Clara pressed her hand to her temple. “Mother, please.”
“He’s saving Sutton House, Clara. It will remain in the family because of you. Because of him. You’re doing the right thing, darling. Never doubt it. And speaking of doing the right thing,your father and I have the Mortimers’ gala tomorrow, and dinner with the Ashfords on Thursday. Everyone is so eager to meet Oliver again. Poor Lady Pembroke was practically green with envy when she heard you’d secured such a match.”
Clara bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to snap. The endless cycle of social climbing and shallow gossip made her feel like she was drowning.
Penelope prattled on about who had been seen where, who was drinking too much at last week’s polo match, and which young women had “let themselves go dreadfully.” Clara muttered the occasionalmmmmandyes, Motheruntil the call finally ended.
She lowered the phone slowly, feeling the walls of the flat press closer, the noose tightening with every word.
Another buzz lit the screen.Lena.
A meme popped up: two cartoon characters wielding swords, captioned “Best friends fight dragons together, yours just happen to wear pearls and judge your shoes.”
Clara burst out laughing, sudden and unguarded. Warmth spread through her chest.
She typed back quickly:
Thank you. You always know.
Seconds later, Lena’s reply pinged back:
Always here to fight dragons and help you bury the body if it comes to that.
Clara laughed again, softer this time, curling beneath the duvet with her phone clutched to her chest. For the first time all evening, the pressure eased. But even as sleep tugged at her,she couldn’t escape the memory of the man in the museum, the stranger whose gaze had made her feel seen.
Chapter 6
The rain had thinnedto mist by the time Jonas reached Clara’s street but the air still carried the metallic tang of wet asphalt and diesel, the night heavy with the kind of damp that made a person feel cold to the bone. He moved like a shadow, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, hood up, a man with no reason to be noticed.
He wasn’t supposed to be there tonight. He’d told himself he’d wait, gather more intel, test the seams of her world until he could slide through without anyone noticing. But something gnawed at him, something restless and sharp, and when he looked up at her window, and the faint line of light behind drawn curtains, he couldn’t make himself turn away. It was late, after one am and yet she was still awake. That in itself gave him pause. What kept her up?
Then he saw it, a dark van.
It was parked two doors down from Clara’s building, matte black, too clean for the street, a florist decal on the side when there were no flower shops for miles, and certainly no deliveries at this time of night. Condensation hadn’t fogged its windows either, despite the wet night, and the glow of a phone screenlit briefly behind the glass before vanishing. Jonas slowed, posture casual, but his mind catalogued every detail: angle of the mirrors, slight dip at the back axle, signal jammer wired crudely on the dashboard. Not amateurs, then, but not anywhere near as good as his team.
Clara wasn’t safe. The thought made his gut twist.
Jonas’s pulse kicked hard. He’d seen enough stakeouts, enough bad operations, to know the signs. Someone was watching her, waiting. And if he could see them, maybe they’d already seen him.
His plan to observe her shattered in an instant. There would be no waiting, no careful preparation. If she stayed here tonight, she was a target. He shoved his hand inside his pocket; the zip ties he always carried were there, as was the kit he always carried in case of emergency. His gun was tucked into the back of his jeans and covered by his jacket.
He had to take her.
Now.
He crossed the street, pace unhurried, eyes scanning every angle. Outwardly, he was just another nameless person in a city full of nobodies. A drunk couple stumbled out of a pub on the corner, laughing too loud, their presence a gift, a cover for his movements. Jonas slipped into the shadows by Clara’s building just as the van’s engine ticked once, like an impatient heartbeat.
He ran a hand along the keypad at the building’s front door. An old, outdated system, cheap wiring, easily fooled. He pulled a narrow strip of foil and a bypass chip from his pocket, worked them into the slot, and the lock gave a soft, obedient click. He was inside in seconds, the stairwell dim and smelling faintly of fresh paint and bleach.
Every sense sharpened. He moved silently, each step measured, the creak of worn treads avoided without thought upto the third floor. He knew the pattern of her steps on those stairs by heart already, now he made his own.
At her door, he pressed his hand flat against the wood. Light glowed faintly at the edges, a quiet hum of life within. Jonas’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to do this like a ghost in the night. He didn’t want to terrify her. But better terrified in his hands than vanished into the back of a black van. Pulling a mask over his head, he wondered for a split second if he should let her see his face, but his training overrode his doubt as he settled the black fabric against his skin. He fought the memories of his own kidnapping as he breathed through the fibres before changing his mind and yanking it off.
He picked the lock quickly, the pins yielding with barely a whisper.
Inside.
Her flat smelled faintly of lavender and citrus, undercut with something sweeter, fruit, maybe, from the drink she’d left on the counter. His gaze flicked over everything in seconds: the folded blanket on the sofa, the stack of books on the table, the towel still damp where she’d hung it. Details that shouldn’t matter but pressed into him anyway, intimate as a fingerprint.
