Chapter 2

Clara's POV

When the anesthesia wore off, a dull, agonizing ache tore through my lower abdomen like a blunt blade sawing back and forth.

Lying in the hospital bed, memories of my childhood flooded my mind.

I grew up with the Brooks family.

My foster mother worked as a live-in maid for wealthy households, while my foster father was an addicted gambler. Whenever he lost money, he would stagger home with a bottle of liquor and smash everything in sight.

I spent my childhood huddled behind the door, listening to him shatter bowls and hearing my foster mother scream and weep in the yard.

Nobody ever helped me.

When I scraped my knees, I crawled up and dusted myself off. When I starved, I chugged cold tap water. I only dared to cry after my foster father passed out drunk.

When I was seven, I came down with a burning fever in the dead of winter. My foster father didn't want to waste money on medicine, so he tossed me outside in the cold yard.

I lay shivering in a pile of straw for three days straight until I became delirious.

A neighbor heard my faint groans, opened their gate, and carried me to a local clinic for an IV drip. That was the only reason I survived.

When I turned ten, my foster mother packed a small duffel bag and left. She never came back.

Every time my foster father got drunk after that, he grabbed a broom and beat me, screaming that I was a useless burden.

That was when I learned that crying and begging were completely useless against cruel people.

I learned to swallow every bit of pain. I wore a bright smile, greeted everyone politely, and worked harder than anyone else so no one could find fault with me.

The day the Grays pulled up in their luxury car to take me in, I stood outside their massive iron gates, my palms sweating so much that my sleeves were soaked.

I genuinely believed my nightmare was finally over.

I wore a faded, oversized jacket that day, too intimidated to take a single step forward.

It was Ethan who walked down the front steps. He knelt on one knee in front of me and pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket.

Gently, he wiped the dust from my cheeks.

His hands were warm. His touch was incredibly gentle.

After cleaning my face, he took off his coat and draped it over my frail shoulders.

The coat was huge, hanging past my knees.

I hid my hands inside the sleeves, terrified he would see the dirt under my fingernails.

Ethan didn't force me. He just whispered, "Let's go inside. Don't stand out here in the cold."

In all my life, he was the first person who didn't look at me with disgust, the first person who reached out to wipe my face clean.

Every shred of hope I ever carried took root from that single handkerchief.

Later on, Ethan guided me into their elite social circle.

He taught me who everyone was, how to hold a wine glass, and how to carry myself at banquets.

When I walked too slowly in heels, he slowed his pace to match mine, never once calling me clumsy.

Once at a high-society dinner, I misspoke, and the whole table chuckled mockingly at my expense.

Ethan smoothly stepped in with a warm smile, defusing the tension and handling the room with ease.

Back then, I really believed that was his special love for me.

During my second year with the Grays, Ethan took my hand in the courtyard.

He said, "Clara, until Chloe is found, this family needs a daughter. Hold this spot for Mr. Gray."

I nodded.

When I said yes, I thought to myself: If I just do well enough, if I hold onto this spot long enough, it will eventually become mine.

I treasured every bit of kindness Ethan ever showed me.

I remembered the drinks he blocked for me at parties. I remembered his soaked pant legs when he picked me up in the pouring rain. I remembered him saying, "Clara, you don't have to be afraid anymore."

And I truly stopped being afraid.

I even secretly saved photos of engagement rings on my phone, quietly calculating which neighborhood we might buy a home in one day.

I never told a soul about those dreams. I just wrote them down on tiny scraps of paper.

I held that position for the Grays for years.

I memorized the exact essential oils Evelyn preferred. I woke up early every single morning to brew Thomas's pour-over coffee. I pressed Ethan's shirts and ties until not a single wrinkle remained.

I thought if I was just obedient enough, the Grays would be my real family.

Until the real Chloe was found.