The morning sunlight streamed through the window, catching the strands of her hair as his arm wrapped around her waist. Their bodies were impossibly close. Too close.
My stomach twisted violently, a cold, sick feeling spreading through me.
Damian glanced up the moment he heard me. His face paled for a heartbeat, but then he forced a calm smile. A bright lipstick stain lingered near his mouth, bold and unapologetic, as if he wanted me to see it. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe it away.
“Chiara… why are you here?” I managed to croak.
Before she could answer, Damian spoke for her. “She just wanted to come by,” he said, voice steady. “She heard you were out. Chiara helped me a lot while you… weren’t around. She visits the cemetery every year, too. Brings flowers, toys, ballet shoes. Takes care of your daughter’s grave.”
My chest constricted. My heartbeat thundered, drowning out every sound around me.
“What did you just say?” I whispered at first, my voice barely audible. Then it rose, uncontrollable. “What right does she have?! What right does she have to go there, to stand at my daughter’s grave?”
My whole body trembled. “No murderer deserves to be there. None.”
Damian didn’t look me in the eyes. His gaze was cast downward, voice quiet. “I already had a ritual performed. The child… she accepted her as her godmother.”
My blood ran cold. My veins felt like they were full of knives. A godmother? That fucking… godmother?
Chiara stepped closer, a bouquet in her hands. “Clara,” she said softly, offering them to me. “These are for you. Congratulations on your new life.”
The scent hit me first—overpowering, cloying, suffocating. My skin crawled, a maddening itch spreading up my arms, along my neck, across my face. Every ounce of her—the way she spoke, smiled, smelled—felt like venom.
I slapped the flowers out of her hands. They tumbled to the floor, petals scattering across the tiles. I didn’t even have the energy to yell. What was the point? They’d already stripped everything from me.
I took a few shaky steps backward, trying to escape the sight of her. And then I heard it: her voice, cutting through the silence.
“0621!”
The call of that number hit me instinctively. My body reacted before my mind caught up. “Here!” I shouted, almost automatically.
I didn’t even realize why I responded until her sharp, mocking laugh followed.
“Oh, Clara,” she giggled, eyes sparkling cruelly. “I’ve heard prisoners react like that. I just wanted to see for myself… a little experiment. Just a joke.”
I turned slowly. Damian stood beside her, hand lightly resting on her arm.
“That’s enough,” he said softly, but firmly. “No more jokes like that.”
Chiara blinked at him and smiled sweetly. “Okay.”
The way they looked at each other made my stomach churn. Even in front of me, they couldn’t stop. Still touching, still flirting, acting like I didn’t exist.
I thought about the box of condoms upstairs. My chest went cold.
---
By evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. I met Mara at a small restaurant. The warm, dim light felt like a tiny comfort in the world that had turned against me.
Her eyes widened as she saw me. “Clara… you look terrible. Why don’t you stay with me for a while?”
I shook my head. “No. I just… I need you to help me find the evidence. Fast.”
She didn’t press me. Instead, she ordered a table full of food, her voice gentle. “Eat something. You look like you haven’t touched a meal in days.”
I barely managed to lift a spoon when I froze.
Chiara had entered. And with her, the little girl—dressed perfectly, smiling like she owned the room. My heart seized when I saw the child. I couldn’t look away.
Of course, Chiara noticed. She drew the girl close, her voice loud and deliberate.
“Lella, be good. Understand? There’s a murderer here. She killed her own child. If you misbehave, the police might take you away, too.”
I froze in place, my throat tightening.
Then she turned, her eyes locking on mine, smiling that poisonous smile. “Clara… ten years have passed. Are you still comfortable eating out here?”
The restaurant fell into an unnatural silence. Every gaze in the room landed on me, piercing, judging.
Whispers slithered through the air.
“That’s her?”
“She killed her daughter?”
“She doesn’t look insane…”
Their words cut sharper than any physical wound. Ten years in prison hadn’t freed me. The moment the world learned what I supposedly did, they turned. Made me eat off the floor, clean up after them, take beatings that tore my skin raw. Every “child killer” hurled at me made me wish I could disappear.
And even now, hearing her voice, I began to tremble. My throat burned, my hands shook.
Then Mara’s voice snapped through the tension—sharp, furious. “Chiara! You’re the murderer!”
