Clara
I wake to the sharp bite of cold air rushing past my face with a gasp so violent it feels like my lungs are tearing apart. My heart hammers against my ribs as if it's trying to break free.
I blink rapidly when I realize—I'm not in my bed.
I'm falling.
My body tips forward, one leg already out the window, as if stepping into the storm. The cold wind lashes at my skin, and the rain needles through my soaked pajamas. The storm outside rages, the wind shrieking and howling through the trees, their branches snapping like tortured limbs.
I can see the lawn below, the wet grass swaying. It's so much closer now, the ground, as gravity pulls me. My last foothold—bare and slipping on the rain-slick sill—threatens to give way.
My arms flail instinctively, desperate for something to hold onto as the last of my stability is about to break. My fingers snap forward, and I reach for the curtain billowing in the wind. It gives a slight jerk as it supports my weight, but it holds, just barely.
My knuckles whiten around the thick material as I hang there, suspended.
Snap.
One of the rings at the top rips free from the curtain rod with a horrible metallic ping.
No. No, no, no.
My leg slips dangerously as I pull myself back from the brink, every muscle in my body straining to hold on.
Snap.
Another ring rips free.
The curtain sinks, and I drop lower, a strangled cry ripping from my throat. For one horrifying moment, I feel my grip slipping.
"Damnit..."
I twist, digging my arms into the fabric, clutching higher up. My leg finally makes contact with the wooden floorboard. I jerk back, almost falling forward, but I pull myself up, my body slumping against the window frame as I pant heavily.
Still shaking, I reach up and close the window. My knees give out, and I sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself, shivering uncontrollably.
The room is silent now—except for the rain battering the window and the distant roll of thunder.
What just happened?
The window—it was open. I had locked it and drawn the curtains before going to bed.
I reach up and dig my nails into my scalp, as if the pressure will help me think straight.
Was I sleepwalking?
It doesn't feel like the stories. This wasn't wandering into the kitchen or mumbling nonsense in the hallway. I unlocked a window. I climbed through it.
This is getting out of hand.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling the gem pulse along with my heartbeat.
I'm slowly losing control of my body. My nightmares are slipping into my reality.
I sit there a moment longer, trying to calm down. Then I push myself up and look at the clock.
3:04 a.m.
It's still the dead of night. Still hours before anyone else wakes up. Still hours of darkness, hours where I'm left alone—with whatever this is.
I swallow hard.
Is this going to happen every time I fall asleep now?
The nightmares were already bad enough. But this is worse. If the dreams made me afraid to sleep, now I'll be too terrified to even close my eyes. I'll have to stay awake—stab my own thigh if I have to, just to stay conscious. Just to keep myself from climbing out the window like some possessed doll.
I sigh and look around the room.
Fine. I can do this. I can stay awake. I've done it before. I'll watch a movie, write the next chapter of my story, maybe even study—something to keep my eyes open.
But...the heaviness behind my eyelids is already starting to drag at me. I know I'll fall asleep any minute now. I feel it, clawing through the edges of my thoughts.
Arms tight around my ribs as I walk into the bathroom and twist the hot water on in the tub. Letting it fill, I turn away and head inside the walk-in closet.
I find a long purple scarf. Giving it a few sharp tugs, I stretch it out, making sure it won't tear. If it snaps in the middle of the night after I tie my wrist to the bed, it's useless.
I then cross the room to my desk, rummaging the drawers until I find it.
Glue and thumbtacks.
I carry them to the window, smear a thick line of glue onto the latch, and press the tacks on it. Then I drop the rest onto the floor near the window.
If I try to open it again, if I move toward it in my sleep, if I forget who I am and what I'm doing—this will wake me up.
It's stupid and desperate and probably pointless.
But right now, it's all I have.
♡...........💙...........♡
Who knew that hours later, when the sun was up, a different kind of storm would be brewing?
I drag the brush through my hair, taming each strand like it owes me something. My lipstick complimented the black dress clinging to my frame. Somber enough to respect the occasion.
Just because I was in mourning didn't mean I had to look miserable. Especially not for him.
Daniel died last night.
The news, while shocking, it felt less like a tragedy.
He was found overdosed at a construction site, slumped against a wall with drug packets scattered around him. Same kind of packets were conveniently found later in his bedroom too. It was tragic enough to inspire some sympathy, but tainted enough to bury him in disgrace.
According to witnesses, he was last seen drunk off his mind at a bar an hour before, stumbling over his own feet, saying he was going to meet some girl.
It was humiliating. A stain on the family name.
But—fortunate for them—a piece of cloth was all it took to shift the narrative.
Maria's ribbon was found near the body. And since she didn't have a solid alibi that night, and since she'd been seen getting close to him lately, it didn't take long for my family to seize the moment. According to them, she'd been having an affair. She murdered him in a jealous rage—drugged him, overdosed him, and planted the rest of the drugs in his room to make it look like a junkie's accident.
And just like that, the story changed.
I can already see the path my father's paving. It'll take time—some paperwork, some pressure—but I have no doubt the investigation will quickly end the way he wants it to. It always does.
But power can only silence headlines, not curiosity.
People talk. They trade rumors like currency. The whispers twist into stories. Stories become truths. And no matter what the papers say, people will keep asking questions.
The door opens, and Lily enters, holding an orange bottle. She tells everyone it's homemade juice, but I know it's the alcohol she took from the kitchen shelf.
"It's done." She says, leaning by the wall and taking a swing of her drink.
I can see why he keeps this greedy person around. She is good at her job.
Alister...
I had plenty to say to him—but at the same time, nothing at all. I got the location of the house we were supposed to go to. Another city, just over an hour's drive. I told him to give me a little time to come up with a plan to slip out. It wasn't exactly easy, not with everything going on around here. And that jerk? He had the nerve to just ask for the address, saying he'd go alone.
I never wrote back.
The sheer audacity of him. Acting like I'm the one being difficult when this entire situation is his fault to begin with.
"Lily. Tell me. Was Daniel really doing drugs?" I ask her as I close the wooden box.
She shrugs. "How would I know? If that's what it says, then it must be true."
"Of course you know." I say, studying her movement. "You're the one who planted the drugs and even handed some to Alister. That's what he used to kill him, making sure he dies and is remembered in a disgraceful way."
She blinks at me before looking away uncomfortably. "I didn't plant anything, kid. He really was doing drugs." And then takes a long sip to avoid continuing.
Well, I figured as much, but I just needed her to confirm it was Alister's doing. Using Daniel's secret to his advantage.
As if I wouldn't know this was his handiwork. A drug addict dying by overdose? And a sadistic maid getting tangled up due to her affairs? What poetic justice. Either he thinks I'm too stupid to see clearly, or he knows that I know but just doesn't care as long as he gets to murder people.
I told him not to interfere. I should hate him for it. For killing a family member. For ruining their reputation. But...I don't.
Does it make me a bad person? That all I felt was relief when I heard the news? Does it make me seem inhuman when I feel satisfied with how he died and how his secrets came to life? He probably didn't deserve it, but I can't help not caring about it.
I should probably yell at him or something. Make it seem like I'm upset over this ordeal instead of the sick feeling of gratitude inside me that makes me think I've lost my humanity.
He was right about one thing...I AM hypocritical.
As I walk out of the room, she follows behind.
"Is Uncle home yet?" I whisper as I move downstairs. Although I probably don't need to, as everyone is asleep. The sleeping pills I had Lily add to their food finally took effect. But one person wasn't at home.
"No. He's still nowhere to be seen." She answers.
There was no tall figure hovering protectively beside my aunt when the investigators were here.
And that was a problem.
The father of the deceased is expected to be here, taking care of stuff. His absence draws attention. Makes people talk. Sure, they'll whisper that he's too heartbroken to face the crowd, but that excuse wears thin quickly. In a family like ours, silence is never neutral. It's suspicious and weak.
As I walk to the kitchen, I can hear the other maids chatting in the dining hall.
"Didn't he die of overdose? I heard he was a drug addict."
"From what I've heard, he was framed and murdered. By Maria!"
"I know someone at the station, and he said they found an accessory of hers on the body. Says she was having an affair."
"Seems like it. Something must have happened between them, and she killed him."
"I don't believe it. Why would she do that? The police found drugs hidden in his room and his fingerprints on the syringe. He clearly overdosed himself."
No matter what side people take, his reputation is ruined. This is what Alister wanted.
Just what in the world happened to that sweet boy I saw in the drawing? His sister isn't like him at all, and his mother is nice, so I can't blame it on family. These Wyatt siblings couldn't be more different. Alister walks into a room like he owns the place, while, Nora… she practically apologizes for existing.
"Say, you've been working with Alister for a long time, right? Do you have any idea why he's like this?" I ask as I reach for ceramic mugs in the cupboard above us and instant coffee.
The woman takes a deep breath and stares at the bottle in hand, thinking deeply. "Well… from what I've heard, I'd say he changed after he got kidnapped for two months when he was a kid."
The spoon mixing the drink stills in my hand.
"Kidnapped?" I repeat.
She nods. "I've seen his old pictures. He seemed like such a timid and gentle child."
I lift the mugs carefully, steam curling around my fingers as I walk out the kitchen.
Timid. The word tastes foreign when paired with Alister.
I remember the flower field—the way he broke down. A frightened, haunted boy trapped in a body that had grown up without healing.
He said the hallucinations were from his past.
Unpleasant things, he had said. Maybe those are the memories clawing their way back up. Whatever happened during those two months didn't just change him… It forged him. Hardened him.
Turned him into what he is now.
I give Lily further instructions before walking out of the house.
The air is cool, damp, and laced with the aftermath of last night's storm. The sky is the color of wet slate, thick with clouds that threaten to weep again.
The houses around me wear the storm's remnants like a second skin—rooftops glistening, gutters still dripping, yards littered with wind-scattered leaves and petals that cling to the pavement. I walk, careful not to slip on the slick patches where the rain pooled overnight.
I know where Uncle is. Where he usually drifts off to when he stays over at our house. When things get too loud.
A park a few streets away, next to a cafe and an overgrown hedge. There's a bench there that overlooks a duck pond and catches the morning light just right when the clouds part. Uncle likes to sit there and reminisce.
It's a coward's kind of peace. Our peace.
Someone ought to drag him back into the light, force him to play his part like the rest of us. He doesn't get to vanish just because it's hard. Not when there will be guests coming over soon with their empty condolences.
As I pass by the café on the corner—its windows fogged, the smell of espresso and rain mingling in the air—my heel catches on a raised crack in the pavement.
Just as I'm about to fall over, an arm slides around my waist, preventing me from hitting the ground. As I'm helped back to my feet, the coffee jolts in my hand, a few warm droplets splashing dangerously near the rim.
"I'm sorry—did I spill any on you?" I ask in a rush as I glance down at the stranger's sleeve.
But then I look up.
And the words stall in my throat.
He's beautiful.
Like...something out of a fairytale. Pretty golden hair. Green eyes, like a spring forest after rain. And he's wearing a tailored suit—dark charcoal with a shiny gold silk tie.
He flicks an invisible speck of dust away from his sleeve. "Not a stain in sight." He says, voice smooth as butter, before his eyes glint with mischief. "Though if you were hoping to leave an impression, there are easier ways."
I scoff. "Right. Because tripping on the sidewalk was all part of my master plan."
He chuckles. "Well, if it wasn't, I suggest you keep it. Very effective."
And he's a smooth talker...great.
My gaze drifts to something gold tucked neatly into his coat pocket. His eyes track mine, the amusement in them deepening.
"Ah." He says, pulling out what appears to be a pocket watch, letting it dangle from a delicate chain after he opens it.
It's gorgeous. Filigree carved into the casing, delicate hands ticking across an ivory face.
"Caught your eye, did it?" He asks, watching me more than the watch. "Interested?"
I shake my head. "Not really. But I have a friend who's obsessed with stuff like that. He'd probably faint if he saw this."
"Then it's a good thing your friend with good taste isn't here." He smirks. "Fainting's a lot harder to catch than tripping."
"You probably shouldn't carry that thing out in the open. Someone could snatch it."
His grin widens, something sly behind it. "Oh? And were you planning to?"
I shoot him a flat look. "Of course not!"
"Pity." He murmurs, tucking the watch back into his pocket. "I might've let you get away with it. What's your name, by the way?"
"Sarah." I lie as easy as breathing.
He smirks but doesn't question it as his gaze moves downward.
"That's pretty." He says, gesturing toward my neck.
I glance down quickly, heart skipping a beat. For a split second, I think he's talking about the gem—peeking from the neckline. But he's pointing to my necklace. The old heart-shaped one with the faded chain.
"Uh, thanks."
He tilts his head, his voice lowering to a murmur. "Though I think it's the woman wearing it that really makes it stand out."
"Arthur!"
The voice cuts through the air, and I look up to see a man across the street in front of the cafe, standing with two cups of coffee in hand. His sharp eyes glare at us with mild annoyance.
Arthur, the man in front of me, lets out a dramatic sigh, his hand slipping back into his pocket as he turns to face the caller.
"Unfortunately, duty calls." He says, his tone laced with a feigned disappointment. "It was a pleasure, though."
He raises a lazy hand in greeting as he walks over to him.
"Flirting again?" the older man calls out.
Arthur exhales, shaking his head in mock resignation. "Would you believe me if I said I was simply being a gentleman?"
The older man snorted. "Not even for a second."
He smirks at the exchange, but his gaze flickers back to me with that familiar, confident look. "Try not to trip again, sweetheart. Next time, I might not be around to save you."
A wink punctuates the line before he quickens the pace.
Creep. Handsome, yes. But still a creep. The kind that can talk his way out of anything and leave you questioning what just happened.
I continue towards the park. My gaze settles on the figure sitting on the weathered bench, his head bowed low.
I stop for a moment, watching him as he stays there, wrapped in his own misery. I walk up slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. "Everyone was looking for you."
His head jerks up at the sound of my voice, his eyes bloodshot. He lets out a long, irritated sigh, his face pinched with exhaustion.
I innocently offer him one of the mugs I've been holding, the one I'd brought all the way from home. He looks at it, his eyebrow quirking up in mild disbelief.
"You carried these from home, even though there's a cafe right here?" He asks, slightly amused.
He still takes it, though.
I sit down beside him, and I try to ignore the sting of old wounds. There was a time when I would crawl away after punishments, lock myself in small spaces, and sob until I couldn't breathe. But if Uncle found me, he'd always take me out here, to this very bench, and we'd drink his homemade instant coffee together. The cafe was always within reach, but we never went in. Instead, we'd sit, and he'd keep asking me what was wrong.
Till this day I'm not sure he asked because he was worried or because he wanted to get some dirt on my parents.
"Too old now to remember drinking these together?"
He smiles tiredly and we take a sip.
It's awful. Truly, it's the worst thing I've ever tasted. I spit it out almost immediately, the taste lingering on my tongue like stale cardboard.
"It's gross." I say, making a childish face. Were those packets expired?
He takes another sip, as though he's savoring it.
"Don't drink it! It's awful."
But he just swallows. "It's the first time my niece's made me a drink. No way am I going to throw it away."
In my uncle's eyes, I will forever be his innocent little niece. I try hard not make him think of me as anything else, since this makes him easier to convince.
He sits quiet for a moment, staring at the gray-blue sprawl of the park. "You're a good kid, you know that?"
A good kid? That's not what I am.
I lie, cheat, hurt, and steal. Heck, I even made Lily give everyone sleeping pills just so I could leave the house.
A good kid doesn't do that.
"I always wished Daniel would've been more like you." He says, exhaling like it's a confession.
My chest tightens.
"No matter how many second chances, no matter how many times I tried to get him to fix his ways… he never yielded. Not even sending him away fixed anything." His voice cracks at the end.
I've known this for years. Daniel hated me for it. Not because I was better, but because I looked better. Because I kept my head down and survived, while he fought and spiraled and ran. We were in the same prison—held to the same impossible standards. But where I learned to mold myself, he burned everything down trying to escape.
My uncle may be nice to me, but he's not a nice man. All that pressure, all that rage at not inheriting anything after our grandmother's absurd will... he unloaded it all on Daniel.
It also occurs to me that while he is pushing the story that the maid killed him. Deep down, he knows his son better than anyone. And knowing that, he is still letting Maria go to jail just so the family reputation doesn't get tained. He is an Austin afterall.
He drags a hand over his face. "I just keep thinking if I'd done things differently… maybe he'd..."
"Maybe he'd still find a way to screw things up. You did what you could." I shrug "Or...maybe he wanted to change?" I say quietly, even if I don't believe it. "And he just didn't know how."
My uncle lets out a long breath, nodding slowly.
Then my phone buzzes, and I glance down.
Everything is in order.
I slip it back into my pocket, turning to my uncle.
"How long are you planning on staying out here?"
That's when he looks at me. His eyes flick over my face like he's flipping through pages of a book he's read before but suddenly forgot the ending to.
"Ah." He says, chuckling. "You need something. That's why you came here alone."
I open my mouth, then close it again. Caught.
He shakes his head, more amused than offended. "Go on then, Clara. What is it? What do you want?"
He sees the hesitation flicker in my eyes.
"Come on now." He waves a hand, as if inviting me to confess. "If it's something your father would hate, I'd be delighted to help. And if it's not, well… I'll probably still say yes."
I chew my bottom lip. "I need to go for an important study session, so I won't be around when the guests arrive."
"Did you ask your mother?"
"I texted her, and she said yes. But I don't know. What if people say something about me not being there?" I reply, trying to look as worried as possible.
While I had Lily send a text from my mom's phone agreeing to this, Mom won't remember anything once she wakes up. I need to tell someone about this so they can cover for me. And to make sure my absence doesn't cause a problem for me later.
"Relax. I'll...head back in after a while. I'll make sure no one badmouths you or causes you any trouble." He reassures me with a smile.
I smile brightly. "Thank you!"
As I start walking off, I glance back. He's still slumped on that bench, eyes skyward again, lost in whatever's left of himself.
I leave him there. Miserable.