Chapter 35 Ethan slaps Clara
Chapter 35 Ethan slaps Clara
Clara's POV
The heavy oak door swung inward, then back with a sudden gust of wind, Ethan’s hand still on the knob. He almost slammed it shut before I could even clear the threshold. I caught it with my hip, Nora a warm, heavy bundle against my chest.
“You’re out there embarrassing yourself, you know that?” I said, my voice tight, barely above a whisper, but laced with a fury I couldn’t control. “Not me. You. You can’t even calm your own daughter down when she’s crying. What kind of man does that make you?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch. His eyes, usually so sharp, were distant, fixed on some point in the air just above my head. He simply released the door, letting it thud softly against the frame, and then he started up the grand staircase. Each step was a deliberate, heavy sound in the otherwise silent house.
I looked around the sprawling foyer, at the closed doors, the hushed darkness. Everyone was sleeping. My parents-in-law, his siblings—all of them tucked away in their comfortable, gilded cages. And I knew, with a bitter certainty, that even if they heard us, they wouldn’t stir. They’d stood by for years, watching him mistreat me, watching him chip away at my soul, piece by agonizing piece.
My arm tightened around Nora. She stirred in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her tiny lips. My precious girl. I hugged her closer, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair, and resolved that no one, especially not him, would ever make her feel like this.
“Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, Clara,” he called down, his voice echoing from the landing, flat and menacing. He didn't even turn around. It was a threat, not a statement.
“There’ll be no peace for you,” I retorted, my voice rising, no longer caring if I woke the entire house. My chest ached, a sharp, burning pain. “Not as long as you keep treating Nora like… like she’s nothing. Like she’s a burden.”
He stopped then, mid-step, his back still to me. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, he turned slowly, his eyes finally meeting mine, but they were cold, devoid of any warmth.
“Peace?” he scoffed, a dark laugh rumbling in his chest. “You want peace? You want me to play doting father to your illegitimate child? Don’t try to force you and that… that thing on me. A blind man could tell I’m not the father. I don’t understand why you keep trying to make it seem like I’m not present.”
My breath hitched. The words, like a thousand razor blades, sliced through me. Illegitimate child. Thing. I’d heard it before, too many times to count, variations of the same cruel lie. Since Nora was born, he’d thrown that accusation at me whenever he wanted to inflict maximum pain. Every single time, I felt a white-hot rage, a desperate urge to reach for a knife, put it in his heart, and watch the life drain from his cruel eyes.
“How dare you?” I choked out, my voice trembling, tears pricking at my eyes. I blinked them back savagely. Not in front of him. Never in front of him. “How dare you say such disgusting things about your own daughter? She’s your blood, Ethan! Even if the heavens fall, she is Nora Hayes. She will bear your name. She is your daughter.”
He shook his head, a look of profound disappointment on his face, as if I was the one who had wronged him. “I was with Liana for years, Clara. Years. She never once got pregnant. Not once. And I know you, I know your reputation. You sleep around. Don’t test my patience.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled up from deep inside me, sharp and bitter. It was the laugh of a woman pushed past her breaking point, the sound echoing in the cavernous hall. “Liana? You’re bringing Liana into this now? Who is it, Ethan? Who is the other woman? Who is that bitch who’s whispering in your ear, making you turn against your own family?”
His face hardened. “You’re an empty vessel, Clara. Utterly empty.”
That was it. The last straw. The rage, cold and absolute, finally burst free. My free hand shot up, fingers splayed, aiming for the contemptuous sneer on his perfect face. I wanted to wipe it off. I wanted to feel the sting of impact, the small, fleeting satisfaction of striking back.
But he was faster. His hand shot out, a blur of motion, catching my wrist mid-air. His grip was like iron, bruising, painful. My hand hung suspended, inches from his face, Nora still nestled against my other arm, oblivious in her innocent sleep. My breath hitched, caught in my throat.