Clara
His lack of reaction is unnerving, and my finger trembles on the trigger. What is going on? It's as if he's been playing a game, and I've just made the move he's been waiting for.
"No, I won't live like that," I say, my voice firm as I try to stay in control. "I won't be a part of it anymore. It's time for the truth to come out. It's time to take responsibility for your actions and to make things right."
A mocking smirk tugs at his lips. "Oh? And what did you have in mind exactly?"
I take a deep breath. "Here's what's going to happen. We're going to call a press conference, and you're going to confess to everything. You're going to apologize for your actions, and you're going to promise to cooperate fully with any investigations."
His grin gets wider as if I'm in the middle of telling a joke. Yet I still continue. "And then we're going to start making amends. We're going to make sure that everyone who was affected by your actions is compensated."
He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that I immediately find annoying. "And if I don't? Are you going to shoot me? Your own father? And then expose everything yourself?"
Then I hear it. Faintly.
This time, the trip in the record is more pronounced.
"Why not? Seems like a good plan. And I'll finally get to show you my marksmanship." I say, without much thought. That's the problem with my ideas.
One...
He scoffs. "You really overestimate your position in this family and in my eyes. I never have and never will care about anything related to you." He says, and even though I knew it, it still makes my heart sink. "Since we're being so open right now, I think I'll put this on the table as well." Please, someone tell me my expression is neutral and hasn't faltered.
"You're nothing like Penelope. Except for the looks." He says and I almost drop the gun. My birth mother. I can't believe he's talking about her. "She was the most docile and innocent woman I had ever met. Easy to convince to act as a surrogate." He lifts up the mug to his lips, taking a sip while my arms start to grow tired.
Why is he saying all this?
Two...
"We thought you'd be like her—fragile and easy. Instead, you were loud, flawed, and inconvenient. I wanted you gone." The record player continues to spin, the needle gliding smoothly over the grooves of the record.
Don't let the words get to you.
Three...
"It was laughable how you thought you were trying hard to win our favor, when you were just doing the bare minimum. You were a talentless, unlovable, and stupid child who needed alot of help. And when you got that, you stood proudly like some kind of prodigy and expected us to be impressed." He smiles slyly. "You did do a good job in public, along with us, maintaining appearances. But I despised every second of it. Watching you, someone else's trash, pretend to be our family's treasure. But I still tolerated you for your mother."
Four...
"I'm willing to ignore your little outburst and let you keep living here if you continue being ignorant. You have everything people envy. Why throw it all away?" He says, calmly.
Five...
"About before," I take a deep breath. "I wasn't finished."
This is it. The final blow.
"You will also step down as acting CEO." I see his brow raise in confusion, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to process my words. "You never should have had this position in the first place. It wasn't meant to be yours."
He sucks in a deep breath, trying to calm the rage that's boiling up inside him. I smirk, seeing the resentment in my father's eyes.
And...six!
From my bag, I pull out the loaded X2 dart gun, pivot on my heel, and fire.
The dart cuts through the room, and I watch as Mom, who was standing near the weapons wall with her hand already grazing a rifle, freezes. Her face contorts in shock as she stares down at the dart now embedded in her shoulder.
She sways once, before her body slumps on the polished floor. At the same time, my pistol is snatched away from my hand and pointed at me.
My shabby heart tears into bits as my father, with a frustrated and cold glare, presses the trigger at me. Only to realize the gun was empty. He pulls the trigger again and again while clutching his phone in the other hand. Likely used it to text Mom.
...He was ready to kill me. I was never going to shoot him, but he didn't even hesitate.
Setting aside the emotions, I quickly climb over the desk, dig out a dart from my pocket, and stick it into his shoulder. He jerks, his muscles tensing on reflex, but it's already too late.
Normally, the chemicals don't knock you out that fast, but this was Steph's own concoction. I think when she gave me a bottle, she knew I'd be disregarding Alister's plans and going with him anyways. I only had three darts with that chemical. I failed to use one on Alexander since I couldn't differentiate them from the normal ones in the basement's dim lighting.
The pistol drops from his grip, clattering uselessly on the desk as he falls forward.
"It takes six steps to get from the door to the weapons wall." I murmur, crouched beside him now, whispering. "Always be aware of your surroundings. Block out unnecessary distractions. Concentrate on your goal." I smile as I touch his hand.
Did he really think I wouldn't focus on what he was trying to do the moment he turned on the music player? Did he think it would completely mask the sound of the lock opening and the steps?
"Thank you for those lessons. Even if they weren't for me." I whisper, and I scoot off the desk. Pulling out the velvet pouch, I turn off the recorder inside it.
And now… the final touch.
Reaching into the side pocket of my bag, my fingers curl around the pocketknife.
I flick the blade open and press the edge against the skin of my palm and grit my teeth as I draw it across in one swift, shallow stroke. It matches the glass cut on my other hand. A hiss of pain escapes me, but I don't stop.
I rub the blood on the edge of the table and clench my fist, letting it drip to the floor with a quiet patter. I then proceed to rub it in places on the floor where it'd be difficult to clean up.
Perfect. The scene is set.
It's official. I'm no longer Clara Austin anymore. Just Clara. I've thrown away that title that I so proudly cling to, along with everything else.
I run towards the door to the study. My eyes glance at the display of guns on the wall. Till now, I had been sneaking out pistols and dart guns from here. I need a big duffle bag to carry a large number of them along with enough ammunition. Since I won't be coming back.
I could ask Lily to do it later. Right now, my main priority is going into my room. And getting the heck out of here.
I stick my ear against the door and listen closely. Silence. Of course, if Mom intended to shoot me, she'd make sure no one was on this floor.
Still...
I step back from the door, inhale deeply, and close my eyes. A second later, my ability activates and my nails start glowing.
I crack the door open and peer into the hall.
Empty.
I slip out, moving with the kind of urgency that pretends to be calm but isn't. I shut the door behind me and lock it, sliding the spare key—the one I swapped from Mom—back under the door through the narrow gap at the bottom.
Once I make it to my room, my phone buzzes.
Alister.
Of course.
I stare at his name for a second, lips twitching into a dry smirk. Not now. I power off the phone and toss it into my pocket.
Let him wonder. Let him call. I have bigger things to deal with.
Looking around at the room, I can tell it was searched. Dad must have texted Mom to look through my room for the documents.
I approach my dresser and pull out my family artifact that had granted us years of success over happiness and contentment. The four-leaf clover bracelet that I had broken the night after I got kidnapped. It wasn't just metal that gave way—it was the scaffolding of our lives. I knew it would all come tumbling down. Maybe not that night, maybe not the next—but inevitability has a patience sharper than any blade. And it was like I'd stepped aboard a train I always knew would crash, yet waited for the wreck with quiet resignation.
A childish part of me thought breaking it would probably make them notice me. As if they'd been trapped under a spell of indifference, and shattering it would wake them. But nothing changed. Nothing except me realizing I don't belong here and that I'm done letting them decide what I'm worth.
Once I've finished packing everything I'll need, I swing my legs over the windowsill, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as I prepare to take my first step away from the only life I've ever known.
It's the only home I've ever known.
The moment Lev said those words, I thought I was looking at a mirror. I understood. I truly did. From the outside, it probably looks simple. Just leave. Walk away. Burn the bridges and never look back. But no one knows how deeply the roots go until you start to pull them out. Until you feel them tear.
Because home isn't just walls and furniture—it's habits, routines, and stories you've told yourself for so long, you forgot they were lies. So when letting go feels impossible, when walking away feels like cutting off your own limbs—you try something different.
You rewrite the story. Come up with ways to have the cake and eat it too