Chapter 3 - ASHES OF DISOWNMENT
Morning arrived without sunlight, choked behind grey autumn smog. Clara sat upright on the narrow hospital bed, her head, cheeks, and forehead wrapped in sterile white gauze, leaving only her swollen hazel eyes, nose, and lips visible. The initial agony had dulled into a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed in sync with her racing heart.
The door to her private room swung open without a knock.
It was Richard. He was still wearing yesterday’s suit, though the tie had been loosened and his hair lacked its usual immaculate lacquer. He walked in, took one dismissive look at her bandaged head, and pulled a thick leather folio from beneath his arm.
"You caused quite a scene by disappearing," Richard said, closing the door behind him and standing at the foot of her bed. "Julian Carrington asked where you were. I had to tell him you had a migraine and retired early. But then your hospital admission pinged our private medical account."
Clara looked at him through the slits in her bandages. "Victoria poisoned my skincare, Dad. The doctor tested the bottle. It was acid. She tried to permanently disfigure me."
Richard didn't flinch. He didn't ask how she was feeling. He simply threw the leather folio onto her blanket.
"Victoria is fragile," Richard said coldly, as if discussing a damaged porcelain vase. "She was under immense pressure regarding the Carrington merger. Whatever happened was a prank gone wrong, an accident at best. You will not file a police report. You will not mention this to anyone outside this room."
"A prank?" Clara’s voice cracked with disbelief. "She burned through two layers of my skin! Look at me!"
"I am looking at you," Richard spat, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous whisper. "And all I see is a liability. You’ve always been stubborn, always tried to outshine your sister, always dragged our name through the mud with your self-righteous nonsense. If you breathe a word of this, the Carrington deal collapses. Our stock plummets thirty percent. I will not sacrifice my life's work for your vanity."
He opened the folio, revealing a single-page document.
"This is a non-disclosure agreement and a formal relinquishment of your trust fund and inheritance," Richard stated, handing her a gold pen. "Sign it. Take fifty thousand dollars from my personal account, move to another city, get your cosmetic surgeries done quietly, and never contact this family again. Refuse, and I will freeze every asset you have, blacklist you from every design firm in the country, and ensure you leave here with nothing."
Clara stared at the gold pen. Memories flashed before her: years of Eleanor giving her clothes to Victoria, years of Richard taking Clara's design sketches and putting Victoria’s name on them to win corporate awards, years of enduring cold shoulders and calculated cruelties, all under the guise of family loyalty.
Slowly, Clara lifted her bandaged hand. She didn't take the pen. Instead, she swept the entire leather folio off the bed. It slammed against the floor, loose sheets of paper scattering across the linoleum.
"Get out," Clara whispered.
May you like
Richard’s face flushed purple with rage. "You will starve in the gutter, Clara."
"I would rather starve in the gutter," she said, her hazel eyes blazing with a fierce, unbreakable light, "than eat another poisoned meal at your table. Get out."
