. His fuzzy hair pressed against my neck. I felt hot tears slip onto my shoulder.
In that moment he felt like the Lucas I used to know, and I was the Claire who had never left him.
The next morning when I woke up, Lucas was gone. I remembered he’d said he had something to do today and told me to stay put.
I hesitated, then began to search the room carefully. Maybe… maybe I could find something useful.
I tore the room apart but didn’t find any keys or anything like that. I did find a shabby little box.
Inside was a sky-blue phone, the paint chipped at the corners—definitely old. I turned it on tentatively and the theme from “Moonlight on the Lotus Pond” started playing.
This had to be Claire Bennett’s high school phone. The lock screen was her selfie; the black-and-white uniform showed Westbrook High’s emblem.
The photo album was mostly empty—mostly pictures of Claire, with a few shots of a guy. Same guy every time, smiling warm and sunny, and the name on the tag read Ethan Cole.
Ethan Cole… my heart lurched. Isn’t he the male lead from the novel?
So Claire had fallen for Ethan, huh?
My hand shook and I accidentally opened the first video. The footage showed a blurry crowd walking around—like in front of Westbrook High’s gate.
“Ugh, Claire… isn’t that the ugly guy who follows you everywhere?”
A group of kids hovered around a pretty, delicate-faced girl. Her proud expression immediately turned to disgust.
“Are you kidding me? Can you stop following me?”
Her sharp voice pierced my ears.
The boy—clearly a head taller than her—looked like he’d done something wrong, full of humility and pleading.
“Claire… I… you suddenly ignoring me makes me really anxious…”
He stammered; his pale face flushed red.
“Figure out your place, Lucas.”
The girl called Claire tilted her head to study him and smiled cruelly.
He couldn’t help smiling back, hope filling his eyes.
“You’re just poor. What do you have to compete with Ethan?” she sneered.
The boy went pale and wobbled; the smile froze on his lips and looked ridiculous.
“And I don’t like ugly people.”
She continued, every poisonous syllable crystal clear. A crowd had gathered, reveling in the spectacle; her smile flared brighter as if she relished his humiliation. “Go save up for surgery or something. Don’t scare people.”
Mean-spirited laughter rippled through the crowd. I watched the boy’s hand fall limp as the wind lifted the hem of his white shirt.
My face went white. I opened more videos in a flurry. When I saw Claire trick Lucas into kneeling for her, tears splashed onto the phone screen.
“Idiot.”
I didn’t know who I was calling that—only that I wiped my tears away and muttered, “Idiot, why did you believe her?”
Lucas’s gentle voice sounded right behind me. He wiped the tear tracks off my cheeks, half-exasperated. “See? The minute I walk out you’re talking trash about me.”
Everything clicked into place. How could he not know there was Claire’s phone in the room?
He did it on purpose. He’d meant for me to see. To make me soften, to make me understand how miserable his life had been after I left.
He succeeded.
My tears flowed uncontrollably, and a sharp pain stabbed through my head. I saw Lucas in that cramped rental, waiting for me—the blood on his forehead dripping onto the floor, taking the brunt of that madman’s beating while clutching the hope that I would return.
Waiting for someone who would never come back.
“Claire, would you feel sorry for me?”
He kissed the corners of my eyes gently and lifted me onto the bed. “If you would, could you please not leave anymore?”
My heart felt full of thorns. Every word he said drove another thorn deep into my chest, drawing out hot bloody pain.
“Okay. I won’t leave.”
I couldn’t hold back any longer. I tilted my head and kissed him. His lips tasted salty—like tears. “I won’t leave again.”
There was still a boyish light in his eyes; when he looked at me, they sparkled like stars.
His hand smoothed my hair and he murmured between kisses, “Claire, don’t lie to me again.”
After that incident I behaved myself a lot more.
I finally understood why Lucas was so insecure.
I was willing to wait—until the day he could step back into the light.
I tiptoed around his fragile nerves and did my best to show him—no matter what, I wouldn’t leave.
He noticed the change, and his controlling behavior eased somewhat.
For example, I could move around the house more freely. Lucas still didn’t like me going out, but at least he didn’t lock me up anymore. Small victories.
I checked the calendar: Lucas’s twenty-third birthday was coming up in a few days. I realized I’d never properly celebrated his birthday and decided to give him a surprise.
“Lucas, give me your phone.”
He lounged on the couch, long legs crossed, looking lazy. He glanced at me sideways. “Why?”
“I want to buy something online.”
He tossed the phone to me and propped his head on one hand. “Go ahead—if you can unlock it.”
I stared at the lock screen and thought. In novels, people often set the code to someone’s birthday. I confidently typed my own birthday. Nothing.
He watched me with a half-smile. I shot him a glare and tried entering his birthday. Still nothing.
He couldn’t take it. He scooped me up, placed my right hand over the screen, and tapped out the code.
2010921.
I froze. I couldn’t think what that number could mean.
He leaned to my ear and nibbled my earlobe. “Claire, don’t you remember? That day you gave me a candy.”
I remembered—I'd left a candy on the brooding boy’s desk and he hadn’t even noticed. I thought Lucas had thrown it away.
“I kept it in my hand. I didn’t dare to eat it until it was almost melted, then I popped it in my mouth.”
Lucas smiled; happiness colored his voice. “Claire, it was so sweet. Sweet enough to balance out all the bitterness of the first half of my life.”
Lucas was a dog of a man—always dropping lines like that when I least expected them, and they cut right through me.
I punched him in annoyance. “If you want candy, buy it. It’s just White Rabbit, isn’t it? Buy as many as you want!”
I quickly ordered a few items—plus dozens of pounds of White Rabbit candies. Let him eat his fill.
I timed it so the delivery would arrive on Lucas’s birthday—perfect for my surprise.
“Lucas, I’ve got a delivery this afternoon. Could you not lock the door?”
I tried to sound casual.
He hesitated; his dark eyes fixed on me, making my skin prickle. But since I’d been behaving, he nodded.
Score!
I cheered inwardly while keeping a calm face.
As soon as Lucas left, I dashed to the nearest bakery to make a cake myself—my grand surprise!
“Ugh… it’s collapsing!”
“Nooo, the frosting’s falling off!”
“This is hideous!”
It was a battle between me and the cake.
By the time I had something passable, it was nearly dark.
Oh no.
Was Lucas back already?
I raced in a taxi home. A fallen shoe rack lay by the door and things were scattered everywhere.
My heart dropped. I pushed the door open—everything in the living room had been thrown around. The TV, cabinets, tables—upended. Flower vase shards dotted the carpet. It was chaos—like a brutal fight had just happened.
Lucas was curled in the corner of the couch, hugging his knees and burying his head in them. He was a big guy; curled like that he looked painfully small.
I set the cake down and called nervously, “Lucas?”
He didn’t answer—didn’t move—like he couldn’t hear me.
I moved onto the carpet and crouched in front of him, putting on my sweetest voice. “Lucas, I’m sorry. I just wanted to surprise you. I didn’t expect you’d be back early…”
I tried to lift his head but he turned away stubbornly.
The room was quiet except for a ticking sound. I glanced down.
His pale wrist was streaked with glaring, careless drops of blood. One by one they dotted the carpet.
Panic surged. I realized how badly off he was—normally he would have locked me up already.
I shouted in his ear but it was like he couldn’t hear me, lost in his own world.
“Lucas, look at me… look at me!”
I bit my lip and pried his hand open. His palm was filled with tiny shards of glass. My heart tore.
I frantically tried to get his attention, digging my nails into his arm. “Lucas, I’m Claire! What’s wrong with you?!”
He was out of it—like he’d lost all sense of the outside world.
“Claire… Claire…”
After a long while he slowly lifted his head. His eyes were hollow and blank, staring at me without life. “She doesn’t want me… it’s all my fault…”
He snapped, wrenching free from me to pick up a piece of the broken vase and dragging it across his wrist, muttering, “It’s all my fault, Claire. I did wrong… don’t leave me…”
“It’s all my fault, Claire…”
“You’re sick, Lucas.”
I took the shard from his hand and threw it hard across the room. “I’d rather you lock me up forever than see you like this!”
The words released a flood of tears. My chest felt as if tiny worms were gnawing inside—dizzying, nauseating pain.
“Lucas, you have to believe me.”
I hiccuped, my nose raw and red. Forcing myself, I cupped his face. This time he didn’t struggle; he lifted his head obediently. Those dark, bottomless eyes calmed, like a lake you could never see the bottom of.
“Claire… I’m sorry.”
He wrapped his arms around me. His black hair smelled faintly of sweat. Feeling his warmth, a wave of relief washed over me, and the exhaustion I’d been holding in came rushing back.
“I’m a little sleepy, Lucas.”
I couldn’t stop a yawn.
Lucas rubbed my hair, his gaze tender and deep. He cooed softly, almost like a siren trying to lull someone: “Sleep, Claire. Wake up and everything will be fine.”
I nodded drowsily, about to close my eyes, when a crisp clicking sound snapped me fully awake. That sound… I knew it.
I looked down. A gleaming metal shackle hung from my wrist. I wasn’t surprised—if anything, I’d expected it. His anxiety had returned.
I watched his obsessive manner helplessly, fighting sleep to say, “Whatever. As long as you’re happy.”
“And… happy birthday.”
My head lolled to the side and I drifted off.
Where I couldn’t see, Lucas rested his head on my shoulder, his eyes full of stubborn devotion.
When I woke, the room had been put back perfectly clean.
I turned on the TV. The Shawshank Redemption was on. Seeing the hero standing tall on screen, tears leaked from the corner of my mouth.
Click—
The door opened. Lucas came back, carrying groceries in one hand and a white bag in the other. His hair was damp.
“Did it rain out there?” I asked idly, eyes glued to the movie. The ending was near—Red was about to meet the escaped Andy—and I was buzzing.
“It did. A lot. I forgot my umbrella,” Lucas said, taking a white towel and sitting beside me. He put an arm around my waist, sounding a little aggrieved. “You don’t even care about me?”
I slapped his hand away and kept staring at the screen. “Almost there. Don’t interrupt.”
Onscreen came that iconic line: “Some birds aren’t meant to be caged… their feathers are just too bright.”
My heart raced. I squeezed Lucas’s hand and squealed, “Wow, Andy is so cool!”
Lucas studied my excited face, then asked slowly, “Claire… you want to be a free bird too?”
Huh?
I blinked at him and forced a laugh: “No, not really. I think being a pretty canary is fine.”
If I ever showed Lucas I wanted freedom, who knew if I’d ever get out. I grumbled inwardly.
He fell silent, watching me. Drops still fell from the tips of his hair.
I felt awkward under his gaze. “Here—let me dry your hair,” I blurted.
I’d never dried someone else’s hair before. It felt oddly new.
I rubbed his black hair with the towel. Soft. Nice texture. We didn’t speak; only the movie’s end credits music played.
As I carefully patted his hair, kneeling in front of him, he sat obediently, head bowed.
Then he spoke, his voice hoarse. “Claire.”
I stopped and looked at him. His long eyelashes fluttered, tugging at something inside me.
My mouth felt dry. “Yeah?”
“I… I saw a therapist today.”
He hesitated, glancing around, avoiding my eyes. “The doctor said, if I cooperate with treatment, I can be normal like everyone else.”
He pulled a small white pill bottle from his pocket and set it in front of me. One by one, pills rolled out. “Claire… you can supervise me taking these… I’ll get better.”
I froze. My nose felt clogged. I swallowed tears and choked out, “Oh… that’s good.”
He smiled, shy like a schoolboy, lips curving faintly.
“Lucas, look up.”
He obeyed, lifting his head and revealing the graceful curve of his neck.
I tossed the towel onto the carpet and grabbed his face. I kissed those trembling thin lips hard. Tears slipped from his lashes and traced warm tracks down his cheeks.
“Lucas Hart… marry me.”
I whispered in his ear while unbuttoning his shirt. The warm room echoed with soft breaths and occasional moans.
The next morning my whole body ached—as if my bones would fall apart. It really hurt everywhere.
“Sleep a little more,” Lucas pulled me back under the covers.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you have work—brother?”
“We’re getting married. No work. I’m on leave.”
He sounded sleepy, indulgent, like a king who no longer attended morning court.
I never thought I, Claire Bennett, would become this kind of ruinous temptation, I mused, rubbing my chin.
Our romantic life moved smoothly. His condition improved a bit. When Mr. Bennett returned from overseas, we went dress shopping together.
“Lucas, does this one look good?”
“Nice.”
“This one?”
“Nice.”
“How about this?”
“Nice.”
“Can you say something other than ‘nice’?” I couldn’t help thwacking his head. “Hurry up and pick one!”
He set down the magazine and studied me in the mirror. “Claire… I think you look best when you don’t wear anything.”
…Gross. I gritted my teeth.
Our wedding wasn’t lavish. Few guests showed—mostly Lucas’s coworkers.
I smiled so hard my cheeks ached. My heels wobbled beneath me.
As the processional ended and the priest’s long speech finally finished, I exhaled.
“Now, the bride and groom will exchange rings.”
I clutched my bouquet and watched Lucas approach in his suit. The light in his eyes was the same youthful flame—years of longing had borne fruit.
I was his bride.
I smiled until tears spilled. He took my hand and carefully slid the ring onto my finger.
And then—suddenly—I couldn’t control my body.
I wanted to put the ring on. I truly, truly did.
My eyes widened. I watched my slender pale hand—alien and cold—indifferently toss that ring, the symbol of forever, aside.
No!
No!
Don’t!
I fought desperately against my movements, but it was useless. Nothing changed.
Words I never would have spoken tore from my mouth—vicious things: I never loved him; Lucas’s a lunatic, a pervert, a psychopath, disgusting!
No, that’s not what I wanted. This isn’t me!
Not me. This isn’t me!
Lucas—
Tears streamed down my face. I screamed in the prison of Claire’s body, but no one could hear me.
That’s Claire… not me… Lucas… I whimpered powerless. Claire had returned—trapped inside her shell, I couldn’t escape.
The ring skittered and landed at Lucas’s feet with a clear clink.
He wasn’t angry. He was not outrage—only a dead silence.
He stood there in the shadow of flowers, in a corner the sun couldn’t touch, in the fracture where a dream had shattered.
I forced myself to tell him I was still there. I used everything I had, producing only two weak words.
“Wait for—me.”
Claire’s lips moved.
Lucas looked up at me. For a heartbeat, I thought he saw me—the one trapped inside Claire. His eyes were rimmed red, soaked with an almost tangible despair. His words drifted away like wind: “Claire… I don’t want to wait anymore.”
Don’t… want to wait?
I stared at him in stunned silence. The music swelled around us; everything felt unreal.
He snatched a table knife and plunged it toward my chest. Blood burst out and painted his cheek. In the dark pools of his pupils reflected my collapsing body.
The dizziness from massive blood loss swamped me. I couldn’t hold on. I fell. His numb, cold face hovered over me, pale and sickly, streaked with warm blood.
“Claire… I’m sorry.”
His cool hand covered my eyes. His voice was strange and hoarse, strangling the twisted intensity of his feelings.
…It’s okay. I wanted to tell him that. But Claire’s body was too weak to speak. If she died, I feared I would vanish too. Death’s shadow had closed over me; darkness felt close.
Lucas—maybe I’m really leaving this time. Forever.
In the wreckage of the chapel, the discarded ring lay alone in the corner, still shining with a pure light.
————
“Who’s the victim?”
“Bennett Enterprises—Claire Bennett.”
“And the suspect?”
“Temporarily identified as the victim’s middle-school classmate, Lucas Hart, 22, freelance.”
In the elegant bedroom, the woman’s body lay oddly on the edge of the bed, eyes wide as if she'd seen something terrible.
Two newbie officers, while others scrambled to collect evidence, stood at the doorway whispering about the case.
“Heard the suspect’s been caught?”
“Captain He hasn’t notified yet. Not sure of details.”
“Supposedly he even killed his own father—some say serial killer.”
“Wow, for real?”
The two young officers buzzed with excitement.
Lucas sat in the interrogation room. His long black hair shadowed his eyes; his expression unreadable.
“Did Claire often lead others to bully you in school?” the cop asked after flipping through papers.
“Yes.”
He answered without emotion, like a machine.
“You held resentment toward her for years,” the officer went on, taking a sip of water. “On the night of May 18, you followed her home and killed her there.”
“Yes.”
Lucas nodded. Under the harsh white light, his face looked especially sullen and pale, like some damp fungus after rain.
He toyed with his fingers, counting one way and then back again, replaying the sensation of a dagger sliding into a heart. It felt so good… Everyone he hated—dead.
There had never been any light in his life.
All along he had hoped someone would appear to save him, come for him, pull him from fire and water, personally give him every bit of warmth in the world.
But… there was nothing.
Nothing at all.
An alcoholic father, a vicious rich girl, endless school bullying, unbearably tragic experiences… it was all his bloody, real life.
He turned his misery into a fantasy, inventing a Claire Bennett who didn’t exist—a Claire who would come for him, save him, redeem him, never abandon him.
The person who would transmigrate to rescue him, the one who would give him white rabbit candies, tend him through fevers, promise never to leave… all of it was just a pitiful self-soothing fantasy.
The real Claire Bennett was a spoiled heiress who seemed to want nothing more than to trample him into the dirt—a constant nightmare shadowing his years at school.
But even that imagined salvation was beyond him.
He was born to flounder in darkness. If light ever came near, he would—kill it himself.
If he never had something, he could never lose it.
————
"Today in Westbrook City, the serial killer Lucas Hart—long pursued—has been captured… This case has drawn widespread attention to family abuse and school violence. For follow-up reports, continue to follow WX News. We will keep you updated."
The female anchor chattered on about the case. The little girl stared at the news, forgetting to eat.
She pointed at the TV with her chopsticks and called to the woman beside her, "Mom, this person looks so scary."
The woman glanced up. The screen showed a cold-faced man, one side of his face ruined cleanly.
She quickly grabbed the remote and switched to cartoons, warning the girl, "Sweetie, don't look. Killers always look scary. If you watch, you'll have nightmares."
The girl stuck out her tongue. "Okay, I know!"
But she still didn't really understand—what did looking scary have to do with being a killer?
Oh well, it didn't matter. She pouted and went back to her rice.
– The End –
□ Cold and Ruthless: Lila Starr
