“Can you believe it?” Brooke sneered. “Clara James married into the Mercer fortune. The girl who couldn’t even pay her rent.”
Clara said nothing. Shame burned hotter than anger.
That night, the landlord knocked. “Rent’s overdue. End of the month, you’re out.”
She nodded numbly.
One night, sitting beside Daniel’s still body, she whispered, “They said I had no choice. Maybe you’d understand that. Or maybe you’d hate me.”
Her eyes dropped to the gold band on her finger.
A shackle.
She placed her locket beside his hand.
“I won’t take anything from you. I’ll just stay until one of us finds a way out.”
The monitor beeped in steady reply.
A week later, a man in a gray suit entered Daniel’s room.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
Clara flinched at the title.
“Yes.”
“Mason Fletcher, legal counsel for the estate,” he said, flipping open a folder. “We must formalize your role. You will not make public appearances without approval. You will not interfere in company matters. And you will not attempt to claim assets.”
Her heart thudded. “And if I refuse?”
He didn’t blink. “Then your mother’s care will be discontinued.”
Clara stared at the pen, then signed. Another chain. Another prison.
When he left, she whispered to Daniel, “Your family treats me like I don’t exist. But I’m here. I didn’t take their money. I just wanted my mother to live.”
That night, she sat sketching his face — the only thing she could give meaning to. Each charcoal line a prayer for someone who didn’t know her name.
The first sign came quietly.
A twitch.
“Daniel?” she gasped.
