"I feel so much better now. I won't cause any more trouble, and I won't..."

"I won't try to kill myself again."

His body went rigid for a split second, then he recovered and laughed softly, patting my back.

"Okay, okay. If you're really doing better, then you can stay wherever you want."

That night, before bed, Everard brought me a glass of juice, same as always.

"Fresh-squeezed. Made it with my own two hands."

I looked up slowly, staring at the glass.

Ever since my miscarriage, under the guise of making sure I got enough vitamins, Everard had personally brought me a glass of juice every single night.

I used to believe it was because he loved me that much.

Something as small as squeezing juice could easily have been left to the housekeeper, but he never let anyone else do it. He insisted on making it himself.

But it was that conversation I'd overheard by accident that finally made everything clear.

The juice. Everard had been lacing it with depressive hormones.

That was why I'd developed depression. Why I'd slashed my wrists over and over, why I'd stood on the terrace more times than I could count, imagining I was a butterfly with wings, ready to fly off the edge.

If the housekeeper hadn't pulled me back in time, I'd already be six feet under with a smile frozen on my face.

"Iris, what are you thinking about? Why aren't you drinking?"

Everard frowned when he noticed my silence, his face the picture of concern.

"I don't want to drink it."

I shook my head, but he just sighed, sat down beside me, and coaxed me in that low, gentle voice of his.

"Come on, be good. The doctor said your depressive episodes are caused by a vitamin deficiency, remember? This juice will help."

I tilted my head up to look at him.

"Do I have to?"

Everard smiled down at me, and I knew he wasn't giving me a choice.

I lowered my head, let out a small laugh, then took the glass and drained it in one go.

He rubbed the top of my head, satisfied. "Get some rest. I'm going to finish up some work in the study, and I'll come to bed soon."

I watched his retreating figure.

Then I ran my fingers over the scars lining my wrist. One after another after another. Each one a souvenir of a suicide attempt.

My gaze went cold.

Everard. Madge.

Every single wound on my body is a gift from the two of you. And I will repay it all. With interest.

I drifted into a hazy sleep, only to be woken in the middle of the night by rustling sounds.