For the next seven days, Clara lived in a world of ghosts. To the maids who brought her meals, to the medical staff who checked her vitals, and even to the cold walls of Vance Manor, she remained the broken, sightless heiress. She practiced keeping her gaze carefully unfocused, letting her eyes drift empty and hollow even when she could perfectly see the dust motes dancing in the morning light. It was an exhausting, deeply psychological masquerade, but every time she felt like dropping the facade, the memory of her stepmother’s cruel laughter burned in her mind.
She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was predatory, waiting for the perfect second to strike.
It was Tuesday afternoon, just two days before the critical Mercer Group board meeting. Clara stood near the grand, arched windows
