Clariss woke up screaming.
Again.
Her body jolted upright, fingers clawing at the thin hospital sheets as if they were restraints. Her breath came out in broken gasps, chest heaving violently, eyes wild and unfocused. The white ceiling above her blurred, lights splitting into painful streaks that made her squeeze her eyes shut.
"Miss Moonveil, please—calm down."
A nurse rushed to her side, followed quickly by another. One held her shoulders firmly but gently, the other already preparing a syringe.
"No—don't touch me!" Clariss shrieked, her voice hoarse, cracked raw from screaming too many times. "Get away from me! Don't—don't come near me!"
Her entire body trembled uncontrollably.
The doctor sighed softly, the kind of tired sigh that came from seeing the same scene repeat itself over and over again.
"She's having another severe panic episode," he said calmly. "Administer the sedative."
Clariss barely felt the prick of the needle before the familiar fog began to creep back into her mind. Her cries dissolved into sobs, then into whimpers, then into nothing at all as darkness swallowed her once more.
This had been happening for five days straight.
Every time she regained consciousness, terror greeted her first—sharp, merciless, overwhelming. She screamed until her throat burned, until her voice failed, until her mind could no longer tell the difference between memory and reality.
So the doctors sedated her.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the fifth day, even the nurses looked at her with pity.
Her parents found out on the fifth day.
The moment Mrs. Moonveil rushed into the public hospital room, the sight alone was enough to break her.
Clariss lay curled slightly on the narrow bed, skin pale to the point of translucence, dark shadows carved beneath her eyes. Her once immaculate hair was dull and tangled, her lips dry and cracked. She looked smaller. Fragile. Nothing like the proud, sharp-tongued woman who used to walk with her chin raised and her back straight.
"Oh, my baby…" Mrs. Moonveil sobbed, collapsing beside the bed and clutching Clariss's cold hands tightly. "What did they do to you? What happened to you?"
Clariss flinched at the sound of her mother's voice.
Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, unfocused at first. When recognition dawned, her lips trembled.
"M-Mom…?"
That single broken word shattered Mrs. Moonveil completely.
She cried harder, pressing Clariss's hand to her cheek as if grounding herself through touch. "I'm here. I'm here now. Daddy's here too."
Mr. Moonveil stood a step behind, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His eyes were red—not from tears, but from fury. A fury so intense it radiated off him in waves.
"Who did this?" he demanded, voice shaking with restrained rage. "Tell me who dared touch my daughter."
Clariss's heart slammed violently against her ribs.
Her breath hitched.
Images flashed unbidden in her mind—darkness, laughter, cold voices, footsteps echoing away, fear crawling under her skin like something alive.
And then—
A calm, cold voice.
I warned you not to touch her.
Clariss sucked in a sharp breath, her hands trembling.
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
She couldn't.
She couldn't say his name.
Because she knew.
One word.
Just one word from Damian Sinclair—and the Moonveil family would not only lose their business.
They would disappear.
"I… I don't know," she whispered finally, her voice barely audible. "I didn't see them clearly."
It was a lie.
Her father's expression darkened further. "I swear," he said slowly, venom dripping from every word, "I will find them. Whoever did this. I will make them pay."
Clariss squeezed her eyes shut.
You won't, she thought bitterly. You can't.
And she said nothing.
Clariss stayed in the hospital two more days after her parents arrived.
Even with them there, her condition didn't improve much. She barely ate. She startled at sudden sounds. She couldn't sleep unless heavily medicated—and even then, her brows remained furrowed, as if she was fighting something even in her dreams.
When the doctors finally allowed her discharge, it was only because her parents insisted on taking her home, promising round-the-clock private care.
The Moonveil villa welcomed them back in silence.
Clariss was escorted to her room like a fragile porcelain doll. Every step drained her, her legs weak, her body heavy as if gravity itself had turned against her.
Once inside, she sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded tightly in her lap.
She looked… broken.
Her mother brushed her hair gently, tears threatening to spill again. "Rest, sweetheart. You're safe now."
Clariss nodded faintly.
But safety was a foreign concept now.
Because the danger hadn't ended.
It was branded into her memory.
That night, when the house finally fell quiet, the memories returned with brutal clarity.
The abandoned building.
The smell of dust and rust.
The cold chair beneath her.
Her wrists bound.
Her eyes covered.
She remembered voices—men she had hired herself, their tones casual, mocking. She had thought she was in control.
Until she wasn't.
Fear had wrapped around her throat like a vice as their laughter echoed in the dark, their words painting cruel pictures of what they wanted to do.
She remembered screaming.
Threatening.
Cursing.
She remembered grasping something sharp in desperation, the sting against her skin, the warmth of blood—just enough to make them hesitate.
Just enough.
Then chaos.
Angry voices.
Orders barked coldly.
She never saw Damian then.
But she heard him.
Or maybe she felt him.
Because everything stopped when his men intervened—not to save her out of mercy, but because of a single command.
She stays alive.
That was the cruellest part.
They didn't need to harm her further.
Fear alone was enough.
The darkness of the next room. No light. No sense of time. Small sounds. Scratching. Movement.
Her screams echoing back at her.
She didn't know how long she stayed there.
Only that when they finally returned, her body had already given up.
She woke up in a hospital.
Alive.
And utterly shattered.
Clariss pressed her palms against her temples, breathing unevenly.
"I didn't deserve that," she whispered hoarsely to the empty room.
Her nails dug into her skin.
"I didn't."
A notification sound broke the silence.
Clariss flinched violently, her heart racing as she fumbled for her phone.
A message.
From Kael.
Where are you? The report is overdue. My assistant said you haven't been in the office.
She stared at the screen.
No concern.
No question about her health.
Just work.
A hollow laugh bubbled up her throat—thin, broken.
"So that's all I am," she muttered bitterly. "Useful. Until I'm not."
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
And then—
Another thought surfaced.
One she had been avoiding.
Why did this happen?
The answer rose immediately, sharp and poisonous.
Because of Amara.
Her chest tightened.
If she hadn't tried to ruin Amara—
If she hadn't tried to humiliate her—
If she hadn't wanted to destroy her—
This would never have happened.
The realization didn't bring guilt.
It brought rage.
Clariss's lips curled into a trembling snarl.
"That bitch," she whispered venomously. "This is your fault."
Her breathing grew erratic again, but this time it wasn't fear driving it.
It was hatred.
"You took everything from me," Clariss hissed into the darkness. "My pride. My control. My life."
Her hands clenched into fists.
"I won't forgive you."
Her eyes burned, no longer wet with tears—but with something darker.
"I will make you pay," she vowed quietly. "No matter how long it takes."
Outside her room, the villa remained calm and unaware.
But inside Clariss Moonveil—
A storm of vengeance was quietly gathering.