Chapter 1
432 Words
Clara Sinclair didn’t plan on stepping into danger. She just wanted a silk dress.
The warm breeze of Singapore brushed her cheeks as she stepped out of the boutique with two bags swinging on her forearms. Her sundress was white, flowing with golden floral embroidery — designed by her, of course.
A tourist might mistake her for a carefree young woman spending her afternoon shopping in Orchard Road.
But Clara was anything but carefree.
She adjusted her sunglasses, her mind drifted to her older brother, Runnip. It had been three weeks since he stopped messaging her. No texts, no calls, no emoji-filled emotion notes, nothing. He said he was busy starting university in Singapore, but even Runnip wasn’t the type to ghost his sister.
And now, here she was — 21, graduated in fashion design and roaming unfamiliar streets under the excuse of a design inspiration tour. But the truth ran deeper.
Runnip was hiding something.
And Clara… she had never been good at waiting.
She crossed the road and stepped into a little café tucked between two towering buildings. It was quiet, the kind of place only locals seemed to know. The bell above the door jingled softly and a wave of cool air and the rich aroma of coffee and caramel wrapped around her like a soft shawl.
Clara paused to soak it in.
The interior was minimalistic, but elegant — earthy tones, dim golden lighting, and soft jazz humming in the background.
Clara’s eyes skimmed the crowd: businessmen typing away, couples whispering over croissants, a few students hunched over textbooks — ordinary, peaceful. She liked that.
A young waiter approached her table, nervous smile in place.
“Miss, would you like a menu?”
Clara offered a faint smile. “Just a cold brew, light ice, and a slice of your softest cheesecake.”
“Right away,” he replied, nodding quickly before walking off.
She leaned back against the booth, stretching her arms a little. Phone resting on the table, notifications buzzed silently. She ignored them. She didn’t know why she felt so restless lately — like something was off.
Watching her, maybe?
Or waiting?
She brushed it off. Clara Sinclair didn’t spook easy.
She pulled out her sketchbook and flipped through rough designs: structured blazers with razor-sharp shoulders, flowing dresses that blend silk and steel, and a half-finished gown that had been stuck in her head for weeks.
She scribbled new lines, fingers working fast, guided by instincts more than thoughts. She barely noticed when the drink arrived.
The first sip sent a chill down her throat.
- Writer
