Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

As soon as Clara walked back into the main hall, she felt out of place, like she

didn't quite belong. But with Walter's eightieth birthday coming up, she knew she

couldn't let her discomfort show. Everything had to be perfect. Dylan was already

busy-people kept pulling him aside, making him go over guest lists and approve

every little detail.

Clara quietly found a seat in the corner, hoping to fade into the background. That's

when she heard a soft whisper and the quiet shuffle of footsteps. Suddenly,

someone slipped a photo into her hand.

She glanced up, catching a glimpse of the person's back as they disappeared into

the crowd, but she couldn't figure out who it was.

Simon had delivered the picture, just like Aaron had insisted. "Make sure Clara

gets it in person," Aaron had said, convinced the photo would bring back old

memories for her.

The photograph was small, barely bigger than her palm-easy to hide, easy to

keep secret.

Before she even had a chance to look at it, she caught Dylan watching her from

across the room. For a second, guilt twisted in her chest, though she didn't really

understand why. She just quickly hid the photo inside her clothes and avoided his

eyes.

Dylan was tied up for another hour, going through every last detail for the party.

When he finally noticed Clara nodding off in her seat, he knew she was

exhausted. He came over and quietly asked a maid to take her upstairs so she

could rest.

The staff at the old mansion were polite enough, but everyone knew they didn't

really like Clara.

Since Dylan was staying over tonight, Clara figured she'd be sharing his room like

usual. But the maid had other plans. She led Clara down the hallway, all the way

to the very last door.

It was a cramped storage room with a tiny bed, barely big enough for a child.

Downstairs, Dylan had no idea what was going on.

Clara, totally clueless, thought this must be her room for the night. She even

thanked the maid.

The maid just snorted. "This is where you belong. Being part of the Ferguson

family isn't so simple."

The staff knew how to pick sides, and lately, with Tara visiting all the time,

everyone seemed to adore her. They saw Tara as the real deal-a true socialite-noveldrama

and most of them believed Clara was just an outsider, someone who'd taken a

place that was never really hers.

Mrs. Ferguson and Walter still refused to acknowledge Clara as their daughter-in-

law, and the staff naturally followed the lead of the family elders.

Once the door closed behind her,

Clara sat down on the little bed. The

light in the room was nothing like the

bright chandeliers downstairs, but

she could still make out all the

random stuff piled around.

The room was small, cluttered with boxes and old junk.

Restless, Clara walked over to the

tiny window and looked out. The

garden was lit up beautifully. Down

below, she saw Tara and Dylan

standing together, talking.

At first, Clara thought she must be seeing things.

She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. It really was Dylan and Tara.

Wasn't Dylan her husband? Why was he out there with another woman?

Before she could even process it, there was a knock at her door. A maid told her

there was a gift for her.

Clara took the small box and opened it. Inside was a note and a photograph of

two people together.

The picture was of a much younger Dylan, wearing a fancy school uniform and

standing next to a girl. They were both smiling.

The note said: Dylan will marry Tara.

Clara stared at the words, her hands starting to shake. The box slipped from her

fingers and rolled under the little bed.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her head, like it was splitting open. The photo

fell from her hand and disappeared into the mess on the floor.

Everything felt chaotic, out of control.

She steadied herself against the wall

and sat back on the bed, trying to

catch her breath. When she reached

into her pocket, her fingers brushed

against the other photo-the one

she'd been given downstairs.

She pulled it out and looked at it. It showed a man holding a gun, pointing it at

someone else. The image was blurry; she couldn't see who it was.

But somehow, just looking at that shadowy picture made her chest ache, as if

someone had ripped her heart open and left it bleeding.