Chapter 2

Clara POV

"Clara, wait," he said, his voice stopping me just as I was about to step out. "That wine... who exactly is your husband?" His eyes, filled with a familiar possessiveness, seemed to bore into me, trying to uncover the secrets I now held.

I turned back, my hand still on the door handle. "He's just my husband, Camden." I met his gaze, my own calm and steady. "And the wine is for him."

He leaned back in his seat, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes. "You're still being difficult, I see. Trying to make me jealous? It won't work, Clara. I know you. You used to buy me that exact vintage. Always saying it reminded you of my ambition, how it matured with age." His words were laced with a condescending pity, a clear sign he believed I was still stuck in the past, still clinging to him.

I looked at him, a faint smile playing on my lips. "Did I?" I asked, my voice soft, almost a whisper. "How interesting you remember that." My eyes held his, revealing nothing. I had no fight left for him. No anger, no resentment. Just a quiet, profound indifference.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Clara, look at you. This dress, this house... are you truly happy? You deserve more than this. I can help you. I can get you back on your feet." His gaze swept over my simple attire, the canvas tote bag at my feet, judging my life based on superficial appearances.

I glanced at my reflection in the car window. My face, free of makeup, showed the faint lines of time, the subtle changes that came with experience. My simple cotton dress, though modest, was comfortable and clean. My canvas tote, worn and familiar, held not just the expensive wine, but also a book, a sketchpad, and a few small, smooth stones I'd collected from the beach with my son. This was my life now. Unadorned, uncomplicated, and deeply fulfilling.

"I am happy, Camden," I said, my voice clear and even. "More than you could ever imagine."

He looked at me, a strange expression on his face. "You've... changed, Clara," he finally said, his voice tinged with something that sounded almost like regret.

"Yes," I agreed, a genuine smile now touching my lips. "I have." I stepped out of the car, the cool afternoon air a welcome touch on my skin. "Goodbye, Camden." I closed the door softly and walked towards my house, not once looking back.

The old house welcomed me with its familiar embrace. The worn wooden floorboards creaked under my feet, a comforting sound. The air smelled of dust and old books, a scent that was inextricably linked to my mother. I walked to the small mantelpiece in the living room, where a faded photograph of her sat, nestled between two smooth river stones. I lit a small candle, its flame dancing softly, casting long shadows across the room.

"Hey, Mom," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "I saw him today. Camden. He thinks I'm still broken. He thinks I'm still hurting. But I'm not. Not anymore."

I went to the kitchen, preparing a simple meal, a vegetable stew, just the way my mother used to make it. I ate at the small, round table, the chair opposite me empty, a silent tribute to her memory. It wasn't loneliness I felt, but a profound sense of peace.

After dinner, I made my way to my bedroom, a sanctuary of faded memories. I pulled out an old photo album from a dusty box under my bed. It was filled with pictures of a life long past, a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. As I leafed through the pages, a loose photograph slipped out, fluttering to the floor.

I picked it up. It was a picture of me, young and beaming, standing beside Camden. I was thirteen then, all gangly limbs and boundless energy, my hair a wild tangle of curls. Camden, a year older, had an arm slung around my shoulders, his smile bright and carefree. He had lived with us since he was a child, after his own family fell on hard times. His mother, Josephine, our housekeeper, had a complicated history with my father, but after my mother's suicide, my family, out of guilt and a sense of responsibility, took Camden in. My father felt an immense burden of guilt, and he poured it all into Camden, funding his education, his first startup, everything.

I remembered the day that photo was taken. Camden had been getting into trouble, falling in with the wrong crowd. A group of older boys had cornered him behind the school, demanding money. I, impulsive and fiercely loyal, had jumped in, defending him with all my might. I ended up with a black eye and a broken arm, but Camden was safe. My parents were furious, then heartbroken. My mother had cried, holding me close, but my father had only looked at me with a strange mixture of pride and disappointment. Josephine, Camden' s mother, had come to our house, bowing her head in endless apologies, thanking my parents for their kindness. That day, a bond was forged, a twisted, unbreakable connection that would ultimately unravel us all. My mother, gentle and kind, had extended her hand, offering Camden a home, a family. He was like my brother, my best friend, my everything.

Then came the affair. My father, with Josephine. It shattered my mother. I walked into the living room one day and found it in ruins. Vases smashed, cushions torn, a primal scream of grief etched into the very fabric of our home. My mother, usually so composed, was on the floor, bleeding from a cut on her arm, her face a mask of despair. My father stood over her, his eyes cold, protective of Josephine, who cowered behind him. He said he wanted a divorce. He said he loved Josephine.

My mother, wild with pain, lashed out at Camden, hitting him, screaming at him. He was a child, caught in the crossfire of adult sins. I, blinded by my love for Camden, pushed my mother away, screamed at her, asked her why she was hurting him. She looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief, then a profound, crushing sorrow. That night, she took her own life.

I stared at the photograph, the paper soft and worn under my thumb. It was a relic from a life so removed from my present reality, it felt fictional. After the divorce, after everything, I had burned all the pictures, torn up all the letters. I wanted to erase them, erase him, erase the pain. But this one had somehow escaped.

My hand moved, crumpled the photograph, ready to toss it into the wastebasket.

A sharp knock echoed through the quiet house. My heart leaped. It was probably Christian, coming home early. A wave of relief washed over me. I walked to the door, a smile already forming on my lips.

I pulled open the door, my smile freezing on my face. Standing on my porch, under the dim light of the evening, were Camden and Hailey. Hailey, her face a carefully constructed mask of concern, took a step forward.

"Clara, darling," she said, her voice a sickly sweet melody. "Is this a bad time?"