Chapter 114 up
“—Why are you awake?”
Clark’s voice came from behind her, low and cautious.
Elara didn’t turn around. She stood by the window, one hand resting on the glass, the other unconsciously curved over her stomach. The city lights below shimmered like something alive, restless, unable to sleep—much like her.
“I couldn’t,” she said simply.
Clark paused. She heard the soft rustle of fabric as he loosened his tie, the familiar sound that usually meant the end of the day, safety, routine. Tonight, it sounded like a warning.
“You should be resting,” he added. “The doctor said—”
“I know what the doctor said.” Elara finally turned, cutting him off. Her eyes met his, sharp despite the exhaustion lining them. “You’ve said it three times already.”
Clark stiffened. “I’m just worried.”
The word worried hovered between them, hollow. Elara studied his face—too controlled, too careful. A man choosing every expression the way one chooses words in a courtroom.
“About me,” she asked quietly, “or about something else?”
Clark frowned. “What does that mean?”
Elara didn’t answer. Instead, she moved past him, brushing his arm as she crossed the room. The contact was brief, but she felt him flinch.
That was new.
She sat on the edge of the bed, picked up her phone, then set it back down. Clark watched her closely, as if waiting for an accusation, a trap.
“You’ve been distant,” she said at last.
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what?”
He hesitated—just a fraction of a second. Enough.
“Work,” he said.
Elara nodded slowly. “Of course.”
Silence stretched. Clark reached for his watch, then seemed to think better of it. Elara noticed everything now. The way he avoided stillness. The way his eyes flicked away whenever she looked at him too long.
“Clark,” she said, her voice calm but deliberate, “did you ever want children?”
The question landed heavier than she expected. Clark froze.
“I—” He exhaled. “That’s not exactly something people want or don’t want. It happens when it happens.”
Elara tilted her head. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s an honest one.”
“No,” she corrected softly. “It’s a safe one.”
His jaw tightened. “Why are you asking me this now?”
Because another woman had planted a sentence in her mind like a seed soaked in poison. Because his silence had watered it. Because she could no longer ignore the shape it was taking.
“I just want to know,” she said. “If this is new territory for you.”
Clark’s eyes darkened. “What are you implying?”
Elara held his gaze. “Is this the first time?”
The air shifted. Something unseen cracked.
Clark let out a sharp breath. “You’re tired. You should sleep.”
There it was again—the dismissal wrapped in concern.
“Answer me,” Elara said.
Clark turned away. “This isn’t the right time for this conversation.”
Her chest tightened. Not denial. Not reassurance. Avoidance.
That night, after Clark fell asleep—if pretending to sleep counted—Elara lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His back was to her, a wall she couldn’t climb anymore.
By morning, the doubt had hardened into resolve.
“Mrs. Hale?”
Elara looked up from the café table. A woman in her early forties stood across from her, holding a tablet close to her chest.
“Yes?”
“I’m Mara. We spoke on the phone.”
Right. The alumni office. Elara gestured for her to sit.
“I hope this isn’t inconvenient,” Mara said politely as she took the chair.
“Not at all,” Elara replied. Her fingers curled around her cup, though she hadn’t touched the coffee. “You said you had information about Clark’s early years.”
Mara smiled faintly. “Some. Though records from that period are… incomplete.”
Elara’s pulse quickened. “Incomplete how?”
Mara tapped her tablet, scrolling. “Clark withdrew for a semester during his final year. There were notes about ‘personal circumstances.’ No details.”
Elara swallowed. “Was anyone else involved?”
Mara hesitated. “There was a scholarship fund allocated during that time. Unusual, given his family’s resources.”
“A fund for what?” Elara asked.
Mara looked up. “For dependents.”
The word echoed.
“Dependents,” Elara repeated.
“Yes,” Mara said carefully. “The paperwork didn’t specify names. Only age range.”
Elara’s breath caught. “How old?”
Mara glanced back at the screen. “Newborn to infant.”
The café noise faded into a distant hum. Elara felt as though the floor beneath her chair had tilted.
“Thank you,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “That’s all I needed.”
Mara looked at her with something close to sympathy. “If you need copies—”
“No,” Elara said quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”
She stood, leaving the coffee untouched.
Outside, the air felt too sharp. Elara pressed a hand to her stomach, grounding herself. Newborn to infant. The words wrapped around her thoughts like wire.
That evening, she went further.
She searched quietly—old addresses, property records, charitable foundations. She followed the trail of money, the gaps between timelines. Nothing concrete. No names. Just absences where there should have been answers.
By the time Clark came home, her hands were shaking.
“Did you have a child?” she asked the moment he stepped inside.
Clark stopped mid-step. His keys fell from his hand, clattering against the floor.
“What?” he said.
“Before me,” Elara pressed. “Before us.”
Clark bent to pick up the keys, his movements stiff. “Where is this coming from?”
“Answer the question.”
He straightened. His face was pale. “You’re crossing a line.”
Her heart sank. “So it’s true.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
Clark ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve been digging.”
“I’ve been listening,” she shot back. “To everything you never said.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” Elara whispered, “is letting me believe I’m carrying your first child when I might not be.”
Clark’s mouth opened, then closed. His silence roared.
Elara stepped back, tears burning her eyes. “How many times have you done this? How many lives have you separated like chapters you didn’t want to reread?”
“It’s complicated,” he said finally.
Her laugh was brittle. “It always is when the truth is inconvenient.”