That night, I packed my bags.
I needed air. Space. Anything far from the city, from the chaos, from all of them.
I went back to the province—to the small house where my grandmother lived. The woman who raised me when my own parents chose my sister over me.
When I arrived, she was by the window, knitting quietly, her hands thin and fragile. The moment she saw me, her face softened instantly.
“Clara,” she said gently. “You look exhausted. Did something happen?”
I forced a smile and shook my head. “Nothing, Mom,” I whispered, kneeling beside her. “I just wanted to come home for a while.”
She patted my head softly. “Then stay. Rest here.”
For a few days, I tried.
I cooked. I walked outside. I pretended the quiet could heal me. But it didn’t. The silence only made everything louder—Damien’s voice, Camille’s smirk, Regina’s threats echoing in my mind without end.
And when I finally decided to return to the city, I checked my phone.
Dozens of missed calls.
All from Damien.
My stomach twisted.
At the airport, I barely made it a few steps before cameras and microphones surrounded me. Reporters shouted my name from every direction, flashes exploding in my face.