(Clara’s POV)
I was exhausted when I parked the truck outside the house, my hands aching from hauling sacks of feed and crates of fresh produce all day. The farm was thriving—thanks mostly to my father’s generosity and the workers he’d sponsored—but the weight of keeping my marriage intact drained me more than any labor ever could.
With groceries hanging from one arm, I unlocked the door, humming softly to keep myself awake, already thinking about what I’d cook for dinner.
The sight that greeted me froze the blood in my veins.
My husband, my Daniel, was strapped to a chair in the middle of our living room. His arms were bound tight with silver duct tape, wrists purple from the pressure. His mouth was sealed shut with another strip, and muffled sounds—choked groans, desperate pleas—esca
