Clara didn't recognize the girl staring back at her in the mirror.
Her cheeks were sunken, her lips pale, her usually bright hazel eyes swollen and rimmed with red. She looked like a ghost or just a shadow drifting between grief and exhaustion. It had been only a few days since the funeral and I must say that -wasn't a funeral without bodies, without closure, without goodbye and her body felt like it had aged ten years.
She pulled her robe tighter around herself as she stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom she had grown up in. The room felt different now… quieter, colder, hollow. Every photo frame, every trophy, every childhood memory seemed to whisper gone.
She didn't hear the door open until a voice broke through the intense thought in her head.
"Good morning, Princess Clara," Mrs. Sharon said softly.
Clara lifted her head. The older woman's voice had always been warm, teasing even when Clara was small and refused to eat vegetables or sneaked cookies at midnight. Mrs Sharon had practically raised her. She was the one who brushed her hair before school, the one who scolded her when she climbed trees in dresses, the one who kissed her scraped knees better.
Today, that warm voice cracked, like her heart couldn't bear what she was seeing.
"You haven't eaten anything since the funeral," she murmured, stepping closer. "What would you like this morning? I'll make anything. Just name it."My beautiful princess .
Clara swallowed hard. Her voice felt buried somewhere under all the sorrow.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I'm not hungry."
Mrs. Sharon shook her head gently. "That's not good enough, sweetheart. Mr. Langford treated me like a sister, not an employee. And your mother—oh, your mother…" She placed a trembling hand on her chest. "She had the brightest soul. Always cheerful, always singing while she cooked on special occasions, always thanking me for every little thing. And little Liam…" Her eyes glossed with tears. "He reminded me so much of my Louis. That boy could make me laugh even on my worst day."
Clara felt her throat close. Just hearing their names made her chest ache.
Mrs. Sharon reached forward and pulled her into a hug. Clara collapsed into her arms, burying her face in the familiar smell of lavender and vanilla. She hadn't realized how much she needed the warmth until tears flooded out, silently soaking the woman's shirt.
"I'm here for you," Mrs. Sharon whispered, rubbing her back. "Always."
"Thank you," Clara sniffed. "I just… I don't feel like eating. Not yet. But… maybe later. Could you make my favourite?"
Mrs. Sharon gave a small nod and cupped Clara's cheek. "Of course. Anything for you my darling"
She left quietly, closing the door with the softest click.
Clara sank onto her bed, clutching the small stuffed dog Liam had won for her at a fair two years ago. The bed dipped under her weight, and her breath shook as she stared around the room. Wishing it was just all a bad dream.
Everything hurt.
Hours passed. She didn't move.
Not until angry voices echoed from downstairs.
At first she thought she was imagining it. But then the footsteps came heavy, impatient, unfamiliar. The sound froze her blood.
She stood and hurried to the railing.
Men in suits. Women with clipboards. Boxes. Cameras. Bank logos. Auction stickers.
No… no,please God not today.
A man in a navy suit shouted orders. "Tag everything. Anything of value goes to the main auction floor by five."
Clara raced down the stairs.
"What are you doing in my home?" she demanded, voice trembling.
The man didn't look up from his clipboard. "Miss Langford. Everything in this house is now the bank's property."
"No," she whispered. "No, that's not right. This ,this is my home. My family's home."
Another woman, younger, adjusted her glasses. "I'm sorry ma'am but the debts your father owed"
"Don't talk about my father like he's… like he's…" Her voice broke.
The woman softened slightly. "Miss Langford… we really are sorry. But the debt is massive. All assets must be liquidated."
Before Clara could respond, strangers began touching everything.
Her mother's beloved piano.
Her father's antique desk.
Liam's video game console still covered with his fingerprints.
Family portraits taken off the walls.
Liam's tiny shoes being tossed into a donation pile.
Her mother's perfume collection boxed without care.
Her father's personal letters opened and discarded.
It felt like someone was ripping her soul out piece by piece.
"No! Stop!" she cried, pushing through the crowd. "Don't touch that! That's Liam's ,please ,please don't—"
A woman from the bank placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Miss Langford, everything must go. I'm truly sorry."
Clara felt her knees give out.She almost collapsed
The world blurred. Her chest felt tight, too tight. She couldn't breathe.
Hands caught her.
Mrs Sharon,Mr Santiago. And two other house staff rushed to her.
"Miss Clara," Mr. Santiago said gently, helping her stand. His old eyes were full of sorrow. "Your father was a good man. But there's nothing more to be done."
Clara looked around at all the people men who served her family for years, cooks who made her breakfast every morning, maids who folded her clothes with love, gardeners who kept the roses blooming. Their faces were heavy with sympathy… and something else.
Defeat.
I'm so sorry," Clara whispered, wiping tears with the back of her shaking hand. "I can't… I can't pay you anymore. I can't keep any of you employed."
The workers nodded silently. Some cried. Some hugged her tightly. They didn't care about the job—they cared about her. They cared about her family.
But life didn't care about any of them.
Life had shredded everything without warning.
The auction lasted all day.
Clara felt sick as wealthy strangers people who never cared for her father, who never met her brother, who knew nothing about her mother wandered through the house, pointing at furniture and family heirlooms.
"We'll take this."
"What's the starting bid for that piano?"
"Is that the Langford dining set? I heard it's worth a fortune." How much does it cost sir ????
Every word stabbed her.
By sunset, her childhood home was nearly empty.
When the last buyer left, Mrs. Sharon approached her gently.
"They took the penthouse too," she murmured. "You have nowhere to stay tonight, sweetheart."
Clara nodded weakly. She had expected it. But hearing it out loud still sliced her heart clean open.
"You can come stay with me," Mrs. Sharon continued quickly. "At least until you figure out your next step. My home is tiny, but it's warm, and you'll never be alone."
Mr. Santiago stepped forward, removing his cap with trembling fingers.
"I saved some money," he said awkwardly. "Please… take it. For emergencies."
Clara shook her head. "No, Mr. Santiago, I can't accept this.
"It's not charity," he insisted. "It's gratitude. For your father. For everything he did for my family."
He pressed the money into her hand.
Clara burst into tears again.
Everyone gathered around her—people who weren't her blood, but who loved her as fiercely as any family could.
But love didn't change reality.
Clara Langford, once the golden girl of New York, was now nothing more than a wounded, broke orphan with a future she could no longer predict.
She straightened slowly, wiping her tears, standing tall despite the shaking of her hands.
Life had taken everything from her—her family, her home, her financial security, her childhood.
Now she had only one choice. Wipe out those tears from her eyes and become the lady her parents would be proud of.
Survive.
Move forward.
Rebuild.
Even if it killed her.