(Clara's POV)
Silence was often mistaken for obedience.
But sometimes silence was a warning, the kind that tasted like smoke before fire. Lucas didn't know it yet, but mine was the second kind. He had expected me to shrink after the confrontation in front of Julien. He had expected me to react, argue, or break. That was the dynamic he understood: power and resistance, predator and prey.
Instead, I curled inward. I turned quiet, controlled and almost polite. Men like Lucas didn't know how to interpret that. At first, it might have amused him. Then, later it unsettled him. And now, I could feel it pressing against his walls like a cold draft. There is the realization that I was slipping somewhere he couldn't follow.
The morning after, I woke before the sun, such was rare for me. The sky outside my balcony window was still blue-black, painted with hints of gray. The kind of sky that felt like a held breath. I showered, dressed, braided my hair, and went downstairs to the kitchen. The house was always quiet at that hour, no servants rushing, no security radios buzzing. Just distant hums of appliances and the echo of my steps.
Martha was there, that head housekeeper who was older, with silver-streaked hair pulled back into a severe bun and eyes that had seen enough of the world to stop pretending surprise at its cruelty. She looked up from chopping vegetables when I entered.
"You're early," she said.
"So are you."
She hesitated, then nodded as if deciding something. She set down the knife and wiped her hands. "You didn't sleep," she observed. It wasn't an accusation, just an assessment.
"I slept," I said lightly. "Just not well."
Marta watched me for a heartbeat longer than comfortable.
"You're learning," she said.
My hand paused on the kettle. "Learning what?"
"How to be quiet without disappearing."
The words hit harder than they should have. I had spent years disappearing into hospitals, into debt, into survival. Being noticed was dangerous. Being noticed meant someone could want something from me. But Lucas was different.
He wanted control, not attention.
"Don't worry," I said, forcing a small smile. "I'm not planning a rebellion."
Martha didn't return the smile. "You can survive a tyrant," she said quietly. "You just need to know what kind of tyrant he is." I stared. "And what kind is Lucas?"
Her jaw tightened.
"That is not my place to say."
She turned back to the cutting board, ending the conversation. It should've felt useless, hidden and incomplete, but oddly it didn't. It felt like preparation.
After breakfast, Thomas, Damien's head of security, stopped at the side of the table as I finished my tea.
"Mrs. Thompson," he said politely, "we're heading into the city." l set my cup down slowly. "For what reason?"
"Mr. Thompson sent a list," Thomas replied, offering an envelope.
I didn't accept it. "You can tell me."
Thomas hesitated, then read from memory:
"Boutique fittings, jewelry consultation, and image coordination."
Image coordination. I tried not to laugh.
Even my appearance needed corporate scheduling. I followed Thomas through the corridor and into the waiting car. Once the doors shut, he checked his watch.
"We will visit the boutique first," he said. "They already have your measurements."
"My measurements?" He paused before responding, choosing words carefully.
"Mr. Thompson has… protocols."
Of course he did. The city blurred past the windows until the car turned toward a street lined with polished storefronts and minimalist signages, places that didn't need to spell out what they sold because their price tags did the talking. Thomas opened the door for me. I stepped onto the pavement and looked up at the boutique.
LAURENT HAUX.
The kind of place that didn't advertise because the people who mattered already knew. Inside, the air smelled like new fabric and old money. Two attendants stood waiting, all smiles and pearl earrings.
"Mrs. Thompson," one greeted, "welcome. We've prepared several selections."
Thomas stayed near the entrance, hands clasped behind him watching without interfering. The attendants led me through a curated maze of silk, satin, and tailored lines, pulling garments I didn't select, didn't request, didn't need.
"Try this," one said, draping an emerald dress over her arm. "It compliments his aesthetic nicely."
His aesthetic. Even clothes were chosen for how well they matched Lucas.
I said nothing as they ushered me into a fitting room, but my silence wasn't the obedient kind anymore, it was observation.
Control disguised as luxury was still control.
Dress after dress, heel after heel, bracelet after bracelet and through it all, I realized something important: Lucas didn't just own spaces. He curated appearances. He dictated narratives.
"Stunning," an attendant said, fastening a silver clasp at my waist. "Mr. Thompson will approve."
I stared at myself in the mirror, elegant, polished, unrecognizable. I didn't know the girl looking back, but Lucas would. He liked perfection he could claim, not imperfection he might have to understand. After an hour, we left with garment bags, jewelry cases, and a list of scheduled follow-ups. Nothing was paid for here. Everything would be invoiced, power didn't swipe cards. Once we reached the car again, I placed the garment bags beside me and said quietly:
"These weren't for me."
Thomas glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
"No," he admitted. "They were for him."
When we returned to the car, I asked casually, "Could we make one more stop?"
Thomas scanned the schedule on his phone. "Not on the list." "It won't take long."
He sighed, not annoyed, just tired.
"Where?"
"The bookstore on King's Row."
He hesitated.
One second. Two. Three.
"Five minutes," he said.
My heart tripped.
Sometimes survival came in tiny increments, five minutes at a time.
The bell chimed overhead when I stepped inside. The smell of old paper and ink wrapped around me, warm and familiar. The shelves were tall and uneven, crowded with secondhand titles and mismatched labels. A woman stood by the classics, sorting through books with practiced efficiency. She glanced up, assessed me with quick intelligence, then looked back at her stack.
"You're new," she said without pausing.
Her voice was calm, low, almost amused.
I blinked. "I don't usually get noticed."
She snorted softly. "You're noticed. You just walk like someone trying not to be remembered."
I froze.
Memory was dangerous.
I swallowed. "I don't belong here."
She shut a book and finally faced me.
Dark hair in a messy knot, rolled sleeves, sharp eyes.
"I'm Nina," she said. "And for the record, people who don't belong in places usually need them the most."
I didn't know how to respond.
She studied me a moment longer, then said, "Let me guess. That dull-looking man in the car outside is your handler." "He's not" I stopped. "He's security."
"Even worse."
I bit back a laugh not because it was funny, but because I wasn't used to people speaking without fear.
"Do you always analyze strangers?"
"Only the ones staring at the exit like they're being timed."
My cheeks heated.
She came closer and reached for a book behind me, not breaking eye contact. "You don't look like someone who needs rescuing."
"I don't."
"But you do look like someone who needs options."
My breath caught.
Nina slipped a folded receipt into my hand.
"Call if you need an option," she said casually. "Or a coffee. Wherever that security guy allows."
She turned away as if she hadn't just handed me an escape route.
I slipped the receipt into my coat and walked out.
Thomas didn't ask questions.
Good.
That night, dinner was steak, roasted vegetables, and tension so thick it was practically another dish on the table. Lucas glared at his phone long enough to ignore the food, the wine, and me until he suddenly wasn't ignoring anything at all.
His gaze lifted.
"You went to a bookstore today," he said.
Not a question.
My fork paused. "Yes."
"With Thomas."
"Yes."
Lucas set his phone down slowly, like a predator testing the wind.
"I didn't authorize it."
"It was five minutes."
His jaw flexed. "You don't decide where you go."
Something cold slid down my spine, but I kept my voice steady.
"You sent me into the city. I assumed that meant I could breathe."
"You assumed wrong."
A beat of silence stretched across the table.
Then he asked, "Did you speak to anyone?"
I blinked. "It's a bookstore."
"That isn't an answer."
I tasted iron, fear or fury, I wasn't sure.
"I asked the cashier where the poetry section was," I said flatly. "I didn't betray the empire, Lucas."
His eyes darkened not with anger, but with something more dangerous.
Possessiveness.
"You don't talk to strangers," he said.
A laugh escaped me, sharp and disbelieving. "I'm not your property."
His chair scraped against marble as he stood.
"Everything in my house is under my protection," he said. "Including you."
"That's not protection. That's possession."
His gaze flicked to the pale mark on my wrist where Julien had touched me days earlier.
"That's rich coming from you," he muttered.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you don't understand the consequences of letting men touch what isn't theirs."
Heat flooded my face. "I don't belong to you."
Lucas leaned down, eyes burning into mine.
"Then stop acting like it matters who touches you."
My breath hitched.
He waited for fear, for tears, for denial.
Instead, I looked him dead in the eye.
"You don't get to police my pulse, Lucas."
For a second, something flickered in his expression, confusion? amusement? frustration?
I couldn't tell.
He straightened. "Dinner is over."
And he left.
Not because he wanted distance.
But because he had lost control of the narrative and men like Lucas would rather retreat than appear uncertain.
The next day, I wandered the estate grounds, escorted at a distance by security, of course, and found a greenhouse tucked behind rows of trimmed hedges.
I pushed the door open and froze. An older woman tended roses, snipping dead petals and humming softly. She looked up.
"You're the new wife," she said.
Not unkind. Not impressed either.
"I have a name," I replied.
"That's a good start." She returned to her pruning. "Lucas forgets that sometimes."
"You know him."
She laughed softly. "Knowing Lucas is a full-time profession. I retired years ago."
"Who are you?"
She wiped her hands on her apron and offered one.
"Evelyn Thompson. His aunt."
I shook her hand. "Clara."
She studied me over her glasses. "You're quieter than his last choice."
"Last choice?"
Her smile was thin. "Lucas collects women the way he collects cars, expensive, impractical, and easily replaced."
I didn't know what to do with that kind of honesty.
"He doesn't love," Evelyn continued. "He hoards."
"He doesn't hoard me," I said.
She arched a brow. "Does he let you leave the house alone?"
Silence.
She nodded. "Exactly."
I watched her trim thorns off a rose stem.
"Why do you stay here?" I asked.
"Because leaving when you're unprepared is just another way of being trapped," she said. "Freedom isn't running. Freedom is choosing."
She handed me the thornless rose.
"Take your time," she said. "It's the only weapon you have that he doesn't expect."
That night, in my room, I sat on the carpet and pulled the folded receipt from my coat pocket.
Nina's handwriting stared back at me — a phone number and a single word beneath it.
Options.
I didn't call.
Not out of fear… but strategy.
Lucas would expect noise, defiance, screaming, ultimatums.
He wouldn't expect silence.
Silence made him uneasy.
Silence made him watch.
Silence made him jealous.
And before he realized it, silence would make me free.
I placed the receipt in my book and closed it.
Not yet.
But soon.