Love Is a Failed Experiment

On the day of my wedding, my fiancé—Colonel Julian Hargrove—walked past me and carried my adopted sister, Grace, into the wedding car.

At first, I thought he was just overwhelmed. That in the haze of happiness, he had mistaken her for me. I stepped forward to explain.

But Julian looked back at me, full of guilt. “Clara, two months ago, Grace was attacked by a gang of thugs while protecting me... She’s pregnant.”

“She saved my life. I owe her. I have to take responsibility.”

“Just wait for me one more year, okay? Once the baby is born safely, I’ll divorce her and marry you.”

But marrying him had been my father’s dying wish.

My emotions collapsed in an instant. Right in front of him, I took a fruit knife and slashed my own wrist.

“Grace is always so cheerful. Does she look traumatized to you? It’s me or her—you choose.”

He stood there, stunned. I thought he would waver.

Instead, he looked at me with disgust.

“Clara Reynolds, I never imagined you could be so vicious. You’d really let your sister and her unborn child die just to get what you want?”

“If that’s the case, then wait another five years. Maybe that’ll teach you a lesson.”

Without so much as a glance at my blood-drained face, he started the Lincoln wedding car, adorned in white roses, and drove off.

Five years later, I ran into him again at a celebratory banquet in Washington, D.C., honoring physicists who had made exceptional contributions to the nation. I had just arrived from the Knightsbridge Quantum Research Institute. Grace stood beside him.

When he saw me, his expression changed. First surprise, then a quick scowl.

“Clara, this banquet is for physicists who’ve made real contributions to the country. If you’re still trying to force me to marry you, at least pick a better time.”

“Go home. Don’t humiliate yourself here.”

I froze. I was attending my husband’s banquet. What did this have to do with him?

---

I stood motionless at the entrance of the Knightsbridge Hotel.

Julian’s face darkened further.

“Clara, I know you’ve waited for me for five years, hoping I’d come back and marry you. But chasing me all the way to Washington like this—this isn’t the way.”

“Everyone here tonight is powerful—people from the government and the scientific community. This isn’t the place for your drama.”

Ignoring my puzzled expression, he sighed like a man burdened with compassion.

“Grace’s child is still young. He needs his father. You've already waited five years—what’s one more?”

“But Grace and I have talked. We’ll bring you to live with us. You won’t have to suffer alone in that little town in Belgravia anymore.”

So he thought I’d spent the past five years waiting for him in my hometown.

As he stepped forward, trying to take my hand, I instinctively stepped back, keeping a polite distance.

“Colonel Hargrove, you’re hilarious. I’ve been married for years. You don’t need to concern yourself.”

I didn’t bother hiding my disdain as his face twisted with confusion. I tried to walk past him, but Grace caught my wrist.

Her eyes were red as she looked at me. “Clara, I was wrong to take your wedding day. But you don’t have to say such cruel things.”

“You loved Julian so much you tried to kill yourself. There’s no way you married someone else.”

“Why don’t you come back and let us take care of you?”

I yanked my arm from her grip, my eyes falling to the jagged scar on my wrist.

It was on that wedding day—only when Julian lifted Grace into the car—that I realized he was switching brides.

I had been floating in bliss, preparing to marry the man I loved. Then, in an instant, everything shattered. Guests stared at me with veiled pity and confusion.

My mind went blank.

When I came to, the knife was already slicing through my skin.

Ignoring the searing pain, I stared him down and demanded:

“Me or Grace. You choose.”

In my life, he had been the one who loved me most, aside from my parents.

Even when I had a mild cold, he’d stay up all night worrying.

I had believed, with complete certainty, that he’d never watch me die without doing anything.

But then he looked at me—desperate and bleeding—and said something that froze me to the bone.

His final words pierced through my heart like a blade:

“Clara, you’re not a child. Faking a suicide is pathetic. Do you understand that?”

Then he drove off, taking with him the Hargrove family jewels my mother had left me as a wedding gift—laughing with Grace in the passenger seat.

That was the moment I finally understood:

Using your life to hold on to a man who no longer loves you is the most pathetic thing of all.

Once I understood that, I bandaged my wrist.

The next day, I submitted a transfer request to the Department for Energy Security and Net Zero and relocated to the Knightsbridge Quantum Research Institute in New Mexico.

I stayed there for five years.

If it weren’t for my husband, Dr. Ethan Beaumont, receiving national honors for our work in quantum physics, we never would have returned to D.C.

Julian’s voice turned soft again beside me.

“Clara, be good. This isn’t the place for you.”

“Go home and pack. Grace and I will come get you after the banquet.”

I stared at him, amused by his self-righteous concern.

“Colonel Hargrove, there’s nothing between us anymore. Let’s be clear—I, Clara Beaumont, am not interested in another woman’s husband.”