Chapter 5

Clara Castaneda POV:

Brandon remained oblivious to my secret life, lost in his own upward trajectory. He started coming home later and later, his excuses about "demanding projects" and "critical deadlines" wearing thinner than old paper. His promotion was quickly followed by another, then another. He was climbing the corporate ladder with alarming speed, propelled, I knew, by Chadwick Molina' s influence and Cayla' s insidious support.

The whispers about Brandon and Cayla at AeroCorp grew louder, eventually spilling into the wider social circles. I heard the snickers, saw the pitying glances at grocery store, the knowing looks from former colleagues. The humiliation was a raw, open wound, but I refused to let it fester. I had faced worse. I had been murdered by this betrayal once.

One frigid winter evening, the biting wind whipping snow around me, I stood at my fruit stand-my latest, slightly more profitable venture than the grocery store, still beneath Brandon' s contempt. My fingers were numb, my nose red, but I held my ground. I was making my own money, funding my real education, building my independence brick by painful brick.

Then I saw them.

Brandon, Benard, and Cayla. They emerged from a brightly lit restaurant across the street, a picture of a perfect, happy family. Benard was laughing, holding Cayla' s hand, his head tilted up as she spoke to him, her face alight with an artificial warmth. Brandon, his arm possessively around Cayla' s waist, beamed at them both, a picture of contented fatherhood.

The sight was a fresh stab to my heart. He had replaced me. Not just me, but the entire essence of our family, with this usurper. And my own son, my flesh and blood, had embraced her.

My breath hitched, a cold knot forming in my stomach that had nothing to do with the winter air. I shrunk back, hoping to avoid their notice, but it was too late. Cayla' s eyes, ever sharp, landed on me. Her smile widened, morphing into that familiar, venomous smirk.

She tugged Brandon' s arm. He followed her gaze, and his triumphant grin faltered as he saw me, bundled in my worn coat, selling apples in the snow. His face flushed a deep red.

Cayla, however, showed no such discomfort. She detached herself from Brandon and, with Benard still clinging to her, walked purposefully across the street towards my stand.

"Well, well, Clara," she purred, her voice sweet as poison, "Look at you. Out here in the cold. Still... working hard, I see." Her eyes raked over my simple display of fruit, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

Benard, seeing her easy confidence, mirrored her attitude. He looked at me, then at the fruit, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "Mom, what are you doing out here? It's freezing." His tone was accusatory, as if my presence was an inconvenience, an embarrassment.

"I'm earning a living, Benard," I replied, my voice steady, though my heart was a frantic bird against my ribs.

Cayla turned to Brandon, who had reluctantly followed. "Oh, Brandon, darling, Clara looks so cold. You should buy something from her. Support her little... venture." Her eyes gleamed with malice. She was enjoying this, relishing her power.

Brandon, caught between his new mistress and his discarded wife, looked utterly miserable. He fumbled in his wallet, pulling out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. He picked up an apple, not even looking at it, and shoved the money at me. "Here, Clara. Keep the change. Just... go home. It's too cold for this."

"How generous," I said, a dry, humorless laugh escaping me. I took the fifty, my fingers brushing his. His touch was alien.

Cayla snatched the apple Brandon had bought and took a deliberate, loud bite, her eyes never leaving mine. "You know, Clara, Brandon and I were just talking about how important family is. About creating a stable, loving home for Benard." She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that was still loud enough for Benard to hear. "It' s a shame some people just... can't keep up. Can't provide that stability."

Benard nodded, looking up at Cayla with admiration. "Yeah, Mom. Cayla says she's going to teach me how to code. She says she's really good at it, even better than you."

The words were a dagger, twisted in my already wounded heart. My own son, echoing the lies, validating the betrayal. I looked at Benard, his young face mirroring the contempt I saw in Brandon' s and Cayla' s eyes. The last flicker of hope, of maternal love, extinguished. He was gone. They had taken him too.

A profound, chilling calm settled over me. There was nothing left to lose. No love to fight for, no family to defend. Only justice.

"Is that so, Benard?" I said, my voice eerily calm. "Well, I hope Cayla is a better teacher than she is an engineer. And a more loyal... partner." My gaze flickered to Brandon, whose face was a mixture of shame and fury.

Cayla' s face tightened, her pleasant mask finally slipping. "Watch your tongue, Clara. You're just jealous."

"Jealous?" I scoffed, a genuine laugh this time, but it held no humor. "Of what? A man who betrays everyone who loves him? A woman who builds her career on lies and stolen opportunities? No, Cayla. I'm not jealous. I'm simply waiting."

"Waiting for what?" Brandon demanded, his voice hoarse.

"For the inevitable," I replied, my eyes fixed on theirs. "For everything to come crashing down. And I promise you, Brandon, Cayla... I will be there to watch."

I watched them turn and walk away, their "perfect" family tableau now fractured by my words. Benard looked back once, his expression unreadable, then Cayla pulled him away. The bitter cold of the evening no longer bothered me. My heart was a block of ice, hardened, unfeeling.

I had given them everything. My love, my career, my loyalty, my son. And they had repaid me with betrayal, humiliation, and scorn. But I was no longer the sacrificing Clara. I was the Clara who had clawed her way back from the brink of death, armed with knowledge and an unwavering resolve.

The day of AeroCorp' s annual Legacy Systems Review was fast approaching. The day my first life had shown me would be their undoing. The day I had been preparing for.

It was time to collect.