---- Chapter 22 No.22 They walked in silence to a nearby park, a small patch of green amidst the urban sprawl. The power dynamic had completely inverted. He, who had always led, now trailed a half-step behind her, a supplicant. The air was thick with everything he wanted to say, but he didn't know where to begin They sat on a bench, a careful distance between them. "| was wrong," he began, the words clumsy and inadequate. "Everything | did... it was a test. A twisted, horrible test. | was trying to push you away. | was afraid." He took a breath. "I hired Karis. | told her to use the damaged polish. | orchestrated everything. | was trying to make you hate me, so | could tell myself it was your decision to leave, not my fault." He laid his sins at her feet, a desperate, ugly offering. He expected a reaction. Anger. Tears. Something. ' Clare just looked at him, her expression unreadable. She let the silence stretch, his confession hanging in the air until it felt pathetic. Then she spoke. A single, devastating question. "So?" ---- The word, delivered in a flat, neutral tone, dismantled his entire confession. It rendered his grand emotional revelation utterly meaningless. "So?" he repeated, confused. "So... I'm sorry. | love you. | realize that now." "You don't love me, Chase," she said, her voice devoid of malice, like a scientist stating a fact. "You love the idea of me. You're accustomed to me. My presence in your life was a habit, and now that I'm gone, you're experiencing withdrawal. It's not love. It's an addiction to a person." She was using his own cold, analytical language against him. "You once told me | couldn't tell the difference between familial affection and love," she continued, her voice still unnervingly calm. "Maybe you were right. But you, Chase, you can't tell the difference between love and ownership." He flinched. She was quoting his own cruel words back to him, turning his weapons against him. "And maybe what | felt for you wasn't love either," she said, her gaze turning inward. "Maybe it was just... dependence. A survival instinct. | was a drowning person, and you were the first piece of wreckage | could cling to. It wasn't healthy. It wasn't real. Just two broken people, clinging to each other in the dark for all the wrong reasons." She had redefined their entire history. She had taken his grand ---- tragedy and reduced it to a case study in codependence. She stood up. The five minutes were over. "| hope you get the help you need, Chase," she said, and there was a Sliver of genuine, distant pity in her voice. "| really do. But my life is no longer your hospital." She turned and walked away, leaving him alone on the bench with the ruins of his confession and the terrible, dawning understanding that an apology only matters to someone who is still listening.