When she heard the retching sounds from the toilet, Rea’s face turned pale, her voice carrying a trace of grievance sounded, "Clara … do you hate me that much?"
The moment those words left her lips, Ian's face darkened. He gently patted Rea's hand, his gaze firm as he reassured her, "That’s impossible. No one would hate you."
With that, he turned and strode toward the toilet to check what it was all about.
Inside, Clara clutched the porcelain bowl as her body trembled. Through the haze of pain, she saw something unsettling come out from her. There were streaks of blood mixed with unidentifiable fragments of flesh. Her limbs throbbed with a twisted ache and cold sweat broke out across her forehead.
As a result of drinking the wine, the damage from her death was becoming impossible to hide. Blood seeped through her pant leg and dripped onto the floor.
With great effort, she stood up and adjusted her clothes to smooth out any visible wrinkles. As she stared at the ghostly pale reflection in the mirror, she let out a bitter chuckle.
Should she consider herself lucky? Since her black outfit managed to conceal the blood well enough.