The following week passed in a suffocating routine. David's "protection" became a prison—a driver shadowed her every move, her social calendar was filled with trivial engagements David insisted she attend, and his touch, when it came, felt more like an inspection than affection. Elara moved through her days like a ghost, the memory of Kael's kiss a constant, painful throb beneath the surface of her polished life.
It was during one of these endless charity committee meetings, as she sat nodding politely while a woman debated the merits of peony versus orchid centerpieces, that her phone buzzed discreetly in her purse. A number she didn't recognize. Her heart, perpetually on edge, gave a frantic leap. Ignoring the disapproving glance from the chairwoman, she excused herself and slipped into the hallway.
"Hello?" she answered, her voice barely a whisper.
There was a pause, filled with the static of a poor connection and the distant, unmistakable sound of a child's laughter. Then, a voice—cold, sharp, and laced with a venomous sweetness she recognized instantly.
"Davina. Or should I call you Elara? It's Clara."
Elara's blood ran cold. Kael's ex-wife. The woman who had taken Bimo and left. Why was she calling?
"Clara," Elara managed, leaning against the cool wall for support. "This is... a surprise."
"Is it?" Clara's laugh was a short, unpleasant sound. "I thought it was time we had a little chat. Woman to woman. You see, I was going through some old things, and I found a box of Kael's. Full of... mementos. Pictures of the two of you. Love letters. It's quite the treasure trove."
Elara's stomach twisted. "I don't know what you want, Clara."
"What I want is to move on, darling. But it's hard when the ghost of my husband's ex-lover keeps haunting our past. And now I hear you've been... reacquainted."
The world tilted. How did she know?
"Your little scene at the gala didn't go entirely unnoticed," Clara continued, as if reading her mind. "A friend of a friend saw you two on the terrace. Looking very... intense."
Elara's mind raced, panic clawing at her throat. "It was nothing. A brief, awkward conversation."
"Awkward conversations don't usually leave a woman looking like she's been kissed senseless," Clara purred. "But don't worry, your secret is safe with me. For now."
"What do you want?" Elara repeated, her voice trembling.
"It's simple. I want you to make sure Kael moves on. For good. He's started talking about wanting more custody of Bimo. He's becoming... difficult. I want you to make it clear to him that there is no future for you two. That you are happily married and never want to see him again."
Elara felt a fresh wave of nausea. "I can't do that."
"You can, and you will," Clara's voice lost its fake sweetness, turning to steel. "Because if you don't, I'll make sure a very detailed account of your terrace tryst, complete with a few choice 'mementos' from this box, finds its way to your husband's desk. How long do you think your gilded cage will stay standing then, Davina?"
The line went dead. Elara stood frozen, the phone clutched in her sweaty hand. Clara wasn't just a scorned ex-wife; she was a calculated threat. She had the power to destroy everything with a single phone call.
That evening, Elara was a bundle of raw nerves. David, perceptive as ever to her shifts in mood, watched her over dinner.
"You're quiet tonight," he remarked, sipping his wine. "Is the schedule too much? I can cancel your appointment with the interior designer tomorrow."
"No, it's fine," she said too quickly, forcing a smile. "Just a little tired."
He didn't press, but his eyes remained on her, analytical and cool. He knew she was hiding something. The walls of the cage were not just physical now; they were psychological, and David was listening at every bar.
Later, as she pretended to sleep, an idea, desperate and dangerous, formed in her mind. She had to see Kael. One last time. She had to warn him about Clara, and she had to do what Clara demanded—end it, for his sake and for Bimo's. It was the only way to protect them all from Clara's venom.
Using a burner phone she bought the next day under the guise of shopping for linens, she sent a single, coded text to the number Kael had used years ago, praying it was still active.
"The garden where we first met. Tomorrow. 4 PM. It's urgent."
The reply came an hour later, making her jump.
"I'll be there."
The stage was set for a meeting that could either defuse the bomb Clara had planted or trigger it prematurely. Elara was playing with fire, and the only thing burning brighter than her fear was the desperate, forbidden hope of seeing Kael one last time.