( Clara's POV)
Not yet.
But soon.
The words hummed in my mind as I lay on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was silent, except for the distant ticking of the clock, each second a reminder that I was trapped inside a gilded cage I couldn't escape. Not yet. But soon.
The memory of Lucas's glare at dinner replayed in vivid detail the way his eyes had darkened when he realized I had spoken to a stranger, the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity of his possessiveness that didn't disguise itself as care. That single glance carried the weight of fifty million dollars, the price my father had paid for me, the contract that bound my existence to his whims. I pressed the pillow to my face, inhaling the scent of linen and faint perfume. For a moment, I imagined what freedom would feel like, the open streets, the ability to walk without being timed or measured, the absence of guards or schedules. But those were fantasies, distant and fragile, like glass in sunlight. Not yet. But soon.
Morning arrived reluctantly, the sky a soft gray that threatened rain. I dressed quickly in muted colors, jeans and a simple blouse, deliberately plain, because even a hint of attention could be dangerous in Lucas's orbit. The door code beeped; Thomas's signal and I stiffened. I was to meet him in the corridor.
"Mrs. Thompson," Thomas greeted without expression. "Mr. Thompson requests your presence in the east lounge."
I nodded. "Is he waiting?"
"Yes," Thomas replied, his hands folded behind him as he led the way.
The mansion had already begun its daily rhythm. Staff moved like shadows, whispering to one another in the corners, wheels of carts rolling on polished floors, doors opening and closing with mechanical precision. Every sound was a reminder of the invisible boundaries that held me captive.
In the east lounge, Lucas stood by the fireplace, a glass of water in hand, sleeves rolled to reveal pale, taut forearms. His posture was relaxed, but every inch of him screamed control. He spared me a glance, brief, sharp, calculating, before returning his gaze to the fire.
"Sit," he said. The command was gentle, but there was no mistaking it for a suggestion.
I obeyed.
Lucas didn't speak again immediately. He let silence stretch between us, an invisible rope that tugged at my nerves. The tactic was familiar; men like him understood that waiting could fracture even the strongest will.
Finally, he set his glass down. "I'm expanding the security detail."
I blinked. "Because of the bookstore?"
He didn't answer directly. "Because of variables."
I swallowed. "I spoke to a woman about poetry. Not a spy."
His gaze sharpened. "From now on, you will notify Thomas before deviating from schedule."
"I didn't deviate," I said. "I simply added five minutes."
"You altered the route," he corrected, the words cold and precise.
I met his gaze steadily. "Why are we pretending this is about security and not control?"
Lucas's expression didn't waver. "I control what I pay for."
I laughed quietly, sharp but without humor. "You didn't pay for a prisoner, Lucas. You paid fifty million for compliance, not love." His jaw tightened. "I paid for stability."
"And what am I in that equation?"
"Insurance," he said simply.
The word hit harder than a fist. Insurance. Replaceable. Transactional. Not a wife. Not a partner. Not even property.
I swallowed the anger, forcing my voice calm. "Then I'd better not make a mistake."
He stepped closer, shadow falling over me. "You think being quiet keeps you safe. You're wrong. Silence makes me curious."
Heat rose to my cheeks. Curiosity from him was a dangerous spark. Men like Lucas turned curiosity into obsession, and obsession into control.
There was a knock at the door before I could respond. The sound was light, polite, almost delicate but it carried authority. The door opened, and Evelyn Thompson entered, tray in hand.
"Good morning," she said lightly, setting tea and pastries on the table. "I see I've walked into politics again."
Lucas's gaze shifted sharply toward her. "Aunt."
"Don't use that tone," she said mildly. "You're not paying me for obedience." She poured tea for both of us, then turned to me. "Clara, darling. Drink. You need strength."
I took the cup, the warmth seeping into my hands, grounding me.
Evelyn's eyes flicked to Lucas. "Expanding security, I hear. Because she asked about poetry?"
Lucas's jaw twitched. "This is not your concern."
"Everything you do is my concern," she said, lifting a brow. "I am your aunt, your burden, and occasionally the reason you drink."
I tried not to smile. It was impossible to hold amusement and fear at the same time.
Evelyn finally turned to me. "Come with me. I want to show you the west gardens."
Lucas opened his mouth to protest. She didn't give him the chance. "You can summon your security if it soothes your ego."
We walked through the corridors, Thomas trailing silently. The gardens were sprawling, immaculate, fountains, stone paths, and hedges trimmed into perfect geometric forms. Evelyn stopped and unclipped a rose, sniffing it casually.
"That boy," she muttered, "needs therapy and a less expensive ego."
I asked cautiously, "Is it really jealousy?"
Evelyn's eyes softened. "Men like him don't expand security because of logic. They do it because someone else might want what they claim. He wants control, Clara. Not love. Control. Ownership. Security. Fifty million dollars doesn't just buy compliance; it buys him the illusion of peace."
I felt my pulse quicken. Every lesson I learned in hospitals, debts, survival came back in sharp relief. I had been sold, purchased, and now I was navigating the world of a man who believed human lives were assets, and affection was a risk.
By midday, we returned to the house. I went to my room, carrying a single rose Evelyn had given me. I placed it on my bedside table and unfolded Nina's receipt again. Options. Escape. Small increments of possibility.
I traced the letters with my finger. I wasn't ready to act. Not yet. But soon.
And yet, the knowledge of Lucas's possessiveness gnawed at me. The boutique, the jewelry consultation, the west gardens, all carefully orchestrated to remind me of my place. Each encounter, each glance, each measure of control tightened the invisible chains.
I sat on the floor, knees drawn to my chest, and allowed myself a small, bitter smile. He wanted to control me. He thought fear, politeness, and beauty could contain me. But I was learning.
Silence would be my first weapon. Observation would be my second. Patience would be my third.
The next night, Lucas appeared outside my door without knocking, unusual, but not unprecedented. His presence filled the hall, the quiet hum of security fading in his shadow.
"Clara," he said softly, but the weight behind it made my stomach tighten. "Do you understand what obedience means?"
"Yes," I said. "It means acting within limits."
"No," he replied, stepping closer, eyes flicking to my wrist, the faint mark Julien had left. "It means recognizing boundaries before they are tested."
"I know my boundaries," I said.
He crouched slightly, the firelight painting his face in stark relief. "Do you? Or do you simply calculate your next move?"
I didn't answer. Silence, my constant companion, settled over us like a shield.
Lucas straightened. "Good. Keep it. It makes me uneasy. It makes me watch. And when I watch, I don't like surprises."
I met his gaze, unwavering. "Then stop trying to own what isn't yours."
His lips quirked, almost a smile. "I don't own you. Yet."
The door closed behind him. Silence returned. Not peace. Not freedom. But strategy, patience, and the bitter comfort of knowing the game had begun.
Not yet.
But soon.