Seven Years, Three Broken Hearts

Prologue Seven years ago, I signed a marriage contract with his mother to save my dying father. That was how I became Damian Sterling’s wife. In the beginning, he treated me like his entire world. Until he found that contract. Convinced my love had been nothing more than a calculated scam, Damian turned into a monster. From that day on, he broke me over and over. Losing two of our unborn babies wasn't enough to earn a shred of his pity. Then came my third pregnancy. At a high-society charity gala, I caught him tangled up with another woman. She shoved me to the ground, killing our third child. Standing in my own blood, I finally broke free of the illusion. This marriage had cost me seven years and three children. It was time for it to end. Clara’s POV It was my seventh year married to Damian Sterling. I was three months pregnant with our third child. Everyone in this city knew how our marriage started. Seven years ago, my father, George Vance, suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. He lay comatose in the ICU. The doctors warned me that the surgery and post-op care would be a bottomless pit of medical debt—without immediate cash, he wouldn't survive a month. That was when Damian’s mother, Eleanor, cornered me. She slid a contract across the polished table. If I married Damian, the Sterling family would cover every cent of my father’s medical bills. I signed it. For the first six months, Damian truly cherished me. Then he dug that agreement out of his mother’s study, and the man I knew vanished overnight. He started parading different women into our penthouse, laughing and wrapping his arms around them right in front of me. I lost two babies because of him. One was lost when he shoved me against the sharp corner of his mahogany desk. The other froze to death inside me after he locked me out in the freezing autumn rain all night. This third baby... I really thought I could protect it. Until the Sterling Charity Gala. The ballroom was packed with glittering guests. A socialite walked up with a glass of champagne, eyeing my belly. "How many months along are you, Clara? You're so lucky. Damian is young, powerful, and such a devoted family man." I offered a polite smile, saying nothing. I wandered through the crowd holding a glass of juice. My lower back ached with a dull, throbbing heaviness, and I rested a hand against it. Damian was nowhere to be seen. I tracked down Mike, the head butler. Mike’s eyes darted away nervously. "Mr. Sterling stepped into the garden lounge, ma'am." I walked down the quiet gallery and pushed open the lounge doors. Two figures were tangled on the velvet sofa. Hearing the door, Damian looked up. Bianca Frost shrieked, lashing out with a violent shove. I stumbled backward. My lower back slammed into the sharp edge of the marble coffee table, followed instantly by the blunt impact against my stomach. A tearing, agonizing pain exploded through my abdomen. I looked down. Dark crimson blossomed beneath the hem of my gown, spreading wider and wider across the floor. Drawn by the scream, guests swarmed into the lounge. Damian stepped out from behind the sofa, calmly buttoning his cuffs. He didn't spare me a single glance. He pulled a black Amex card from his designer wallet and tossed it into the puddle of blood pooling beneath me. "Isn't money all you care about?" His tone was dead flat. "Take it and get lost." Gasps rippled through the room. One woman gasped and pulled out her phone to call 911, but someone beside her grabbed her wrist, stopping her. This was a Sterling gala. Nobody dared cross Damian. A member of the Sterling family muttered under their breath, "Living like this... they might as well get a divorce." Pressing my palms flat against the cold marble, I pushed myself up. My dress was soaked in blood, but there wasn't a single tear on my face. I looked at the relative who had spoken, my voice as calm as if I were talking about a stranger. "You're right. It's time to end it." Bianca put on a show of coming forward to support me, leaning close to my ear. Yet her voice rang out loud enough for the entire room to hear. "Clara only married into the family for her father’s medical bills anyway, didn't she?" Dead silence fell over the hall. The truth—that I had sold myself for my father's life—was laid bare before the city's elite. I didn't deny it. I picked up my clutch from the floor, turned around, and walked out into the night. Not a single soul followed me. I drove myself to the hospital. Blood soaked through my seat, running down my bare thighs the entire drive. I kept both hands clamped on the steering wheel, eyes locked on the asphalt ahead, refuse to cry. The fluorescent lights of the emergency room were blindingly white. The doctor pulled down his mask, gave me a heavy look, and sighed. "We couldn't save the baby. You need to be admitted for observation." I nodded quietly. Lying in the sterile hospital bed, the anesthesia hadn't fully worn off. I stared up at the strip lights, remembering the hospital corridor from seven years ago. Damian's mother had sat across from me, sliding that contract forward. I had picked up the pen without trembling. That pen had been heavy. Heavy enough to crush seven years of my life.Clara’s POV Damian and I had known each other since we were kids; our families used to run in the same circles. Back in high school, during the annual arts showcase, I had performed on stage. The spotlight had bathed me in gold, and Damian had sat in the very last row, watching the entire set without looking away once. Later, he told me that ever since that afternoon, he could never get the image of me singing out of his head. During the first year of our marriage, Damian genuinely cherished me. I had an old injury on my lower back from a car crash when I was sixteen. It flared up whenever it rained. Every stormy day, he would personally bring a steaming mug of hot water to my side. If I coughed in my sleep, he would wake up in the dead of night, rummaging through the medicine cabinet, then wait patiently by the bed until I swallowed the pills. On the third floor of the estate, there had been an empty spare room. He hired high-end acoustic contractors to install professional soundproofing and top-tier studio mics, turning it into a private vocal room just for me. The day it was finished, he swung the door open and smiled softly. "Sing whenever your heart desires, Clara. I won't ever bother you." Once, in the middle of a vocal run, I turned around and caught him leaning against the doorframe. God knew how long he'd been standing there. When I asked why he hadn't come inside, he smiled warmly. "I didn't want to break your spell." That same night, he worked late in the living room. I brought over a warm cup of milk and set it beside his laptop. He looked up at me, his gaze melting with tenderness. For a brief, foolish moment, I truly believed real love could bloom out of a transaction. The dream lasted barely six months. Damian found the contract tucked inside a folder in his mother's study. He stormed into our bedroom, slamming the papers onto the vanity before me. "What the hell is this?" I glanced down. My signature was right at the bottom. My lips parted, but I couldn't deny it. "So you only married me for cash?" His voice shook with fury. "Every act of kindness... every soft touch... it was all a lie?" "No, Damian..." I whispered, my throat tight. "Then what was it?" He closed the distance between us, towering over me. "Tell me! Was any single word out of your mouth real?" I had no answer. The contract was real. The money was real. My original motive for walking down the aisle was undeniable. I couldn't say my tenderness had been fake, but I couldn't claim it had been entirely innocent either. Damian lost his mind. He shoved me with all his strength. I slammed backward into the corner of the heavy wooden desk, the sharp edge digging right into my stomach. I had been two months pregnant. That very night, our first child was gone. From that day forward, Damian became a stranger. He began bringing women home, flirting with them right before my eyes. He wrapped his arms around them in front of me, laughing at their jokes. The first time he brought a woman home, I was pouring water in the kitchen. When they strolled into the foyer, my hand froze. The boiling water spilled, scorching the back of my hand. I didn't make a sound. I just set the kettle down and walked to my room. At family banters, he deliberately fed drinks to the women on his arm, watching me from the corner of his eye to catch my reaction. I went from heartbroken, to numb, to entirely hollow inside. Seeing my lack of reaction, Damian convinced himself that I had no heart at all. His cruelty escalated. I endured it all. When pain cuts deep enough, you lose the ability to make a sound.Clara’s POV Damian brought home countless women. I thought I had grown completely numb. Until Bianca Frost moved in. Bianca was his latest flame, and by far the boldest. Within a month of living at the estate, she had mapped out every single one of my boundaries. For my tenth birthday, my late mother had given me an antique music box. After Mom passed away, I kept it by my side wherever I went. It wasn't worth much—the varnish had peeled away over the years. But I kept it tucked in the back of my nightstand, and nobody was allowed to touch it. One afternoon, while I was at the hospital visiting my father, Bianca slipped into my bedroom. She dug the music box out of the drawer, weighed it in her palm, and casually dropped it onto the hardwood floor. The wooden shell split in two. Brass gears and springs scattered everywhere. Not satisfied, she lifted her foot and ground the sharp stiletto of her designer heel into the brass gears, splintering the delicate metal pieces across the rug. When I returned from the hospital, I opened the door to complete destruction. I knelt down, my trembling fingertips picking up a crushed, bent gear. The jagged metal sliced into my skin, but I didn't even flinch. Bianca leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms with a smug smirk. "My hand slipped," she purred. "So sorry about that, Clara." I stood up and walked toward her, step by step. Before Bianca could react, I seized a fistful of her hair and slammed her down onto the carpet of sharp brass shards. Bianca screamed, flailing frantically. Her bare arms dragged across the broken metal, opening a deep gash that gushed crimson over the floor. "You're crazy!" she wailed. I didn't utter a word. I just pinned her down, my knuckles white, burying her head against the wreckage of my mother's gift. In all seven years of being married to Damian, it was the first time I had ever fought back. That was the exact scene Damian walked in on. Bianca was weeping on the floor, her arm covered in blood. I was straddling her, holding her down by the hair. Without asking a single question, he charged forward and violently ripped me off her. The force threw me against the wall. "What the hell are you doing?!" Damian roared. He dropped to his knees to inspect Bianca's cuts, then turned to glare at me with eyes so cold I felt like an absolute stranger. He dragged me out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the courtyard. A freezing late-autumn rain poured from the gray sky, pelting my skin like needles. In the corner of the garden stood an old brick tool shed. He shoved the door open, threw me inside onto the wet floor, and locked the deadbolt. "You stay in there until you apologize!" His muffled shout cut through the heavy wood, as cold as the downpour. I was pregnant again. I sat on that freezing concrete floor the entire night. Rainwater seeped in beneath the door, soaking through my jeans. I curled up in the darkest corner, wrapping my arms around my belly, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I never made a peep. In the dark, I thought of that music box. When Mom gave it to me, she had whispered, Whenever you miss me, just wind it up and listen. Now the gears were destroyed. I would never hear Mom's melody again. The next morning, when Mike unlocked the door, I was already burning with a fever and drifting in and out of consciousness. My cheeks were flushed crimson, and my lips were cracked and dry. At the hospital, the doctors broke the news. The baby was gone. That was the second child I lost. The moment I returned from the clinic, the very first thing I did was check the calendar. The seven-year agreement had less than three months left. I slipped my hand into the secret compartment at the bottom of my wardrobe. Inside was the cash I had quietly saved over the years. Damian gave me an allowance every month, but I hadn't spent a single penny of it on myself; I transferred it into a private bank account under a trusted identity. Beside the bank card lay copies of my father's medical charts. An acceptance letter from a seaside rehabilitation facility down south. And our passports and IDs. I didn't want anything from him. Not the Sterling fortune, not the title of Mrs. Sterling, not a single piece of jewelry in this gilded cage. I was just waiting for the day the contract expired so I could take my father and disappear. Damian had no idea I had prepared everything. He assumed I couldn't survive without his family's wealth. He instructed Mike that my meals no longer needed to be served hot. If they were cold, so be it. The maids stopped cleaning my room, and the laundry staff refused to press my clothes, forcing me to wash them by hand. Mike felt awful, but he didn't dare disobey his boss. Even the hired help joined in on the humiliation. The kitchen staff served me expired food. The cleaners swept my personal belongings onto the floor. The laundry room tossed my blouses into the wash with floor mops. Even the estate gate guards blocked my path whenever I tried to step outside. I never argued. I took it all in silence. I was counting down the days. Once the date arrived, this nightmare would be over.Clara’s POV My silence didn't bring peace. Instead, it made Bianca, desperate to take my place as Damian's wife, feel intensely threatened. To purge me from the Sterling family once and for all, she staged a pathetic poisoning scheme. She slipped a heavy dose of laxatives into her own water glass, then clung to the porcelain toilet, dry-heaving violently. She called Damian in tears, sobbing that I had tried to poison her. By the time Damian rushed home, Bianca was lying pale and frail in bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Beside her was a doctored screenshot—a grainy, edited image of me tipping a vial over her cup. The house staff lined the hallway with their heads down, daring not speak, but their eyes cut straight toward me. Damian didn't bother investigating. In front of every servant in the house, he jabbed a finger in my face. "If you ever lay a hand on her again, I swear to God I'll pull the plug on your father's ventilator. Try me." The color drained from my face. My lips trembled, but I didn't offer a single word of defense. I knew explanations were useless; he had never trusted me. Speaking up would only convince him that I was cornered and defensive. To avenge Bianca, Damian went after my father. He called the hospital and canceled my father's imported life-support medications. He stripped him of his private VIP suite, relocating him to a noisy, cramped six-bed ward. The specialized nurses were dismissed. When the hospital called me, my hand shook so violently I dropped my phone onto the floor. I sprinted to Damian’s study, barging in without knocking. I dropped to my knees before his desk, my voice raw and broken. "I'm begging you... please restore his meds. Move him back. I'll do whatever you want." Damian reclined against his leather executive chair, completely still. He looked down at me like I was a stray dog groveling for scraps. "Kneel before Bianca and beg for her forgiveness. If she accepts, I might reconsider." I gritted my teeth, kneeling in silence. In the end, I went to Bianca's room. I needed to see just how far this woman was willing to go. Bianca ushered me inside and clicked the door shut. The fragile, sickly facade vanished instantly. She sat at her vanity, applying crimson lipstick in the mirror without even glancing at me. "Do you honestly think you're still Mrs. Sterling?" She spun around, leaning in until her breath hit my ear, her voice dropping to a vicious hiss. "Your father's life is in my hands. If I want him dead today, he won't see tomorrow." "Get the hell out of this house." "Otherwise, I'll make sure he rots in agony, and you won't even get to say goodbye." I stared into her eyes. There were no tears in mine—only a vast, frozen void. Without a word, I turned and walked out. I went straight to the hospital. Six beds were shoved into the public ward. My father lay in the far corner. His monitors had been disconnected. The IV port remained taped to the back of his hand, but the drip bag was completely empty, with no nurse around to replace it. Across the room, visitors chatted loudly over the blare of a mounted television. Nobody cared about the comatose man who had been lying there for seven years. I stood beside his bed and took his hand. It felt thinner than before—just skin stretched tight over fragile bone, ice-cold to the touch. I pressed my cheek against his knuckles. I didn't sob, but my shoulders shook silently. I gently smoothed down the peeling medical tape on his hand, then pulled his sleeve down over his elbow. My movements were tender, terrified of causing him pain. Only later did I learn that the moment I left the estate, Bianca had dashed into Damian's study, throwing herself into his arms and weeping. She claimed I had threatened to slit her throat and called her a homewrecker. She wailed that she was terrified for her life. Holding her close, Damian's face had darkened with rage. He became utterly convinced that I was a venomous, heartless monster who would stop at nothing to eliminate Bianca.Clara’s POV Having decided I was evil, Damian found every way imaginable to grind salt into my deepest wound. Very few people knew that my singing voice—the thing I had once valued more than my life—had been shattered when I was sixteen. My father and I had been in a catastrophic mountain bus crash. The vehicle flipped, and the violent whiplash crushed my vocal cords. Even after multiple reconstructive surgeries, they never fully healed. I couldn't speak for long stretches, I couldn't scream, and any sudden surge of emotion would render me entirely mute. Before the crash, I had been the lead soloist in my choir. My father used to brag that I was born to sing, that my high notes were pure sunlight breaking through the clouds. My greatest dream back then was to perform in a world-class concert hall, singing my heart out. I loved music. My voice was my soul. Damian knew that was where it hurt most, so he weaponized it. During an upscale family dinner, he suddenly called my name, demanding I sing a song to entertain his guests. He knew damn well that performance anxiety choked my throat, yet he insisted. I stood up before the crowded table, my lips parting. But my throat felt gripped by an iron fist; not a single melody came out. The guests exchanged awkward glances, a few quickly looking down at their phones. Damian leaned back in his chair, letting out a sharp, mocking scoff. "You can't even carry a tune. What did I marry you for? Completely useless." The table fell dead silent. I sank back into my chair, my fingernails digging into my palms until the skin split. Other times, he would barge into my soundproof room while I was doing vocal warm-ups and roar at the top of his lungs, triggering a throat spasm that left me breathless and coughing for hours. He would stand in the doorway, staring coldly as I clutched my neck. He even ordered the staff to monitor my speech: I wasn't allowed to speak more than ten sentences a day. For every extra sentence, my father's daily medication dosage would be slashed. Once, at the hospital, I asked the attending nurse a couple of extra questions about Dad's vitals. When I returned to the estate, the butler delivered the message: You spoke three sentences over the limit today. Your father's dose has been cut by a third. I stood frozen in the hallway, fists clenched tight, blood dripping from my palms. I didn't utter a sound. Damian posted two private bodyguards to shadow my every move. Every step I took was watched. They followed me to the hospital, and they even stationed themselves outside the public restroom doors. One afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore and confronted one of them. "What does he actually want?" The guard glanced around, lowering his voice. "Mr. Sterling said... the more you suffer, the longer your father's meds will be funded. Keep your head down, and your dad gets to breathe a little longer. Step out of line, and the supply stops tomorrow." A chill swept through my bones. I bit my lip until it bled, never speaking another word. For my father, I could endure anything. I had only three wishes in this life: To sing on a real stage again. For my father to open his eyes. And to have a quiet, peaceful home of my own. One by one, Damian handed those dreams to Bianca. He rented out a premier concert hall and threw a solo show for her. Bianca couldn't sing to save her life; she lip-synced through the entire set. But Damian bought out the press and packed the seats with elite guests, giving her the standing ovation I had dreamed of since childhood. The night of the concert, I stood alone in the dark living room. The entertainment news was broadcasting live. Bianca stood under the dazzling spotlights in a couture gown, surrounded by flashing cameras. I watched in silence for a long time before clicking the TV off. He bought Bianca a luxury seaside villa. Its layout and panoramic view were identical to the dream home Damian had described to me during our first year of marriage. Back then, his arm had been wrapped around my shoulders as he pointed at the brochure: We’ll move there one day, Clara. The city lights look breathtaking from that terrace. He even brought Bianca to my father's hospital bed. Right beside my comatose dad, Damian held Bianca's hand and declared that she would be the new mistress of the Sterling estate. Later, Bianca knocked on my bedroom door. In her hands, she clutched the VIP concert ticket and the gold keys to the villa. She laid them out on my vanity, gloating with a smirk. "All of this," she whispered, dangling the keys before my eyes, "is something you will never touch in your pathetic life." I stared at the sparkling items, my knuckles white, joints popping with tension. I said nothing. My eyes were as motionless and cold as stagnant water. Sensing the chilling indifference, Bianca gathered her things and strutted out. After the door clicked shut, I walked to the third-floor studio and stood before the microphone. I parted my lips, trying to push out a note. Nothing came out except a raspy, broken hiss. Seven years. My voice was completely destroyed. I shut off the lights and stood in the dark. Moonlight spilled through the windowpane, dusting the acoustic panels like a thin layer of frost. I raised a hand, touching the faint scar on my throat. It had once held all my hopes and dreams; now, it was just an invisible wound. I exhaled softly, stepped out of the studio, and pulled the door shut behind me.Clara’s POV Everything was finally in place. A distant family friend had helped me secure a bed at a specialized long-term care facility in a quiet coastal town down south. They had an experienced coma care unit willing to take my father. The money I had secretly saved was enough to cover the first three years of his treatment. I had already handled the paperwork for his transfer. Only one final step remained. The moment the seven-year contract expired, I would pick Dad up from the hospital, and we would leave this city forever. All the essential documents were packed inside an old canvas backpack, hidden deep within a rented locker at the hospital terminal. It was the same backpack I had carried in college; a zipper tooth had broken off, and I had hand-stitched it with nylon thread. Every time I visited Dad, I would open that locker just to confirm the papers were safe, then softly lock it back up. But two weeks before the contract was set to expire, disaster struck. Bianca forged a bank ledger, framing me for embezzling Sterling family funds. In reality, the account was simply my personal savings. Every cent Damian had transferred to me as an allowance had been set aside, untouched. Damian flew into a blind fury. He stormed into my bedroom, ripping the place apart. He tore my clothes out of the closet, dumping them on the floor, throwing open drawers and scattering my personal items everywhere. From the secret compartment at the bottom of the wardrobe, he unearthed the bank card, convinced it held his stolen wealth. Then, from beneath my pillow, he pulled out the glossy brochure for the coastal care facility, featuring photos of the sea and the facility's logo. Clutching the two items, his hands shook violently. He was dead certain I was taking his money to run away with my father. "You're leaving?" His voice cracked, his eyes bloodshot with rage. "You stole my money, and you're planning to skip town with your dad?" I parted my lips, desperately wanting to explain that the funds were my untouched allowance, that the care center was purely for my father's survival. He didn't give me the chance. Completely unhinged, he swung his hand and struck me across the face. The blow was brutal. The impact slammed me against the wall, the back of my head cracking against the corner molding. My lip split open, blood dripping from my chin and staining my shirt. I slid down the wall onto the hardwood floor, my ears ringing with high-pitched static. My cheek burned like fire, and waves of darkness washed over my vision. I raised a trembling hand to my lip, saw the crimson on my fingertips, and wiped it off against my sleeve. The room was in shambles—clothes strewn across the floor, drawers overturned. Damian stood in the center of the mess, chest heaving, still gripping the card and the brochure. Then, his gaze locked onto me. I knew how ghastly I looked: gaunt, hollow-cheeked, dark circles bruised beneath my eyes, wrists so thin they looked ready to snap. I was slumped against the wall, eyes vacant, looking like a broken ragdoll stripped of its soul. The oversized, blood-stained shirt hung loosely on my fragile frame. Blood continued to seep from my mouth, dripping steadily onto my chest—one drop, then another. Panic suddenly washed over his features. His hands began to shake violently, the card and brochure slipping from his fingers onto the floor. He dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch me, but his hands hovered in midair, trembling. His voice cracked with a desperation I had never heard before. "Clara... I didn't mean to. Are you okay? Does it hurt?" For seven years, he had never spoken to me with such raw fear. "Can we please stop torturing each other?" He knelt before me, tears welling in his red eyes. "I was wrong, Clara. I'm sorry. I was wrong." I lifted my gaze to meet his. Blood kept trickling from my lip, but deep inside my deadened eyes, an ember flickered—a tiny, desperate spark of hope that had almost gone cold. Seven years. I had waited for those words for so long that I had forgotten I was even waiting. I opened my mouth, desperate to speak. Right then, Bianca's voice floated up from the foot of the stairs. It wasn't loud, but in the dead silence of the hallway, it cut straight into our ears. "Damian... my stomach hurts so bad... please come down..." Damian froze. He looked at me, then glanced back toward the open doorway. His hands hung in the air for a few agonizing seconds. His lips twitched, as if trying to find words, but nothing came out. Finally, he stood up. He turned his back on me and hurried downstairs to Bianca. The door remained ajar, the hallway light stretching a long, cold shadow across the floor. Slumped against the freezing wall, I watched his silhouette disappear down the stairwell. I listened to his footsteps fade, eventually drowned out by Bianca's soft sobs. I was left alone in the wreckage of my room. Slowly, I raised my hand and wiped the blood from my chin until my skin was clean. The very last shred of hope in my heart—the foolish fantasy that maybe he still loved me, that maybe one day he would understand—snapped completely. Like a violin string pulled taut for seven years, it finally broke. The sound was faint, heard by no one but myself. I would never hope for anything from Damian Sterling again.