Chapter 4: Seeking Answers
840 Words
The city still shimmered beneath the penthouse windows, but Lydia couldn’t breathe in the Crest tower. Not with her on the floor, not with her grandfather's voice replaying in her head, not with the memory of Clarissa’s smirk. Not with the five-year memory of pain and torture.
She slipped into a mesh gown, quietly shut the door behind her, her hands trembling slightly, her bare feet silent against the polished floor. Damian’s office door loomed ahead, locked, of course, but she wasn’t aiming for him tonight. Not yet.
The gala still pulsed in her blood, and she needed answers. Answers: Clarissa might slip into her arrogance. The driver raised an eyebrow when Lydia requested a drop at the Prowse estate, but he didn’t question her. By the time she stepped out, midnight had curled across the sky, wrapping the grand mansion in shadows.
Clarissa was waiting. Not for Lydia, but for Daniel, judging by the way her robe hung loosely around her shoulders, a glass of wine in hand. She nearly dropped it when Lydia appeared from the darkness of the veranda.
“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal sister,” Clarissa said, recovering quickly. Her lips curved into that venom-slick smile. “Shouldn’t you be tucked safely in Crest’s glided cage?” Lydia’s pulse hammered, but she forced her chin up. “What were you doing at the hospital before Grandfather died?”
The smile faltered. Just for a second. Then returned sharper.” Ah. So the ghosts are whispering to you now?” She placed the glass down, her nails clicking against the stem. “You must have been happy when Damian came to your rescue at the Gala. Please. He only protects his investments. Nothing more.”
Lydia stood, shifting weight from one leg to another. “That wasn’t my question.” Clarissa leaned in close, the scent of her perfume thick, cloying. “You really don’t want to know. Trust me. Damian’s truth is worse than mine.”
Her laugh rang out, hollow. “And when you’re done playing his little wife, you’ll be tossed out soon.”
The words sliced deep. Lydia took a step back, clutching hard to her dress, chest tight. But then, movement in the shadows caught her eye. Daniel.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Well, well, look who we have here. She doesn’t believe you, Clarissa,” he drawled. “But she will. Sooner or later.
Lydia's breath caught. “You…when did you get like this? Did wealth blind you so much that you cannot see what is right in front of you?”
“I chose Clarissa, not you. Deal with it.”
The weight of betrayal pressed so hard against her chest she thought she might choke. Before Clarissa could plunge the knife deeper, headlights swept the driveway. A black car. Sleek. Familiar. Damian.
Clarissa’s smugness melted into something sharper, more wicked. She brushed past Lydia, her robe whispering across the marble. “Careful, sister. What do you tell him when he asks why you are sneaking around? What will you say then?”
With slow but deliberate steps, tall and composed, his presence swallowed the night. He had one hand in his pockets as he walked towards them with veins showing and nostrils flaring. His eyes locked on Lydia immediately. She froze, her palms suddenly becoming sweaty, her heart racing unexpectedly.
“Get in the car,” he ordered, voice low, leaving no room for disobedience. The ride back was quiet and suffocating. Damian’s silence was worse than his anger. He sat rigid, his fingers tapping vigorously on the steering wheel, staring out the window, but his eyes burned every time they flicked to her.
When they arrived at the penthouse, he finally broke the silence, his words a blade against her skin. “You went to them?”
Lydia swallowed hard. “I needed answers.” his laugh was humorless, brittle. “And you thought Clarissa would give them to you?” She fought hard to keep her fingers still as they trembled against her dress. “She was there, Damian. At the hospital. Before my grandfather died. And so were you.”
The car stopped. Silence engulfed them yet again. His face turned towards her, his brows raised slightly. “You really have no idea what you are talking about,” but his eyes betrayed him.
When Lydia returned to her room that night, her phone was waiting face up on the bed as if placed there. Another message from Anonymous. “You’re getting closer. Clarissa won't break. But Damian might.”
Attached a photo.
Her grandfather’s hospital room again, but this time the angle was different. It wasn’t security footage. It was taken by someone inside. And in the corner of the image, partially hidden, was a reflection in the glass.
Lydia’s breath caught.
It wasn’t Clarissa.
It wasn’t Damian.
It was Daniel.
The phone slipped from her hands as the truth spun like knives in her chest.
- Writer
