Time ceased to have meaning in the darkness. The stone walls of the cellar, damp and silent, gave no hint of morning or night, only the gnawing cold and the slow, consuming ache of hunger. Clara lay curled on the floor, her limbs trembling from weakness, her lips cracked and dry. The air was thick with the scent of dust and mildew, and her once-elegant black dress hung off her like a memory, frayed and stained. She had lost count of how many days had passed. Alex had made good on his promise to keep her hidden, forgotten. Food came rarely, a stale crust of bread or half-rotted fruit dropped through the narrow chute in the door. Sometimes, nothing came at all.
Clara no longer had the strength to scream, but she hadn't stopped planning. She watched for patterns, measured silences between steps, and waited for a mistake. And then, finally, it came.
A new young and nervous servant appeared late one night, the sound of keys jingling as the steel door creaked open. She carried a small tray of food: dry rice, a bit of broth, and water. Her eyes barely met hers. Maybe she hadn't been told the truth about the woman locked inside. Maybe she had doubts. That hesitation was all she needed.
As she bent to set the tray down, Clara mustered every ounce of strength she had left and lunged. Her elbow struck her shoulder hard enough to knock her off balance, and she grabbed the keys from his belt before he could recover. She didn't stop to think. Didn't look back. She sprinted up the stairs with legs that felt like jelly, clinging to walls for balance, her breath ragged in her throat. The estate was quiet and Alex must have been away or asleep, confident that his secret was buried.
Clara reached her bedroom, chest heaving, and flung open the cabinet of her wardrobe. Hidden behind old photo frames was a small wooden box wrapped in a silk scarf. Her hands shook as she pulled it out. Inside were the pieces of herself she hadn't let the world see, the photos of her parents and her as a child, faded birthday cards with his steady handwriting. And at the very bottom, her diary, leather-bound and worn, every page filled with the thoughts she hadn't dared speak aloud. She clutched the box to her chest, as if the memories alone could hold her together.
Slipping out through the main door, Clara ran. Her shoes were gone. The sharp gravel tore at her feet, but she didn't care. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, painting the world in ghostly hues of blue and gray as she stumbled through familiar streets. She didn't stop until she reached the place that had meant safety once, her elementary school. The building stood silent, forgotten, like her.
Clara sank down on the front steps, the wooden box still clutched tightly in her arms. Her body screamed with exhaustion, but her mind and her heart was wide awake. The memories rushed in like a tide.
She remembered the day she first met Liam and the secret crush she had for him since then. Tears slid down her cheeks. Her father's smile haunted her—warm, proud, always just a little tired from working too much but never too tired to check in with her daily. She could still hear his voice, still feel the weight of his hand on hers. And he was gone. Stolen from her. Poisoned by the man she had trusted. The man she had married.
Clara pressed her forehead to the edge of the wooden box, sobbing into the silence of the early morning. Grief burned through her like fire, but beneath it, something else was growing. It was fierce and unrelenting. A vow whispered from the depths of a broken soul.
"If I had another chance," she cried, voice shaking. "If I could live this life again… I would never make the same mistake. I would protect him. I would protect myself."
She didn't know if anyone would find her here. She didn't know if she would survive the morning.
*****
The call came in the middle of the night, breaking the silence in Liam Reynolds' room. Half-asleep, he reached for his phone, the screen casting a pale blue light on his face as he squinted at the unfamiliar number.
"Mr. Reynolds?" The voice on the other end was tight with urgency. "This is Principal Hartman from Willowridge Elementary. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, but—"
Liam sat up abruptly, the sheets pooling around his waist. "What's this about?"
There was a pause, then the principal's voice dropped, heavy with something Liam couldn't quite place. "It's Clara Harper. She was found unconscious outside the school, our security guard spotted her. She's at the hospital now, and... well, she was holding something. Something I think you should see."
Liam was already moving, his bare feet hitting the cold hardwood as he yanked open his closet. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
The hospital corridors stretched endlessly before him, their fluorescent lights humming like a swarm of insects. Liam's dress shoes clicked against the linoleum, each step faster than the last until he was nearly running, his heart pounding in time with the rhythm of his panic.
Principal Hartman met him outside the ICU, her face drawn. In her hands was a small wooden box,the kind meant for keepsakes, its surface worn smooth from years of handling.
"She was clutching this when they found her," the principal said softly, pressing it into Liam's hands. "I thought... given the contents, you should be the one to have it."
Liam's fingers trembled as he lifted the lid. There were a few photos of Clara with her parents when she was young. And at the very bottom, a leather-bound journal, its pages swollen with age.
Liam opened it to a random entry, dated nearly a decade ago:
"Saw Liam today. He doesn't remember me, of course. Why would he? To him, I'm just another face in the crowd. But to me... he's the most kind and caring boy. How I wish I can be his friend. l—"
His throat tightened. He never knew they were in the same Elementary School. He left and went overseas many years back and lost all these memories.. But Clara had carried it with her and she had built entire worlds around those few, fragile memories while he'd moved on without a second thought.
"Principal," Liam's voice cracked, "where is she now?"
The older woman's face crumpled. "By the time the ambulance arrived..." She didn't need to finish.
The box slipped from Liam's hands, spilling photos and papers across the hospital floor like scattered memories. He dropped to his knees, the weight of his grief pushing him down against the cold tiles.
She was gone.
And with her, all the words he'd never said, all the chances he'd never taken.
Liam stepped into the room and froze. Clara lay motionless in the center, her body covered by a white sheet. As it was pulled back, the antiseptic scent filled his lungs, but nothing prepared him for what he saw.
The woman before him barely resembled the Clara he knew. She looked fragile, her body thin and bruised, her face marked with cuts and swelling. Her wrists showed angry red marks, and fading bruises covered her arms. A deep gash split her lower lip, her cheek dark with bruising. Liam's breath caught as he stared, his chest tightening with pain and disbelief. What had she been through? The thought made his stomach turn. He reached out, but his hand stopped inches away. Tears blurred his vision as he whispered, "I'm so sorry, Clara." The weight of helplessness sank deep into his chest, leaving him empty.
*****
Rain poured in heavy, unforgiving sheets as Liam's car screeched to a stop outside Alex's mansion, tires slipping on the wet pavement. The storm had come suddenly, thunder rumbling like distant explosions, lightning flashing across the dark streets. Inside the car, Liam sat still for a moment, gripping the steering wheel tightly, his breath shaky and uneven. The events of the past few hours weighed on him like a crushing force, his chest tight with a grief so intense it felt like it could break him.
Clara was gone.
The words echoed in his skull, over and over, a nightmare he couldn't wake from.
And Alex was to blame.
Liam didn't bother with an umbrella as he stepped out into the deluge. The icy rain lashed at his face, soaking through his jacket, his shirt clinging to his skin like a second layer of grief. He barely felt it. His entire body burned with fury, every nerve alight with the memory of Clara's lifeless form in the hospital bed.
Liam went straight into Alex's mansion despite being stopped by the servants. Liam took the stairs two at a time, his pulse roaring in his ears, his muscles coiled tight with the need to act, to hurt, to make someone else feel even a fraction of the agony tearing through him. When he reached Alex's door, he didn't knock. He reared back and kicked it open with enough force to splinter the frame, the door slamming against the wall with a crash that shook the entire hallway.
Inside, Alex jolted upright from the messy bed, his body slick with sweat and breathing hard. Beside him, a woman with tousled hair and kiss-swollen lips hurried to pull the blanket over herself, eyes wide as the door burst open. The room stank of sex and whiskey, the air heavy with guilt and cheap perfume. An empty bottle lay tipped on the nightstand, its contents long gone.
Alex looked a mess, unshaven, flushed, and clearly not grieving. His bloodshot eyes met Liam's, blank for a second in a daze of alcohol and lust. Then recognition sank in, and his face shifted not with guilt, but with the stunned panic of someone caught red-handed.
Liam's rage boiled over.
"You killed her," he growled, his voice shaking with fury, his whole body tense and ready to explode. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, every muscle on edge. The air between them felt heavy, thick with the smell of whiskey and the sharp sting of blood from Alex's split lip.
Alex didn't even flinch. He lazily touched his mouth, looking at the blood on his fingers with mild interest before letting out a dry, humorless laugh that echoed through the room. "Seriously, Liam?" he said, his voice smug as he straightened his wrinkled shirt, still warm from the woman who had just been in his arms. Her cheap perfume clung to the air. "You really drove all the way here in the middle of a storm just for that?" He gave Liam a once-over, as if they were talking about something as minor as the weather.
Liam shook with anger, breathing hard, his chest burning. The image of Clara's lifeless face flashed in his mind. It took everything in him not to go to Alex again. "You were the last one with Clara," he said, voice low and sharp. "You knew—"
"Knew what?" Alex cut in smoothly, giving a careless shrug as he reached for his half-finished glass of whiskey. The ice clinked as he took a slow sip, his gaze locked on Liam. "She never let me touch her. Maybe I would've treated her better if she'd just let me fuck her." He swirled the drink, watching the amber liquid catch the light before adding coldly, "She made her choices."
The words hit Liam like a punch to the chest. He staggered slightly, stunned. He'd expected excuses, maybe even lies but not this. Not such heartless cruelty. Not the way Alex dismissed Clara's life like it meant nothing.
"You bastard," Liam whispered, his voice low and trembling with rage. The hatred in his eyes burned hot and deep, filling the space between them like fire.
Alex's lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach his dead eyes. "I know you were jealous of me. And I saw the way you looked at her. Am I right?" he asked, tilting his head with faux curiosity. "Nevermind, my aim was Harper Group anyway. Not her" His laugh was a short, sharp bark of sound. "Clara was beautiful, but she wasn't special."
Liam's fury exploded. Without thinking, he lunged at Alex with a roar but Alex was ready. He sidestepped easily and shoved Liam hard. Liam crashed into the glass coffee table, shards scattering across the floor. In the background, a woman's footsteps echoed as she ran from the room, heels clicking in panic.
Alex stood over him, his shadow falling across Liam like a dark cloud. He looked down with cold amusement. "You're pathetic," he scoffed, brushing off his sleeves. "Charging in here like some kind of hero." He leaned in close, the smell of cologne and whiskey thick between them. "She's dead, Liam. Nothing you do can change that."
The words hit harder than the fall. Liam's hands curled into fists against the broken glass, but the sting in his palms was nothing compared to the emptiness in his chest. Because as much as he hated it… Alex was right.
Clara was gone.
The man who should've cared the most, the one who promised to protect her, didn't even flinch. For a moment, Liam hesitated. The pain in Alex's voice, raw and unexpected, cut through his anger and left only emptiness behind. His fist shook at his side, torn between striking out and the bitter truth: nothing he did would bring Clara back.
With a final shove, Liam let go and turned away, trying to keep the grief from pulling him under.
"Stay away from the funeral," he said, his voice cold and sharp. "You don't deserve to be there."
Alex said nothing. He slid down the wall, face buried in his hands, shoulders trembling in silence as Liam walked out, the door slamming behind him.
*****
Liam Reynolds took full responsibility for arranging Clara Harper's funeral, handling every detail with quiet determination. He chose the flowers himself, white gardenias, their soft scent filling the small chapel. The service was simple, with only a few mourners present, the empty seats a painful reminder of how much more Clara had deserved. As the last piano note faded, a woman stepped toward him, her eyes red from crying but filled with a look Liam couldn't quite read.
"Liam," she said, her voice husky from crying. "I'm Emily. Clara's best friend." Liam nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
Emily studied him for a long moment before reaching into her purse and withdrawing a folded photograph. "I took this and I thought I would give it to her when the two of you got together one day… I didn't really like her choice of marrying Alex. " she said, handing it to him. The image showed Clara at university, standing beneath the arched doorway of the library, her gaze fixed on something or someone just out of frame. The longing in her expression was unmistakable.
"Do you have any idea," she said, her voice trembling with suppressed fury, "that Clara rejected the arranged marriage with you because she thought you should be with someone you truly love? She's so silly. She finally had a chance to be with you, and she walked away."
A tear slipped down Emily's cheek, but she didn't bother to wipe it away. "So she married Alex Grant instead. And that bastard—" Her voice broke. "He only wanted her family's wealth. After her father died and Alex showed his true colors, Clara's life became hell. She was kind, Liam. She didn't deserve any of this."
Liam's vision blurred. The chapel walls seemed to close in around him, the scent of gardenias suddenly suffocating.
That night, alone in his room, Liam couldn't sleep. He poured himself a drink, then another, but the alcohol did nothing to dull the ache in his chest. Memories of Clara flickered behind his eyelids like scenes from a half-remembered dream—her shy smile and her blushing in front of him, the quiet determination in her voice when she'd told him she couldn't marry him.
But he had let her slip away.
As the night deepened, Liam sank to his knees beside his bed, his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window. The city lights stretched out before him, glittering and indifferent. Somewhere out there, Clara was gone, and with her, all the possibilities of what might have been.
He didn't pray often, but he did with desperate, wordless pleas to a universe that had already made its cruelty abundantly clear. Let me see her one more time. Let me—
But the silence that answered him was absolute.
Clara was gone and no amount of wishing could bring her back.