Adrian lay back against the pillows, his arm lazily draped around Clara as they both caught their breath. The peace in the room was palpable, the tension from their earlier encounter fading into a soft, heavy silence. For a brief moment, it felt like everything was perfect—until Adrian’s thoughts began creeping back in.
Clara rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles across his skin. "You’re quiet," she murmured, her voice soft. "What are you thinking?"
Adrian stared up at the ceiling, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t sure if he should bring it up, but he couldn’t ignore the nagging voice in his head. "This thing between us," he began slowly, his voice rough with hesitation, "it’s… complicated, Clara."
Clara frowned, lifting her head to look at him. "What do you mean?"
Adrian sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, you’re too young, Clara. You’re… Richard’s daughter."
The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw the way Clara’s expression shifted, her eyes narrowing in disbelief, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. "What does that even mean?" she asked, her tone sharp. "You knew all of that before anything happened between us, Adrian."
"I know," he said quickly, trying to explain. "But this isn’t right. You’re still so young, and your father—"
"Stop bringing up my father!" Clara snapped, sitting up abruptly. "Why does everything always come back to him? I’m not some child, Adrian. I’m not some possession for my father to control."
"I’m not saying that," Adrian argued, sitting up as well. "But you have to admit this—whatever we have—it’s wrong. I’m… I’m older than you. And your father—he’s my brother. What do you think he’ll say if he ever finds out?"
Clara’s hands trembled with anger as she pulled the covers off, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. "So that’s what this is about?" she asked coldly, grabbing her shirt from the floor and slipping it on. "You’re afraid of my father finding out?"
"It’s not just that," Adrian insisted, but Clara wasn’t listening anymore. She was already standing, pulling her clothes on in quick, jerky movements. "Clara, wait."
"I knew this would happen," she muttered, her voice breaking. "I knew you’d regret it. You always act like you care, but the moment it gets difficult, you just… you push me away."
Adrian stood up, moving toward her, but she backed away from him. "Clara, I care about you. You know I do. But this… it’s complicated. It’s not just about us."
Clara laughed bitterly, shaking her head as she grabbed her bag. "You don’t care, Adrian. If you cared, you wouldn’t keep making excuses. You wouldn’t keep reminding me of my age or my father like I’m some kind of… of mistake."
"You’re not a mistake," Adrian said, his voice strained. "I’m just trying to protect you."
"Protect me?" Clara’s voice was filled with disbelief. "From what? From yourself?"
Adrian didn’t have an answer, and that only seemed to anger her more. "You know what?" she said, her voice trembling with rage. "I hate you. I hate that I ever thought this could work. I hate that I ever gave myself to you."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, Adrian was speechless. "Clara—"
"Don’t," she cut him off, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "Don’t say anything. I’m done."
Before he could stop her, Clara stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Adrian stood there in the empty space she left behind, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what just happened. He heard the sound of her car engine starting outside, and it jolted him into motion.
"Clara, wait!" he called after her, rushing to the front door, but by the time he stepped outside, she was already driving away, her taillights disappearing into the night.
Adrian stood there, staring after her, a heavy weight settling in his chest. He wanted to run after her, to explain himself, to fix the mess he’d just created, but he knew it was too late. She was gone.
Clara drove blindly through the streets, her vision blurred by tears. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white as she fought to keep herself together. She felt like an idiot—angry at Adrian, angry at herself for thinking it could ever be more than what it was.
She hated him. She hated how much she wanted him, how much she cared about him, despite everything. And now she was left feeling more broken than before, her heart aching with regret and frustration.
As she pulled into her driveway, she wiped her eyes quickly, not wanting anyone at home to see the state she was in. But inside, she felt completely shattered.
She slammed the car door shut and hurried inside, desperate to escape the storm of emotions raging inside her. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just lost something she could never get back.
Clara lay on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, her eyes red and swollen from crying. The argument with Adrian replayed in her mind on an endless loop, each word cutting deeper than the last. She felt raw, broken, and utterly lost. Skipping dinner was her way of avoiding more questions from her father, but now the silence of her room was suffocating. She could feel the weight of everything pressing down on her, the gravity of what had just happened with Adrian, their toxic push and pull, gnawing at her insides.
She tossed restlessly in bed, unable to find any peace. Her stomach churned with a mixture of exhaustion and nausea, and after a few minutes, she forced herself to get up. The air in her room felt too thick, and she needed to breathe. She stumbled into the bathroom, turning on the sink and splashing cold water onto her face in an attempt to calm down.
As she reached for a towel to dry off, her eyes caught something on the bathroom shelf—a small, unopened box of tampons. Her hand froze. A strange wave of realization washed over her as she stared at the box. Her period was late.
Clara blinked, confused at first, then panic started to rise in her chest. She quickly ran through the dates in her head, trying to remember when her last cycle had been, but everything was a blur. The weeks had melted together—between school, the stress of the Caldwell's drama, her secret meetings with Adrian, and the constant arguments with her father.
Her heart began to race as the truth slowly dawned on her. She was late. She should have had her period at least a week ago.
“No…” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling.
Her mind went into overdrive, trying to find an explanation. Maybe it was just stress. That had to be it—stress could mess with your cycle, right? But deep down, she couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, the creeping suspicion that this was more than just a late period.
Clara leaned against the bathroom counter, her breath coming in shallow bursts. A million thoughts flooded her mind, all of them spinning out of control. What if…?