Chapter 5

Clara POV

They cut off my medication.

I heard that once Vivienne realized Julian had lost his temper, she immediately faked an illness.

Leaning against her pillows, she clutched Julian's hand and wept, claiming her chest was in agony, begging him not to leave her side.

Through her tears, she cursed me, insisting I had brought it all on myself through my own loose morals.

The moment she had Julian securely pinned down, her people made their move.

The doctor was dismissed, told that on Mrs. Sinclair's orders, his services were no longer needed.

The heat in the guest room was shut off, and the window was left cracked open, letting the freezing wind pour inside.

Fresh off a miscarriage and too weak to stand, I was discarded onto the floor of the guest room, covered only by a thin sheet.

The bleeding hadn't stopped.

Lying on my side, my consciousness drifted in and out.

My lower belly throbbed with heavy, dragging waves of pain—tightening, releasing, then tearing through me again.

Footsteps sounded outside, drawing near before halting at the door.

I could hear hushed whispers passing between the staff.

"The mistress said the meds are stopped, and the doctor was sent away."

"Then what about her...?"

"Leave her alone. The mistress said whether she lives or dies is up to fate."

The footsteps faded into the distance.

I tried to shout, but only a faint gasp pushed past my throat.

Yet every single word they said had registered with crystal clarity.

Vivienne wasn't waiting until morning to throw me out. She had changed her mind; she wanted me to die right here in this room.

Over a decade in this house, three children born from my body, and today it all boiled down to that single sentence.

Outside the window, the sky shifted from dull gray to ink black.

No lights were turned on. In the darkness, I could no longer tell whether I was awake or dreaming.

The cold seeped straight out from the marrow of my bones.

I was terribly thirsty. My lips were glued shut, my tongue plastered to the roof of my mouth, unable to swallow a drop of saliva.

I tried propping my upper body up to reach the edge of the bed, but my arms gave out, sending me crashing back down.

I thought of the three children who had been taken from me. I thought of the fourth, who never even had the chance to form. I thought of Julian violently tossing me aside, sending me crashing into that armrest.

Maybe dying right here wouldn't be so bad, I thought.

I began counting my breaths—in, out—slower and slower, my body growing lighter by the second.

Resentment was pointless; I was just so exhausted.

From the age of eight until now, over a decade, I had never lived a single day for myself.

I spent all those years counting the days, only to realize my days still belonged to someone else.

I thought of Shawn, remembering the bright smile he gave me by the school gates.

In all these dark years, that was the only thing that had nothing to do with the Sinclair family.

Suddenly, I refused to die in this room.

If I died here, I would die a Sinclair, trapped under the name they gave me.

I had to get out. Only on the outside could I truly be myself.

After who knew how long, the door creaked open a fraction, and a sliver of light cut through the dark.

It was Paul.

Paul, the butler, had served the Sinclair family his entire life.

He knelt down, checked my breathing, took my pulse, and without a word, turned and slipped back out.

Half an hour later, he returned, leading a doctor carrying a medical bag.

It was a physician he had secretly called from outside, careful not to alert the Sinclair family's private doctor.

The doctor checked my blood pressure, examined the blood pooling beneath me, and frowned deeply as he pulled a syringe from his bag, administering a coagulant.

"She's lost too much blood. If you had waited until morning, it would have been too late," the doctor whispered to Paul.

Paul nodded solemnly, slipped off his heavy coat, and draped it over my thin blanket.

The doctor dipped a cotton swab in warm water, gently dabbing it across my parched lips.

I swallowed a couple of drops, choking into a violent cough that brought up flecks of blood.

In my half-conscious haze, I grabbed hold of a hand.

The hand was thin, the knuckles prominent—completely different from Paul's or the doctor's.

I forced my eyes open with immense effort.

Old Master Sinclair stood beside me, looking down at me.

In the dim amber light, his face was cast in shadow, his expression unreadable.

He wore his signature charcoal suit, his cuffs pristine and clean.

He glanced at the blood on the floor, then shifted his gaze to Paul.

"Who ordered the medication stopped?" the old master asked.

"The mistress," Paul murmured, keeping his head low.

The old man didn't press further.

"Grandfather... let me go," I rasped, my throat raw and parched.

He didn't speak.

Summoning every ounce of strength left in my body, I tightened my grip on his hand.

"Let me go. I don't owe the Sinclair family anything anymore," I repeated.

This was the only bargaining chip I had left: the promise he made in his study all those years ago—three children, and I walk free.

All three children were born.

My heart was suspended by a thread as I said it. If he refused to honor the deal, there wasn't a soul in this house who would speak up for me.

The old master looked down at me.

My face was drained of all color, my lips cracked, the scab on my temple dark and angry. I lay there reduced to a bag of bones, yet my eyes burned with terrifying intensity.

He remained silent for a long time.

Outside, the night had turned pitch-black.

"Where do you want to go?" he finally asked.

"Anywhere," I said. "As long as it's not here."

"What if Julian looks for you?"

"He won't find me."

"What if he really tries?"

I looked at him. "Grandfather, if you let me go, he won't look. He won't go looking for someone he discarded. In his eyes, I'm already ruined."

The old master fell quiet once more.

"Shawn... all these years, I held him back. I never let him come looking for you," he said suddenly.

My fingers twitched slightly.

"Once you leave, I won't stop him anymore."

He paused. "Fine. I'll let you go."

I closed my eyes, a single tear slipping from the corner of my eye and sinking into my hair.

This was the sentence I had waited a lifetime to hear.

From the time I was eight until today, I finally had the right to choose my own destination.

The moment my strength returned slightly, the very first thing I did was call Shawn.

I used the old master's phone. Paul handed it to me and stepped outside the door.

I said only one thing: "It's me. I'm at the Sinclairs. I'm leaving."

The line went dead silent for two seconds, followed by Shawn's voice, shaking uncontrollably: "Are... are you okay?"

"I'm alive," I said.

"I'm coming right now."

"Don't come. Book the plane ticket, and I'll leave on my own," I whispered.

"Where should I send the ticket?" Shawn asked.

I gave him the old master's number.

"Wait for me," Shawn said.

Hearing his words, my hand shook so violently I could barely hold the phone.

All these years, I hadn't dared make a single call to him. Yet he didn't ask where I had been or what I had endured.

He simply said, "Wait for me."

The ticket was handed directly to the old master that very day, and he tucked it into the side pocket of my luggage himself.

I didn't touch a single cent of the Sinclair family's money.

Holding my own identification—the document that bore the name Clara Vance—I walked out the Sinclair family doors.

Grandfather had Paul drive me. The car was parked at the back gate; no one saw a thing.

Paul didn't ask where I was heading, and I didn't say.

I carried that single small duffel bag.

The clothes, the jewelry, the apartment keys—everything was laid out neatly in that empty guest room, completely untouched.

Even the name I had carried for over a decade was left behind in that room. From this day forward, I would never answer to it again.

As the car merged onto the highway, I looked back once toward the Sinclair estate. The car rounded a bend, and everything vanished from view.

At the airport, Paul didn't get out, only rolling down his window halfway.

"Once you get there, don't call back. I'll handle things here," he said.

"Paul," I stood by the car door, "thank you."

Paul waved a dismissive hand and rolled the window back up.

Luggage in hand, I walked into the terminal. My boarding pass was already printed; all that remained was security.

Standing at the checkpoint, I glanced back. Paul's car was still idling outside.

Turning around, I placed my bag onto the conveyor belt and stepped through the metal detector.

As the plane took off, I leaned against the window, watching the houses on the ground shrink smaller and smaller.

The roof of the Sinclair mansion disappeared. The city vanished. In the end, only clouds remained.

I closed my eyes.

I didn't know how long the flight would take, nor did I know what awaited me when I landed.

All I knew was that from this day forward, not a single person on earth could ever order me to stand in that corner again.

What I owed this family had been paid in full today.

In my hand, I still clutched that boarding pass, and printed in the name box were two words: Clara Vance.