Shadows Beneath the Roses
The silence after Isabella's departure clung to the air like fog.
Clara stood frozen, her shears still in hand, the roses at her feet forgotten. Victoria hadn't moved either — her jaw tight, her gaze fixed on the path Isabella had taken.
"Don't listen to her," Clara said finally, her voice unsteady. "She just wants to—"
"I know," Victoria interrupted, her tone clipped. Then she turned to Clara, her eyes glimmering with something unreadable. "But Isabella never speaks without purpose. She's back for a reason… and I'm going to find out what it is."
Clara nodded, unsure of what to say. The woman who once despised her now stood like an uneasy ally — cautious but protective. It felt strange, fragile, and somehow comforting.
"Victoria," Clara began softly, "whatever you heard that night… thank you. For at least trying to see me differently."
Victoria's lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. "Don't thank me yet. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for Ethan — and for the truth."
Before Clara could respond, Victoria turned and strode away, her posture stiff, but her steps uncertain. The rustle of her dress faded, leaving Clara alone with the whisper of wind and roses.
She exhaled slowly. The scent of the flowers should have been soothing, but her chest ached instead. Isabella's words echoed in her mind — Ethan's not blind forever.
A shadow passed over her heart.
---
Later that evening, the mansion's hallways hummed with low conversation. Servants moved quietly, the usual calm disrupted by the news that Ethan had returned from his business trip earlier than expected. Clara lingered at the edge of the grand staircase, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.
She wasn't ready to face him — not yet. Not when the air still reeked of misunderstanding and unspoken accusations.
But fate had its own timing.
"Clara."
His voice, deep and unmistakable, rolled through the air.
She turned. Ethan stood at the foot of the stairs, his black suit still sharp from the day, his eyes tired but burning with focus.
"Ethan," she breathed, unsure if she should approach or flee.
He studied her for a long moment, his jaw tightening slightly. "You look… pale. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she lied. "Just tired."
A flicker of something passed across his face — guilt, maybe, or frustration. He took a step closer, but then his phone buzzed in his pocket. The name flashing across the screen made Clara's stomach twist. Isabella.
He hesitated only a second before answering. "What is it?"
His tone was curt, but the familiarity in his voice struck Clara harder than any insult. She turned away, pretending not to listen, but her ears caught every word — Isabella's soft laughter, her teasing remark about a dinner invitation, and Ethan's clipped response: "Fine. I'll be there."
When the call ended, he looked up — only to find Clara watching him.
"It's not what you think," he said quickly.
"Then what is it?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound calm. "Because every time she's around, everything falls apart."
His expression darkened. "Clara, I can handle Isabella."
"But can I?" she whispered, her eyes stinging. "Every time she speaks, it feels like she's already won."
He didn't answer. The silence said enough.
---
That night, Clara lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Her mind drifted to everything — to Mia's disappearance years ago, to the mysterious file that had led her to Ethan, to all the secrets buried beneath his perfect world.
Somewhere in those shadows, she was sure Isabella's return wasn't just about love — it was about revenge.
And outside, beneath the moonlight, a figure lingered by the garden gates — Damien. His eyes followed the glow from Clara's window before he turned and made a call.
"Yes," he said quietly. "She's still there. But things are shifting inside that mansion. Isabella's move came earlier than expected."
A pause.
"No," Damien murmured. "Ethan doesn't know yet. And he shouldn't — not until I'm sure whose side Eleanor is truly on."
---
In another part of the house, Eleanor sat in her study, clutching a photograph — two young boys and a woman with kind eyes. Her sister. Ethan and Marcus's real mother.
A tear slipped down her cheek as guilt pressed on her chest. She had thought helping Marcus meant healing old wounds… but she'd only opened darker ones.
And she had no idea that the person pulling those strings now — wasn't Marcus anymore.
It was Isabella.