Clara is here because of me, and I’ll keep her safe no matter who I have to kill to ensure it.
***
Night settles heavy over the estate, but sleep won’t come. I sit alone in the study, lights dim, the quiet pressing against my skin. My laptop glows on the desk, the security feed from her room filling the screen.
Clara sits where she always does now, curled up by the window, knees drawn tight to her chest. Her hair falls over her cheek, half hiding her face from the camera. She looks tired. Not defeated, but stretched thin.
I watch as she leans forward and breathes against the glass, clouding it with a small circle of condensation. She lifts her hand and uses her fingertip to trace shapes in the mist. At first it looks random, idle movements. Then she hesitates and writes something slowly, deliberately.
I zoom the camera in, sharpening the image until the letters take shape.
Get me out.
Three words, clear and pleading.
For a long moment, I don’t move. Her finger lingers on the glass, as if she’s waiting for an answer. The words smudge, fading as the condensation disappears.
A hollow ache settles somewhere I thought was long dead. I try to tell myself she’s safe here—that if I let her leave, my rivals would destroy her or worse. I tell myself this is for her own good.
The image won’t leave me.
She’s not begging. She’s not falling apart. She’s trying—desperately—to hold on to hope. I’m the one erasing it, day by day.
A pulse of something almost like guilt flickers inside me, too sharp to ignore. I snap the laptop shut and lean back in my chair, pressing my palms to my eyes.
“You wanted the truth, little journalist. Now you’re living it.”
The words leave my mouth in a whisper, harsh and unsatisfying.
She wanted to know what the world is really like. I’m giving her the lesson she thought she was prepared for. Except as I sit in the dim glow of the study, watching her words fade into the darkness, I wonder whose lesson this truly is.
She’s safe from the world in here,I tell myself.
For the first time, I’m not sure if I’m protecting her from my enemies—or from myself.
Chapter Seven - Clara
I lose track of time within days. The lights in this room never match the sun outside. The curtains are heavy, always drawn. I try to push them aside on the second morning—at least, I think it’s morning—but the rods don’t budge.
The only light I have comes from a row of warm bulbs set into the ceiling, too soft to mark the hour, too steady to give me any sense of the world beyond these walls.
I try to keep myself busy. I wake and shower, pick through the clothes someone left neatly folded on the dresser—expensive, impersonal, none of it mine. I eat when food is delivered, though I stop counting meals after three or four. Hunger fades and comes back in waves.
Every so often, I find a new book left on the table. They’re well chosen, as if someone went out of their way to make sure I’d have something to do. Classics. Modern thrillers. Collections of poetry.
I tear through them too quickly at first, devouring words to fill the silence, but soon even the comfort of turning pages begins to blur into routine.
It’s the isolation that gets to me. No phone, no laptop, no news. No way to reach anyone or to prove to myself that the world outside these walls still exists.
Even when the housemaid arrives—always the same woman, silent and quick, her dark hair pulled into a tight braid—I can’t get her to speak to me. I try English, Spanish, even the few words of Russian I remember from college.
She ignores me with professional precision, gliding through the room as if I’m invisible. She dusts the bookshelves,folds the spare blanket, empties the trash, then leaves as quickly as she came, her gaze never meeting mine.
The first time, I yell after her, desperate for any acknowledgment, but she doesn’t even flinch. The second time, I don’t bother.
I pace the floor every morning, examining every inch of the room, looking for a way out. The windows are double-paned, reinforced, sealed shut. The balcony doors are heavy, locked with bolts too thick to tamper with. Even the doorknob is gone from the inside—only a blank plate of polished metal. I try anyway. I press my shoulder to the door, test the hinges, run my fingers over every groove and seam.
Nothing gives.
