Psycho villain I Raised Wants to Marry Me-Chapter252 – The last dose

He clasped her hand in both of his. “Remember this, girl. In the end, you can only rely on yourself. Love is meant to season life, not consume it. If it becomes nothing but pain and lies, then it’s better to cut it off sooner rather than later.”
“Grandpa…”
“I’m old, but I’m not blind or stubborn. I won’t force another man on you. All I want is for you to be happy. If you’re ever wronged, come home. As long as I breathe, no one will be allowed to hurt you.”
It was the first time Callum had ever spoken to her like this. The proud, iron-willed old man had finally shown her the depth of his love.
Her chest ached. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she forced them back. She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, and whispered, “Thank you, Grandpa. I know what I have to do.”
.....
After leaving Callum’s, Clarissa drove straight to Zane’s noodle shop.
She was fortunate—he was working the counter.
Zane froze at the sight of her, surprise flickering into delight. But his smile faltered when he caught the cold seriousness in her face. “Sister… what’s wrong? You don’t look good. Did something happen?”
“I need you to confirm something for me.”
His heart thudded. Still, he forced a laugh. “Then… come sit, sister. We can talk inside.”
“Thanks.” Clarissa followed him in.
Sitting across from him, she radiated a chill he couldn’t shake. The Clarissa he knew was soft, warm, endlessly gentle. But this woman in front of him… her features were sharp, aloof, her beauty edged with something dangerous.
He swallowed hard. “I—I’ll go make you some tea.”
“No need.” Her tone cut him off. “I don’t have much time. I’ll get straight to the point.”
Her gaze pinned him. “Why were you standing at that intersection in your school uniform?”
Zane blinked, caught completely off guard. His mind scrambled. “Because… uh… because of something—”
“What?”
“I… I wanted to see Atticus.”
“Did you?” Clarissa’s eyes never left his.
“Yes.”
Her face darkened, the softness vanishing entirely. “Then why lie?”
“I didn’t—” He broke off, guilty heat rising in his face. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Damn. When she was angry, she was terrifying.
“Atticus was locked in the kennel that night,” she said coolly, her words like knives. “He nearly died there. Are you sure you actually saw him?”
Zane’s eyes widened, blood draining from his face. “What? He—he…”
The truth hit him like ice water. He hadn't expected Atticus to be so cruel to himself, to actually...
His gut clenched with fear. Before he could stammer out a response, her voice cut in again, low and unrelenting.
“Why lie, Zane? Someone told you to wait for me there. It was Atticus, wasn’t it?”
Zane knew there was no point lying any longer; it would only make things worse. He looked at Clarissa with a bitter expression. “Sister… I didn’t mean for it to be like this. It’s been so long, don’t blame him. He really does love you. That old man was abusing Atticus—he must’ve had no other choice…”
Clarissa sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple. A dull ache pulsed there. “We won’t talk about that right now.”
She reached into her bag, pulled out a check, and set it in front of him.
Zane glanced down—and froze. One million dollars.
“This… I can’t take this!” he stammered, terrified, waving his hands as though the check might burn him.
“Take it,” Clarissa insisted, sliding it closer. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you. Use it to rent a good place in the city for you and your parents. Don’t go back home for a while. Start a small business with the rest. I’m sorry you got dragged into this. This is for your safety.”
She didn’t say it aloud, but they both knew: Atticus held grudges. If he learned Zane had slipped—even if she’d tricked him into it—he wouldn’t let him walk away untouched.
Zane understood instantly, and a chill ran through him. Yes… what was bound to come had finally come. He swallowed, then tucked the check away. “I get it. But don’t feel guilty, sister. Back then… I didn’t know anything.”
He had often felt like an accomplice. For a while, he’d told himself that as long as Atticus treated her well, it was enough. But now, he saw the truth of it: he’d been naïve.
Love built on lies and manipulation could never be whole. Love was meant to be pure. Beautiful.
Clarissa gave a faint shake of her head. “I understand. Atticus…” Her voice trailed, a sharp pain stabbing through her chest, as though something unseen was bleeding inside her. She drew a long, steadying breath. Then she raised her eyes, steady and cold. “One more thing. Was Atticus involved in the robbery of James’s family?”
.....
Later, back home, Clarissa showered and sank onto the sofa. One hand propped her cheek, her eyes glassy and distant. She sat like that for a long time, as though the world had blurred around her.
When Atticus came in, he saw her lying there. At first, he thought she was asleep, so he slowed his steps. But when he looked closer, he saw her eyes—open, lifeless, staring at nothing. She must have been like this for some time.
Something flickered in his gaze, dark and calculating. Then he moved swiftly, pulling her into his arms.
“Ah!” Clarissa cried out in shock.
Before she could react, he pressed her down into the cushions, his mouth crashing onto hers.
“Mmm—!” Her muffled protest was swallowed as his kiss grew urgent, devouring. She tried to push him away, but his grip locked around her wrists, pinning her. His breath was hot, his body relentless.
“Clarissa… Clarissa…” he groaned against her lips, hunger thickening every syllable.
Her limbs weakened beneath him, her mind spinning. She whispered for him to stop, but her body betrayed her. Under his heat, her strength melted away, her resistance blurring into dizzy submission.
Clothes slipped away, scattering across the floor. Her skin shivered against his, her senses drowning in the intoxicating weight of him. Desire and despair twisted together, pulling her under.
.....
By the time it was over, Clarissa lay curled on her side, staring blankly at the floor. Her clothes lay in ruins around them, while Atticus, already half-dressed, moved casually toward the kitchen.
She sat motionless, her body humming with aftershocks she didn’t want. Lately, it had been like this—her mind recoiling, but her body burning the instant he touched her. She hated how sensitive she had become to him, how she yielded against her own will.
What had happened to her? Was she truly that dependent on him now?
Disgusted with herself, Clarissa drew a shaky breath and rose to her feet. In a daze, she made her way to the bathroom.
She turned the faucet on full blast, icy water spilling over her skin. The cold shock brought her back, if only a little. She grabbed a bath bomb from the counter and scrubbed herself hard.
When Atticus came out, Clarissa was nowhere to be seen. Clothes were strewn across the floor—the same shirt he’d draped over her body only minutes ago, abandoned.
A flicker of suspicion darkened his eyes. Something about Clarissa wasn’t right.
He set down what he was holding and moved back toward the bedroom. That was when he heard it—the sound of running water behind the bathroom door.
Atticus smoothed his expression into calm and tried the handle. Locked.
Inside, Clarissa froze at the sound. She quickly shut off the faucet, her pulse racing.
“Atticus?” Her voice wavered.
His reply was velvet-soft. “It’s me. Why did you lock the door?”
“I must have done it by accident. Is something wrong?”
“I made dinner. Come out before it gets cold—it won’t taste good later.”
“Alright. I’ll be out soon. Wait for me outside.”
He lingered for a beat, staring at the closed door, before turning away. His footsteps receded, and only then did Clarissa let out the breath she’d been holding. She scrubbed herself off in a rush, pulled on fresh clothes, and finally stepped out.
The table was already set when she entered the living room. Atticus rose immediately, catching her hand with a warm smile. “Clarissa, come on. I made your favorite.”
“…Mm.”
She let him guide her to the table without resistance.
Throughout the meal, Atticus fussed over her, filling her bowl again and again. “Eat more.”
Clarissa raised her hand, stopping him. “That’s enough, Atticus. I’m full.”
“You’ve only had one bowl.”
Clarissa lowered her chopsticks. “I’m tired. I want to rest.”
“Tired?” His lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Well, I suppose I’m the reason for that. But before you rest… you have to drink your medicine.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small bowl. The scent hit Clarissa the moment he set it before her. She knew exactly what it was.
Under his watchful gaze, she lifted the bowl and forced it down, her throat tight around the bitter liquid. Wiping her mouth, she said nothing more and slipped back to her room.
Behind her, Atticus glanced at the dregs in the bowl, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “Clarissa… that was the last dose.”
In her bedroom, Clarissa pulled a small glass vial from the drawer of her dressing table. She leaned over it, lips parting, and spat the final mouthful of medicine she’d held back. The cloudy liquid swirled inside the bottle, glinting under the light.
Her fingers clenched around the glass. What if... her recent physical changes were truly due to this medicine?
She sealed the vial, shoved it deep into her drawer, and lay back on the bed. Her body was exhausted from the day, but her mind wouldn’t quiet. She tossed and turned, battling her own thoughts, until finally—an hour later—sleep dragged her under.
The door creaked open.
Atticus stepped inside, his movements soundless, his shadow falling over the bed. Even in the darkness, he could make out the faint bruised circles beneath her eyes. For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching her chest rise and fall.
Then his gaze slid to the dressing table.
He moved silently across the room, rifled through the drawer, and found the vial Clarissa had tried to hide. He held it up, studying the trapped liquid inside.
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.
When Clarissa woke the next morning, her first instinct was to look around for Atticus. The space beside her was empty.
She dragged herself out of bed, washed, and decided she’d take the medicine vial to her grandfather. Just as she reached for the drawer, her phone lit up on the dresser, buzzing insistently.
Clarissa hesitated, then picked up. “Hello?”
“Ms. Clarissa, I… I found something. There’s more. Should I bring it to you now, or—”
“Bring it to me. But not over the phone.” Clarissa’s tone was crisp, controlled. “I’ll come to the office. Wait for me there.”
“Oh… alright, Miss Clarissa. There’s also something—”
But Clarissa ended the call before Oriana could finish.