CHAPTER 3
1081 Words
Trapped
Clara’s fingers curled around the brass handle, twisting it again and again, but it didn’t budge.
Her breath came in quick, sharp bursts.
Locked.
A cold chill crawled down her spine as she pressed her ear to the door, listening.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway—Smith’s. They grew fainter, fading into the vast estate, leaving her alone.
Her stomach twisted.
She turned, scanning the massive bedroom. Luxurious? Yes. But a prison all the same.
The fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows on the silk wallpaper. A vanity stood by the window, its polished surface gleaming under the chandelier’s glow. Across the room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the sprawling estate grounds, stretching into darkness.
She hurried to them, gripping the cool glass.
Beyond the vast gardens, a high wrought-iron gate loomed in the distance. Her only way out.
Her gaze dropped to the balcony below. It wasn’t far—maybe a six-foot drop.
She exhaled. Do I risk it?
The thought barely formed before a deep voice shattered the silence.
“Don’t even think about it.”
A Warning
Clara spun, her pulse hammering.
Smith stood in the doorway, his suit jacket gone, his sleeves rolled up. His sharp blue eyes locked onto her, unreadable.
“How—?” she started, glancing at the door.
His smirk deepened. “I have the key.”
Clara clenched her jaw.
He strolled inside, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking toward the balcony. “Planning an escape?”
“I want to leave,” she said firmly.
He exhaled as if she were being unreasonable. “You’re my wife now, Clara. You belong here.”
She took a step back. “This isn’t a marriage. It’s a contract I was forced into.”
Smith tilted his head. “You weren’t forced. You said the vows yourself.”
“I didn’t have a choice!”
His gaze darkened. “There’s always a choice.”
She shook her head. “James—”
Smith’s expression hardened.
“What happened to him?” she pressed. “Where is he?”
A tense silence stretched between them.
Finally, Smith stepped closer, his voice dropping. “He left you.”
Clara’s breath hitched.
“He left you standing at the altar, Clara. I was the only one who showed up.”
Her hands trembled at her sides. “That doesn’t explain why you married me instead.”
Smith smirked. “Because I always get what I want.”
Her stomach twisted.
James had loved her. She was sure of it. But then, why did he run?
And why did she have the terrible feeling that Smith knew more than he was saying?
Dinner with the Devil
“Come,” Smith said, his voice smooth, unwavering. “You must be hungry.”
Clara’s stomach betrayed her with a soft growl.
She hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, she followed him out of the room, walking through the grand halls of the Richmond estate.
The dining room was fit for royalty—a massive mahogany table, golden chandeliers, towering windows overlooking the gardens.
A meal had already been set—a feast of roasted lamb, mashed potatoes, sautéed greens, and fresh bread.
Clara didn’t touch her seat.
Smith gestured toward it. “Sit.”
She folded her arms. “I don’t take orders.”
His lips twitched. “Fine. I’ll ask nicely. Sit.”
She hesitated, then slowly lowered herself into the chair, her muscles tense.
Smith took his seat across from her, cutting into his lamb with practiced ease.
Clara eyed her plate warily. “Did you drug this?”
Smith chuckled. “I don’t need to drug my wife to keep her here.”
She scoffed. “You locked me in a room.”
He shrugged. “You looked like you needed rest.”
Clara’s fingers curled around the silverware. “I want answers, Smith.”
“Then eat,” he said simply.
Her jaw tightened.
Reluctantly, she took a bite, her hunger outweighing her pride.
For a while, silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft clink of utensils.
Then—
“Why me?” Clara asked.
Smith didn’t pause. “Why not you?”
She frowned. “You’re a billionaire. You could have any woman. Why me?”
His eyes darkened. “Because you were supposed to be mine from the start.”
Clara’s breath caught.
“What?” she whispered.
Smith leaned forward slightly, his gaze locked onto hers. “James stole you from me.”
Her blood ran cold.
“No,” she said slowly. “James and I—”
“—were never meant to be,” Smith interrupted. “He knew that. That’s why he ran.”
Clara’s hands trembled. He’s lying. He has to be.
But deep down, doubt crept in.
Had James always known? Had she been a pawn in a game she didn’t even realize she was playing?
A Ghost from the Past
A sudden knock at the door made Clara jump.
Smith’s jaw tightened.
A butler entered, bowing slightly. “Sir, there’s a visitor.”
Smith’s gaze darkened. “Who?”
The butler hesitated. “It’s… Vivian.”
Clara’s head snapped up. Vivian?
Smith exhaled sharply. “Of course, it is.”
The butler stepped aside, and Vivian swept into the room.
She was breathtaking as always—elegant, poised, her dark curls cascading over her shoulders.
Her sharp green eyes flicked between Clara and Smith before she smirked. “Well. Isn’t this cozy?”
Clara’s stomach twisted.
Vivian had been James’ best friend. And now, she was here.
Why?
Vivian’s gaze landed on Clara, her smirk deepening. “My dear, you’ve certainly upgraded.”
Clara stiffened.
Smith sighed. “What do you want, Vivian?”
Vivian’s lips curled. “Oh, just to congratulate the newlyweds. And… to deliver a message.”
Clara’s heart pounded. “What message?”
Vivian’s gaze flicked to Smith. “From James.”
Silence crashed over the room.
Clara’s breath hitched. “He—he sent you?”
Vivian tilted her head. “Didn’t he, Smith?”
Clara turned to him sharply. “You said you didn’t know where he was.”
Smith’s expression was unreadable. “I don’t.”
Vivian chuckled. “Oh, darling. Of course, he does.”
Clara’s head spun. What the hell is going on?
Vivian stepped closer, lowering her voice. “James didn’t run, Clara.”
Clara’s heart pounded.
Vivian’s green eyes locked onto hers.
“He was taken.”
- Writer
