Clara knocked... then knocked again. But silence was the only reply. Losing her patience, she pushed the door open, stepping into a sanctuary of charcoal grays and deep blacks. The office exuded a suffocatingly masculine aura; an elegant gray sofa, shelves burdened with thick scientific volumes, and an ebony desk topped with a laptop, scattered pens, and an open bottle of wine beside crystal glasses.
Her gaze shifted to him. He sat in his leather chair, wearing rectangular black-rimmed spectacles that made him look devastatingly handsome—and twice as dangerous. He was dressed in all black: loose athletic pants and a t-shirt that stretched tight across his powerful arms.
"Didn't they teach you to wait for permission after knocking?" His voice was a low, jagged rasp, cutting through the silence without him even looking up.
"I knocked several times," she retorted, trying to find her footing in the heavy atmosphere.
"And did I grant you leave to enter?" He finally looked up. His arrogance was palpable, a cold shroud of superiority.
"Does one ride in my car make you think we are friends now, little girl? Enough to barge into my private office?" He removed his glasses slowly, staring at her down as he took a measured sip of his wine. His presence was overwhelming.
He surveyed her, his eyes lingering on how her simple dress hugged her soft, sculpted curves—the narrow waist and the gentle swell of her hips
Clara decided to meet his insolence with her own. "The last thing I'd ever want is to be friends with an old man like you.
I'm only here because you have something of mine.
He closed his laptop, eyeing her from head to toe. "Something of yours..?"
"My manuscript. I left it in your car. Just give me the keys, I'll get it and bring them back. I won't steal the car—I don't even know how to drive."
He let out a bored sigh, reached into a desk drawer, and pulled out a large white
notebook. "You mean... this."
Clara's world tilted. She hung her head, her face hidden behind her hair as a searing blush crept up her neck. All her borrowed courage vanished. The one thing she feared had happened: he had seen it.
"I need to save my daughter before she develops a bond with a perverted friend," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
He had read the first pages. And to her ultimate misfortune, those pages were filled with explicit, vivid descriptions of intimacy. Her secret world—the one she wrote without shame behind locked doors—was now exposed to the most arrogant man she had ever met.
"I'm not a pervert... and I didn't even write those lines," she stammered, her voice trembling with humiliation.
"Really?" He smirked, flipping to the second page and reading aloud in his deep, resonant voice: "(He stopped licking my core, whispering my name in a drunken haze: 'Clara...')
"Stop!!" she cried out, covering her face. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
"Give it back," she managed to say, her lips quivering. "I thought you were a gentleman who understood privacy. You had no right to read my personal things."
"I didn't actually read it," he said, putting his glasses back on with a taunting smile. "I opened the first page to see the title, but I felt like I had accidentally"
stumbled onto a pornographic site. "Stop being so foul," she whispered in, disgusted.
The smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a chilling, razor-sharp seriousness. "First, it's the truth, not foulness. Second, if you call me foul again, little girl... I will cut that tongue out."
Her eyes darted to the shelves beside her, landing on a copy of Vladimir Nabokov's 'Lolita', a classic known for its scandalous themes.
She pointed a trembling finger at it. "What about 'Lolita' on your shelf? Do you think that's religious material? What you have there is far worse than my manuscript."
"Nabokov is a sophisticated, grown man," he replied coldly. "Not a reckless teenager like you."
"I'm eighteen. I'm an adult, thank you very much."
He shook his head in mock pity. "What a shame. An eighteen-year-old girl who thinks the first synonym for love... is sex."
It's a desire within us all..." Clara said, her voice trembling but defiant. "At least I'm sane enough to keep it on paper. I haven't done any of it. And I never told you that I equate love with sex... had you read my recognized novels, you would have known better."
"Stop," he interrupted with a dismissive sigh, as if her very voice exhausted him. "You talk too much. Take your manuscript and get out."
She stared at him for a heartbeat, her eyes stinging with indignation. She snatched the notebook from his desk and bolted out of the house, running as if the mansion itself were chasing her. Her day had ended with the ultimate humiliation, a cruel twist to what had started so beautifully
When she reached home, the atmosphere was painfully familiar. Her father sat buried behind his magazine, while her mother was glued to her phone.
"Where were you?" her father asked, not bothering to look up.
"Retrieving a book from a classmate," she replied shortly. She knew better than to mention their neighbors; any mention of them would only trigger her father's bitter remarks.
"Don't go to sleep yet. Get ready for dinner," her mother chirped, her face lit with a predatory sort of excitement.
Clara frowned. "Dinner? How did you pull that off?
"I ran into Mrs. Elena at the fabric shop," her mother replied with a triumphant grin. "I greeted her and realized it was my golden chance to invite her over."
A cold knot formed in Clara's stomach. There was no way she was going down to that dinner. Not after what happened in the office, and certainly not while knowing her mother was capable of any illogical, embarrassing stunt just to rub shoulders with the wealthy.
Hours passed as Clara lay on her bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Usually, she would escape into a series or the depths of her novels, but today, her mind was crowded with images of the office and those biting words. She had no choice but to get ready; she slipped into a light brown dress paired with a dark brown cropped cardigan tied at the waist. After brushing her hair, she returned to her bed to wait, convinced that a man like Beth's father wouldn't waste his time on a simple neighbor's dinner.
.
.
.
In the mansion...:
"I'm not going anywhere. I have work to finish," Gabriel said, drying his hair with a towel after a shower.
"It's a matter of courtesy," Elena replied, putting on her earrings before the mirror. "They invited us; it would be shameful not to go. You are the head of this family."
"The head of the family in business, not in neighborly pleasantries," he answered coldly. Their relationship lacked the fire of passion; eighteen years of marriage had evolved into a "formal understanding." Elena loved him with silent sacrifice, but once she realized his heart was a fortress no one could breach, she retreated into formality, settling for a one-sided love.
"I meet her husband this morning... he winked at me flirtatiously," Elena lied, a desperate attempt to stir the stagnant waters of his jealousy. Gabriel knew she was lying, yet despite his coldness, he decided to play the role of the jealous husband; he didn't want to crush her pride any further.
He stepped out into the garden, lighting a cigarette. As he walked through the shadows, he spotted Beth by the pool taking selfies; she was wearing a tight-fitting dress with a daring neckline and high heels.
"What are you doing?" he asked, blowing smoke into the air.
"Nothing," she muttered, quickly locking her phone.
"What on earth are you wearing?" He scanned her from head to toe with chilling discipline.
"A dress..." she whispered, trembling with obedience.
"A dress?" he repeated with biting sarcasm. "Go upstairs and change out of that shit. This is a family dinner, not a nightclub."
She tried to protest, but his threatening glare sent her running inside in tears. Gabriel hated seeing her sad, but he saw her teenage recklessness as a looming danger; he believed his severity was the only leash keeping her from spiraling into madness.
.
.
Clara had no choice but to prepare herself and head down to the dinner table. She knew all too well that if she didn't, her father would drag her by her hair and force her down against her will.
So, she ignored what had happened with Beth's father and dressed in a formal red dress—not tight, but with a collar that slightly revealed her modest neckline—layered with a brown cardigan. In fact, these were her favorite colors; she loved brown and deep reddish-browns, even painting her nails to match.
Everyone was gathered around the dinner table in the living room downstairs, but she stayed in her room with the door locked, waiting until the very last second. Finally, she heard her mother's voice calling out: "Clara…! Come down… the dinner is getting cold!" It sounded more like a pre-camp dinner than a formal invitation, as her mother was the most formal person after her.
The stairs were in the middle of the living room. As she descended in her short-heeled Mary Janes, the room fell silent, and everyone turned to look at her.
The stares were varied. Her father didn't care for her appearance; he never commented on this style of clothing because he had been used to seeing her in silk dresses and cardigans since she was a child. Her mother smiled with pride, admiring her as usual; despite being greedy and exploitative, she was still a mother who loved her daughter in her own way.
Then there was Elena, who secretly wished she had a son to marry off to Clara. It was her first time seeing her, and she noticed how Clara's grace and movements were entirely different from any of her daughter's friends. Beth was on her phone, texting her boyfriend, indifferent. Toby, the little boy, had already started eating while everyone else was mesmerized by her beauty.
And finally... Him.
The moment he saw her, a ghost of memories rushed back. Her body, her feminine posture, her clothing, her hairstyle—even that shy, side smile. Although he didn't "admire" her like the others, he felt she looked hauntingly familiar, though he didn't pay it much mind yet.
"The dishes will get cold and you still haven't come down. What took you so long?" her mother asked with a gentle annoyance.
"I was looking for something," Clara answered tensely, heading toward her seat—which happened to be directly across from Gabriel. "Hello... everyone."
"She looks so much like you... beautiful just like you," Elena complimented Clara's mother, Alexandra.
"But she inherited the ugliness of the heart from her father..." Alexandra replied, winking at Elena. What a way to respond to a compliment.
"Your dress is beautiful... I would have worn something prettier if my father hadn't stopped me," Beth said with childish playfulness.
"The one you're wearing is also beautiful... everything suits you," Clara complimented her back kindly.
"I just threw this on randomly... basically, I don't have many dresses left. I'm waiting for summer to buy some beach dresses," Beth said, her eyes flickering between Clara and her phone.
"I'm also planning on buying some summer dresses. Not for summer specifically, but just dresses..."
Clara's mother intervened, seizing the chance to get closer to Beth's family. "Wonderful! Why don't you both go together? After all, you'll be spending the summer together anyway."
"Clara isn't going anywhere this summer," her father, Victor, said while eating from his plate. Gabriel and Elena looked at him in surprise.
"Why?" Elena asked.
"She has to work in the summer... instead of wasting time at beaches," Victor replied.
"Work? She's a young girl, why should she work in the summer instead of enjoying her vacation?" Elena asked, bewildered.
In that moment, Clara wished she had never come down. One of the things she hated most was her father embarrassing her in front of people, shutting her down, and stripping her of her rights.
"A young girl? She's 18... she's been working since she was 16," Victor said.
Gabriel remembered his sister. He stared at his plate, remembering how he had seen this scene before. His little sister, Sarah, was forced to work by their father, who then took everything she earned. Clara didn't just look like her; she shared the same fate with the same kind of father. He looked at Clara; her hands were trembling with tension for no apparent reason. Gabriel, though not social, was now intrigued because he saw Sarah in her.
"What's the point of her working? It's just a part of torturing her psyche," Elena said.
"The point of working? Money... though she sometimes spends it on makeup," Victor said provocatively.
Victor didn't understand why they saw her working as a negative thing. He didn't make her work to be responsible; he made her work so she could bring in money for him, making his life easier.
Beth chimed in: "Makeup? No need to buy it, Clara! I have so many unused products, you can take them..."
Instead of Clara being happy, she just stared at her plate. Her mother's face, however, lit up. "Makeup...? Bring it to me! Clara doesn't need it, she already has plenty," she said with childish excitement, just like Beth.
Gabriel watched. Every detail confirmed that Clara's life was a mirror of Sarah's. Even the mother—greedy for money and fashion. His mother had been the same; though wiser, she saw nothing but wealth.
The worst memory Gabriel held was his sister's death. He had changed completely since then. He was the only one who loved and cared for Sarah, seeing her as a child he wanted to protect. But at 15, she committed suicide. He was the first to see the blood from her eyes as she lay on the floor... he felt he had failed to shield her from a society that rejected her. She was his only goal, and since her death, life had lost its taste. Until now.