CLARA O'DONNELL POV:
The soft click of the front door, barely audible in the cavernous silence of the mansion, registered somewhere in the back of my mind. It was past midnight. Justice was home.
My eyes fluttered open. For a moment, I considered getting up, confronting him. But what was the point? The well-worn script of our nights played out in my head before it even began.
A faint clinking sound drifted from the kitchen. Pans. Utensils. He was cooking. For her.
I remembered the early days. The first few times I heard those sounds, I' d held my breath, a foolish smile spreading across my face. I'd imagined him downstairs, making a late-night snack for me. A surprise. A moment of tenderness. I' d slip down, giggling, ready to embrace him, to thank him for being so thoughtful.
But each time, I' d find him meticulously packing delicate pastries or steaming broth into insulated containers. His brow furrowed in concentration, his movements precise. Never for me. Always for Kamala. "She has a sensitive stomach, Clara. She needs something bland after her episodes." Or, "Kamala can't sleep unless she has her grandmother's cookies. It's a comfort thing."
I' d stand there, watching him, the aroma of warm milk and sugar filling the kitchen, my own stomach rumbling with a hunger he never seemed to notice.
"I'm hungry, Justice," I'd said once, my voice small.
He' d glanced at me, distracted. "Oh, darling, just ask one of the staff. Or order something. I'm a bit busy right now." The staff, of course, were always busy with Kamala's needs, or too intimidated to cross Justice when he was focused on his "sacred duty."
Eventually, I stopped asking. Stopped hoping. Stopped caring what those late-night sounds meant. My curiosity had long since withered, replaced by a dull, aching indifference.
But tonight, thirst gnawed at my throat. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The silk nightgown felt cold against my skin. I padded softly down the grand staircase, the silence of the house broken only by my own soft footsteps and the distant clatter from the kitchen.
As I entered the kitchen, the air was thick with the rich, sweet scent of chocolate and vanilla. Justice was at the marble island, bent over a pristine white plate. He was carefully drizzling a dark ganache over what looked like a miniature, perfectly formed black forest cake. The scene was almost domestic. Almost.
He hadn't heard me. He was humming a low tune, a rare sound from him, a sound of contentment. My heart, against my will, twisted. I remembered a time when he hummed for me.
"Justice?" My voice was quiet, but it shattered his concentration.
He jumped, startled, his shoulders tensing. The piping bag in his hand twitched, sending a rogue streak of chocolate across the counter. He spun around, his face a mask of surprise, then something akin to guilt.
"Clara! What are you doing down here? You should be asleep." His eyes darted to the cake, then back to me, an almost panicked expression on his face. He instinctively moved to block my view of the dessert, as if it were a forbidden secret.
"Just getting some water," I said, my voice flat. I walked to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of sparkling water. The clinking of the glass against the bottle seemed impossibly loud in the tense silence.
"This isn't for you," he blurted out, a little too quickly, gesturing vaguely at the cake. "It's... it's a specific recipe. For Kamala. You wouldn't like it."
I took a long drink, the cool liquid doing little to quench the fire in my soul. Of course not. I thought. Everything good is for her. The care, the attention, the sacrifices. The lies.
"I wasn't asking for it," I said, my gaze sweeping over the elaborate creation. "I'm not hungry."
His phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up. "Kamala Brandt." Her name, again, a neon sign flashing between us.
His face, which had been tight with irritation, softened. A familiar, indulgent affection replaced his earlier panic. He picked up the phone. "Kamala? Are you alright? I'm almost there." His voice was low, soothing, utterly devoid of the annoyance he often showed me.
He expertly slid the miniature cake into a custom-fitted box, tied it with a satin ribbon, a precise, practiced movement. His focus was entirely on the task, on her.
"Do you remember our wedding night, Justice?" I asked, my voice almost unnaturally calm. The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.
He paused, his eyes still on the ribbon, momentarily flustered. "Clara, not now. Kamala's just had a nightmare. She needs me."
"Seventeen times," I stated, the words a quiet knife. "Seventeen times you've chosen her over me."
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Clara, please. I'm exhausted. It's not a choice. It's an obligation. You know that." He finally looked at me, his eyes tired, but still holding that strange, unwavering loyalty to her.
"Just go," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "She's waiting. And I'm done waiting."
He looked at me for a long moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. Relief? Confusion? He picked up the box, gave me a perfunctory nod, and walked out without another word.
