Chapter 36
The drawing room was too warm. Stifling.
Clara hovered just inside the doorway, her coat still on, her pulse too loud in her ears.
The fire hissed and spat in the grate, shadows leaping across the walls.
The smell of beeswax polish and roses clung to everything, a mix of home and suffocation.
It was strange being here again, but knowing that her friends had eyes on her made her feel safe, even though she was pretty sure Oliver and her father were both here.
She hoped she was wrong, God did she, but the team had intel suggesting this was the perfect trap for Oliver.
Jonas was dead against it but in the end, it had been her decision to walk into this and use herself as bait.
Her mother looked up. Penelope Mason, elegant as always, was perched on the settee like she was posing for a portrait, back straight, ankles neatly crossed.
When her eyes landed on Clara, they softened, just a little.
“Clara.” Relief cracked her voice. She rose in a graceful sweep, skirts whispering, and came forward with outstretched hands.
Clara let herself be taken in a light embrace, her cheek brushed with the ghost of a kiss. But her body was stiff, arms hanging uselessly at her sides.
Penelope drew back and tutted softly. “Thank heavens you’re safe. You’ve no idea what you’ve put us through.”
Clara blinked. “Safe?” The word felt foreign. She pulled back a step, holding her mother’s gaze. “Do you even know what’s happened to me?”
Her mother frowned, lips tightening. “Darling, please. Let’s not have hysterics. We’ve been managing, holding everything together, while you…”
A hesitation. Too long. Her eyes flicked toward the closed door before she caught herself.
Clara felt it like a physical blow. A chill slid down her spine. “While I what?” Her voice sharpened. “While I’ve been dragged into something I never agreed to? While you handed me to Oliver like some… some contract?”
Penelope’s chin rose, that old imperious look returning. “You’re being melodramatic.”
Clara laughed. It came out brittle, jagged. “Melodramatic? Mum, I thought I was marrying him to save our home. To save you. All this time,” her throat closed, rage and betrayal burning in equal measure, “what was it really about?”
Her mother’s composure cracked. Just a hairline fracture, but Clara saw it. The twist of her fingers against her skirt, the dart of her gaze. “Your father.”
Clara cut across her. “Stop.” The word was raw, ragged. “No more deflecting. Tell me the truth. What does Father have to do with Oliver?”
Penelope pressed her lips together, colour draining from her face.
For a moment, Clara thought she might actually confess.
Her hands trembled before she stilled them against her sides.
“You don’t understand,” Penelope said finally, voice low.
“It isn’t that simple. Your father… he has obligations.
Arrangements. Marrying Oliver secures those. It ensures…”
“It ensures what?” Clara’s voice cracked. “That everything you care about is protected, except me?”
The silence that followed was brutal. The tick of the grandfather clock filled the room, each second pounding like a gavel.
Penelope’s eyes glistened, but she shook her head. “We did what was necessary.”
Clara stepped back, her stomach twisting. “No. You did what he told you to do.”
Her mother’s face pinched. Her eyes darted again toward the door.
Clara noticed. This time, she couldn’t ignore it. Her skin prickled, her pulse hammering at her throat. “Mum,” her voice lowered to a whisper, “why do you keep looking at the door?”
Penelope startled, and then her hand shot out, fingers clutching Clara’s wrist hard enough to bruise. Her grip was iron, desperate. “Clara,” she whispered, voice trembling in a way Clara had never heard. “Don’t react. Whatever happens, don’t.”
The door handle turned.
Clara’s breath caught. For a moment, the whole world seemed to shrink to the sound of brass moving against wood. She looked back at her mother. Penelope’s mask had shattered. Fear and resignation carved deep lines into her face. “Mum?” Clara whispered, her throat aching.
Her mother’s answer was a whisper so faint Clara almost missed it. “Forgive me.”
The door eased open with a groan of old hinges. Clara’s stomach dropped, every instinct screaming at her to run, but her mother’s grip held her rooted to the rug.
A figure stepped into the room, the light from the corridor outlining him first. Tall, broad, the faintest scent of expensive cologne clinging to the air.
Oliver.
He strolled in as though he owned the place, his tailored suit immaculate, his smile cutting like glass. “Clara,” he said smoothly, ignoring Penelope entirely. “There you are. You’ve had us all rather worried.”
Clara’s throat went dry. Her skin crawled. She tried to tug her wrist free from her mother’s hold, but Penelope only squeezed tighter, as though she thought restraining Clara could stop the truth bleeding out.
“Oliver,” Clara forced out, the word tasting like ash. “What are you doing here?”
He arched a brow. “What am I doing here? My bride disappears, and you ask me that question? I should think I have every right to be in your family’s house.” His gaze flicked to her mother, then back to Clara, sharp and knowing. “Don’t you agree, Mrs Mason?”
Penelope flinched but nodded quickly, voice brittle. “Of course.”
Clara’s stomach twisted. “I’m not your fiancée.”
His smile widened, patronising, dangerous.
He stepped closer, his voice a purr only she could hear.
“Not yet. But you will be. We had a deal, Clara. I keep your parents safe, and you become my blushing bride.” His tone dropped lower, a chill running over her skin.
“If you break the deal, well… then I no longer need to keep them safe.”
Her heart stopped. Her chest squeezed so tightly she thought she might pass out. She darted a glance at her mother, desperate, searching.
Penelope’s eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, as if begging Clara to stay silent.
Oliver’s gaze tracked every twitch of Clara’s body. He reached out, brushed his knuckles along her cheek as though they were already lovers. She flinched, bile rising in her throat.
“You’ve always been so good,” he murmured. “Don’t ruin that now.”
Clara snapped her head back, her voice cracking. “You don’t own me.”
Oliver chuckled, low and cruel. “Sweetheart, after everything your father’s promised me, after everything in your name, you’d be surprised how much of you I already own.”
Her blood ran cold. “My… what?”
Her voice was barely audible, but Oliver heard. He leaned in, lips curling. “Your name’s on more than you realise.”
Clara’s breath stuttered. Her father. He’d done this. He’d put things in her name. The faintest hint of an answer she hadn’t wanted was suddenly staring her in the face.
She looked to her mother, who wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Mum.” The word broke.
Penelope’s lips trembled. “Clara, please…”
Oliver’s hand clamped gently, mockingly, around Clara’s elbow, steering her towards the door. “Come along, darling. Let’s not keep your father waiting.”
The ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Her mother’s perfume, the crackle of the fire, the relentless tick of the clock, all of it blurred around the edges.
Her father. Waiting.
Oliver’s hand on her elbow was deceptively gentle, his touch the way one might guide a prized possession. Clara’s legs moved, stiff, unwilling, but the grip was firm enough that resistance would only humiliate her in front of her mother.
The corridor stretched ahead, lined with portraits of ancestors who seemed to sneer at her from gilded frames. She focused on the carpet, on the muted thud of her shoes against it, because looking at Oliver’s satisfied smirk was unbearable.
He pushed the door to the study wide with easy entitlement. Clara’s stomach twisted as the familiar scent of pipe smoke and leather-bound books hit her.
And there he was.
Her father.
Richard Sutton rose from behind his heavy mahogany desk, every inch the patriarch.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his tailored suit as pristine as Oliver’s, his salt-and-pepper hair swept back with practised precision.
The arrogance in his expression was like a mask he’d worn so long it had fused to his skin.
“Ah, Clara.” His voice filled the room, rich and commanding, as though this were a board meeting and not the wreckage of her life. He spread his arms wide in a mockery of affection. “Welcome home, my dear.”
Clara froze on the threshold, her throat closing. The word home rang false, a cruel parody. This wasn’t home anymore, hadn’t been for a long time.
Oliver released her elbow, his smirk widening as he stepped aside, presenting her like a prize.
Her father’s eyes flicked over her, cool and assessing, before softening into a smile that didn’t reach them. “You’ve caused rather a lot of trouble.” His gaze slid briefly to Oliver. “But fortunately, we can still salvage everything.”
Salvage. The word sank like lead in her chest. She wasn’t a daughter in his eyes; she was currency.
“Mum?” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper. She turned, but Penelope stood in the doorway, wringing her hands, her face pale and stricken. No rescue would come from her.
Clara’s fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the weight of both men’s gazes held her pinned in place.
Her father smiled wider, stepping toward her with the calm certainty of a man who believed the world bent to his will. “Come now, Clara. Surely you didn’t think you could run from your family obligations?”
The clock on the mantel ticked steadily, mercilessly, each second pulling her deeper into a nightmare she hadn’t yet begun to understand.