Breaking Free

Pale morning light filtered through the window as dew gathered against the cold glass. Clara rolled her stiff shoulders and looked down at her phone screen. Every single call she had placed to Desmond sat unanswered in her log.

A dry, ironic smile tugged at her mouth. *Would he still hang up on me so easily if he knew I was calling to get his signature on divorce papers?*

Done waiting around, she gripped the handle of her packed suitcase and carried it down the stairs. At the sound of footsteps, Martha hurried out of the kitchen with her apron still tied around her waist, worry etched across her face. "Mrs. Mercer, where are you heading off to?"

"Martha, I'm going out to find work, and I probably won't be returning. I want you to have this as a thank-you for how well you've treated me," Clara said, placing a small velvet box directly into the older woman's palms.

Resting inside the lining was an intricate necklace Clara had designed for a major competition seven years ago. Back then, her unexpected pregnancy had sent Desmond into a violent rage, and he had smashed the piece across the floor.

Martha had stayed up all night on her knees, collecting every scattered gemstone and painstakingly piecing the broken chain back together. Though the housekeeper had returned the repaired piece to her the next morning, Clara's promising career had effectively died that night.

Through all the bleak years that followed, Martha remained the only person under this roof who genuinely cared for her well-being, and the only one who respectfully addressed her as "Mrs. Mercer."

Clara had held onto the repaired necklace as a quiet relic of the woman she used to be. Now that she was walking away for good, it was time to sever every remaining tie to the past.

"Look after yourself, Martha, and thank you for everything," Clara added, her voice gentle yet resolute. "If our paths ever cross again after today, please just call me Clara."

Sensing the finality in her tone, Martha realized something was terribly wrong. She immediately pulled out her phone and dialed Desmond's number, only for the line to cut dead after a single ring. She redialed right away, and once again, he rejected the call.

Growing more anxious by the second, Martha looked up as Clara walked out the front door, her sorrowful gaze catching on the pale scar marring the nape of Clara's neck.

That burn had been left behind three years ago on New Year's Eve, when Hazel accidentally knocked over a pot of boiling tea and Clara threw herself forward to shield the little girl from the scalding water.

Her third attempt to reach Desmond failed to connect just like the others. Slowly, Martha lowered her hand and stopped dialing, standing helplessly on the threshold until Clara's figure vanished down the road.

*****

Thirty minutes later, Clara stopped in front of a quiet apartment door. Sliding her key into the lock, she pushed it open and felt an immediate wave of calm wash over her as she stepped inside.

Everything remained just as she loved it—the clean minimalist lines, the open layout, and the familiar color palette, right down to the faint, comforting scent lingering in the air. Over by the window, an unfinished canvas still rested on a wooden easel, positioned just beside a framed print of *An Analysis of Mondrian's Compositions*.

She had saved up for years during college to buy this small place on her own, pouring her heart into designing every corner of the interior. After marrying Desmond, however, she had barely set foot here, dropping by only on rare occasions when she needed a quiet space to sketch.

Setting her luggage down near the entrance, Clara walked over to the window and brushed her fingertips lightly across the dry paint on the canvas. Looking at the brushstrokes felt like coming face-to-face with her nineteen-year-old self, back when her whole life was brimming with ambition. *How did I ever let myself give all of this up?*

On the counter behind her, her phone buzzed loudly with the custom ringtone assigned to Daphne Mercer. Clara picked it up, and before she could even say hello, a shrill, impatient voice barked through the speaker, "Have this quarter's luxury designs in my inbox by ten sharp."

Desmond's younger sister had always wanted the glamour of being a famous jewelry designer without possessing a shred of actual talent, which meant she constantly leaned on Clara to ghost-write her portfolios. At the very beginning, Daphne had asked politely—even begged—and Clara had reluctantly agreed out of consideration for Desmond.

Before long, however, those polite favors hardened into entitled demands. Daphne not only demanded a heavier volume of sketches with stricter requirements, forcing Clara to handle everything from private client orders to major industry competitions, but also ordered her to keep the entire arrangement hidden from Desmond while guaranteeing award-winning results.

Juggling the endless chores of the Mercer household alongside Daphne's relentless deadlines had pushed Clara to the brink, forcing her to skip meals and survive on a few hours of sleep at a time. Even the multi-car pileup she had barely survived the day before had happened because she was rushing across town to deliver one of Daphne's drafts.

Unaware and uncaring, Daphne kept ranting on the other end of the line. "Honestly, why do I have to chase you down every single time? Can't you just hand the files over on schedule without being told?"

"I was in a car accident," Clara cut in evenly, refusing to listen to another word of her whining.

Silence hung over the line for a brief beat. Then Daphne let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Yeah, I heard all about how you used a little fender-bender to ruin Desmond's date with Chloe. Seriously, Clara, how pathetic can you get? A car crash? Well, you're still breathing, aren't you?"

Without giving Clara a second to speak, Daphne's voice dropped into a hard, arrogant sneer. "Save the sob story, because I'm not my brother and your little tricks don't work on me. Send the finished draft right now. If this piece actually wins the prize, maybe I'll put in a good word for you with Desmond. Otherwise..."

Clara had expected indifference, yet the sheer venom in her sister-in-law's voice still struck a chord. "Otherwise go get Chloe to draw it for you. I'm done waiting on you hand and foot."

Cutting the call dead before Daphne could shriek a reply, Clara went straight into her settings and blocked the number for good.

Her fingers shook slightly around the casing as a rush of anger mixed with a sudden, profound sense of liberation. She had bled herself dry for Desmond and his family over the last seven years, only to be treated like dirt without an ounce of gratitude.

All that blind devotion had been nothing more than a cage of her own making, moving no one's heart except her own. Now, thorough disillusionment had finally snapped her out of her stupidity.

Glancing over at the table, her eyes settled on the sealed document bag holding the divorce papers. She reached out and picked it up. *Since he refuses to come home or pick up his phone, I'll just hand-deliver it to his office myself.*

*****

Standing before the biometric scanner of the private executive lift inside the Mercer Group headquarters, Clara recalled how Desmond had stripped away her top-tier clearance during their second year of marriage, downgrading her profile to basic "visitor" status.

"Mrs. Mercer doesn't need these," he had stated flatly at the time, and she hadn't set foot inside the building since. Fortunately, her standard fingerprint access for the regular elevators remained active in the system, allowing her to pass through the turnstiles without issue.

"Clara?" Daphne's startled voice rang out as the metal doors slid apart. Paying her no mind, Clara stepped straight into the cabin and pressed the button for the top executive floor.

Recovering quickly from her surprise, Daphne lifted her chin with a scoff and held her open palm out between them. "Let's have it."

"Have what?" Clara asked coolly, keeping her hands at her sides without making any move toward her bag, a calm reaction that instantly rubbed Daphne the wrong way.

"Cut the act. The entry draft for my competition," Daphne snapped, though her voice faltered midway as her eyes widened on the slim document bag in Clara's grip. "Don't tell me you showed up without it."

Clara met her stare without a flicker of emotion. "I didn't forget to bring it. I never even started drawing it."

Watching the color drain from Daphne's face, Clara continued in the same even tone, "Don't you prefer having Chloe as your sister-in-law anyway? Have her sketch it for you. Why keep coming to an outsider like me?"

A soft chime echoed as the cabin reached the top floor and the doors glided open. Offering a faint, distant smile, Clara stepped out into the corridor. Daphne opened her mouth to curse her out, only to freeze as she registered where they were.

*Wait—is she going to Desmond's office right now to tell him I've been using her as a ghost-designer all these years?* Pure panic shot through Daphne's chest, and she bolted out of the elevator right behind her, shouting down the hall, "Clara, hold on!"

Ignoring the frantic footsteps echoing behind her, Clara walked straight up to the double doors of the CEO's suite, where Declan Hayes stepped squarely into her path with undisguised disdain in his eyes. "Ms. Vance, I'm sorry, but Mr. Mercer really isn't available right now."

Having dealt with the assistant's condescension for years, Clara didn't waste her breath arguing. Instead, she held out the sealed file bag toward him and spoke with quiet finality, "Then please pass this along to Desmond for me, Mr. Hayes."