The Warmth Clara Gave Me
1336 Words
Clara’s voice trembled, and then, with a shimmer of tears, her whole face lit up with surprise and joy.
I froze, my throat tightening. “...Clara.”
Although Clara was only a maid in this household, she was the only one who had ever truly been kind to me.
The other servants always treated me with polite indifference, their tones distant and detached.
To them, the Locke family had only one daughter—Evangeline. I was nothing but air.
That sweltering summer when I broke out in a rash in the stuffy storeroom, it was Clara who used her own money to buy me a small fan.
In winter, when I was shivering from the cold, she secretly brought me an electric blanket.
Thinking of that, an ache rose in my chest, my nose stinging for no reason.
Her gaze fell on the plastic bag in my hand, and her voice turned cautious. “Miss Aria… are you leaving?”
I nodded. I didn’t explain—didn’t even know how to.
A shadow passed over Clara’s eyes. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end, only sighed softly.
“...At least let me tend to your wound.”
“It’s just a scratch,” I shook my head. “Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”
Her expression faltered. For a moment, I saw something in her eyes that made my heart tighten—not pity, but pain.
She forced a smile. “You haven’t eaten since you came home. Let me make you some noodles before you go, alright?”
“No.” The word slipped out before I could stop it.
The tone of my voice was too cold—even I felt it was wrong. So I added softly, “If I leave early, I can find a place to stay sooner.”
The truth was, I just didn’t want to eat the Lockes’ food anymore.
No matter how poor I became, I wouldn’t accept their charity.
I had lost everything—even my own body was no longer whole—but at least I still had a shred of pride.
What they owed me, I no longer wanted. But I would never again accept their pity.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to speak. “Clara, I should go.”
She stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly pulled a wad of bills from her pocket and pressed them into my hand.
“Take it,” she said. “You’ll need it on the road. You can’t be out there alone without somewhere to stay.”
I instinctively tried to push it back, but her grip tightened.
“Be good—don’t be stubborn.” Her voice was choked. “Take care of yourself.”
I looked down at the money, and my vision blurred.
Tears finally welled up and fell onto the back of her hand.
Someone with no blood ties to me… could still feel pain for me.
Yet the ones who should have cared—never did.
The Locke family’s garage was eerily silent.
I could hear the wind threading through the trees, and somewhere far off, the faint hum of an insect.
Just as I was about to leave, I suddenly heard a familiar engine start up.
I turned around—Julian’s black sedan was parked in the garage. The door was open, and he was sitting in the driver’s seat, head lowered, eyes fixed on the dashcam.
The faint light from the screen flickered across his face. I could just make out what was playing—it was the footage from our drive home from the prison.
What was he watching? Of course, I knew.
From start to finish, my hands had been on my knees, my body leaned against the window, not saying a single word.
That gown? I hadn’t even cared to glance at it.
So—he had finally realized he’d accused the wrong person.
Thinking back to the scene in the banquet hall, my heart turned colder still. In all those eyes, there had been only avoidance, fear, and guilt.
They were afraid of the truth.
Afraid to look at the footage.
Because once they did, they could never again pin the blame on me.
I turned away, ready to keep walking.
I still said to Clara, “Clara, don’t see me off. You should go back.”
“Miss Aria, please be careful. If anything happens, call me.”
I smiled faintly, a small, tired smile.
Her voice was so gentle—it only made the ache in my chest worse.
Just as I was about to leave, a sudden rush of footsteps sounded behind me.
Heavy, angry steps striking the stone floor with a deep, echoing thud.
I stopped instinctively.
Even without hearing clearly, I could feel that familiar pressure—it was Julian.
Clara seemed startled too. I saw her expression freeze as she exclaimed, “Young Master Julian, why are you here?”
Julian? What was he doing here?
He strode toward me, fury radiating from him.
That familiar presence, the heavy breathing, that suffocating authority—it was just like before, every time he’d spoken down to me.
I didn’t turn around. I just kept walking, limping slightly.
The next second, a hand grabbed me—hard.
The force was terrifying.
“Are you deaf? I told you to stop—didn’t you hear me?”
His voice exploded beside my ear, nearly knocking the breath out of me.
My hearing had long since dulled.
In my right ear, only partial sound remained.
If someone didn’t speak to my face, I often couldn’t catch their words.
I lifted my head and met his face—that once-familiar, once-trusted face.
“Let go of me,” I hissed through clenched teeth.
But he didn’t listen.
“Can’t you stop causing trouble? Today is Evangeline’s birthday—you made a scene in the hall, and now you’re trying to run away? How can you be so childish!”
In that instant, it felt like needles pierced my chest.
He yanked my arm back toward him. His grip was iron, crushing into my bones. The pain forced a choked sound from my throat.
“Let me go!” I struggled with all my strength.
Tears welled in my eyes. It wasn’t weakness—it was anger, humiliation, and utter despair.
“I’m not going back,” my voice trembled. “Let me go!”
He kept pulling me, and I could barely stand. My injured leg had long since gone weak; every step felt like being stabbed by needles.
In that moment, it felt as if I had fallen back into that damp prison cell—
The same helplessness, the same control, the same suffocating air.
Clara ran toward us, her voice urgent. “Young Master Julian, please—she’s hurt! You’re hurting her!”
I felt Julian’s grip tighten for a moment, then ease slightly, but he still didn’t let go. His hands were like iron clamps, locked around my arm.
“Come home with me.”
His brows were furrowed, his tone as commanding as ever.
I gave a cold, bitter laugh, anger and humiliation surging through me until I could barely breathe.
“I’d rather die out there than live another day in the Locke house.”
The instant the words left my mouth, I saw fury ignite in his eyes—
A look I knew all too well. Whenever he lost control, whenever he couldn’t win an argument, he always chose force.
The next second, his leg jerked upward.
Pain exploded in my calf.
I didn’t even have time to react before I was kicked hard to the ground.
“Ah—!”
The sound that tore from my throat was jagged, almost foreign to my own ears. I could barely hear my own cry—only feel the searing pain spreading through my leg like fire.
- Writer
