She remembered how she used to stay up until dawn to finish design drafts, falling asleep at her desk. Liam would gently cover her with a blanket, carefully tidying up the scattered manuscripts, not wanting to mess up even a single line. He said, "Niannian, this is your dream, and it's my pride too."
But now, her dreams have been torn apart and trampled upon, yet he only cares whether the perpetrator has been frightened.
Those manuscripts weren't just scraps of paper. They represented seven years of her youth, her overflowing love, and the hope that kept her going.
"Waste paper?" Clara repeated the word softly, a faint, blood-tinged smile slowly curving her lips. "In your eyes, everything I am is just waste paper?"
Liam's heart skipped a beat at her laughter, but he was quickly overwhelmed by impatience. Looking at the blood on Clara's forehead, he found it both irritating and troublesome: "If you keep causing trouble, get out of this house!"
Get out.
These three words were like the last straw, crushing the last vestige of hope in her heart.