The corridor stretched ahead, lined with portraits of ancestors who seemed to sneer at her from gilded frames. She focused on the carpet, on the muted thud of her shoes against it, because looking at Oliver’s satisfied smirk was unbearable.
He pushed the door to the study wide with easy entitlement. Clara’s stomach twisted as the familiar scent of pipe smoke and leather-bound books hit her.
And there he was.
Her father.
Richard Sutton rose from behind his heavy mahogany desk, every inch the patriarch. Tall, broad-shouldered, his tailored suit as pristine as Oliver’s, his salt-and-pepper hair swept back with practised precision. The arrogance in his expression was like a mask he’d worn so long it had fused to his skin.
“Ah, Clara.” His voice filled the room, rich and commanding, as though this were a board meeting and not the wreckage of her life. He spread his arms wide in a mockery of affection. “Welcome home, my dear.”
Clara froze on the threshold, her throat closing. The word home rang false, a cruel parody. This wasn’t home anymore, hadn’t been for a long time.
Oliver released her elbow, his smirk widening as he stepped aside, presenting her like a prize.
Her father’s eyes flicked over her, cool and assessing, before softening into a smile that didn’t reach them. “You’ve caused rather a lot of trouble.” His gaze slid briefly to Oliver. “But fortunately, we can still salvage everything.”
Salvage. The word sank like lead in her chest. She wasn’t a daughter in his eyes; she was currency.
“Mum?” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper. She turned, but Penelope stood in the doorway, wringing her hands, her face pale and stricken. No rescue would come from her.
Clara’s fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the weight of both men’s gazes held her pinned in place.
Her father smiled wider, stepping toward her with the calm certainty of a man who believed the world bent to his will. “Comenow, Clara. Surely you didn’t think you could run from your family obligations?”
The clock on the mantel ticked steadily, mercilessly, each second pulling her deeper into a nightmare she hadn’t yet begun to understand.
Chapter 37
Jonas’s screensflared as the hidden feed shifted. His stomach lurched when Richard Sutton stepped out from behind the heavy mahogany desk, hands spread wide in arrogant welcome. It had been easier than they imagined sneaking in and setting up the cameras, especially with so little security and too much arrogance from Richard Sutton. The thought he was untouchable, and he was about to find out he wasn’t.
“Welcome home,” Sutton said, his voice smooth as polished oak, the smirk on his face one that Jonas wanted to rip off with his bare hands.
Jonas’s jaw locked until it ached. Rage pressed hard at his ribs, but he forced it down, pushing himself into rhythm: measure, catalogue, act.
“Talk to me,”Bás’s voice cut across comms, sharp and sure.“Contingency plan two. Duchess, Bishop, sweep the west entrance. Reaper, Bein, cover the gardens, sniper positions. Titan, Hurricane, engines hot. We extract hard if this tips.”
Acknowledgements snapped back one after the other. The team pivoted seamlessly, no wasted motion, no panic.
Jonas leaned into his mic, keeping his voice pitched low, intimate. “Clara, can you hear me?”
A faint hiss of static, then the smallest intake of breath. She wasn’t foolish enough to answer out loud.
“Good,” he murmured, knowing she’d catch the words even if she couldn’t acknowledge them. “You don’t have to respond. Just listen. I’ve got you. Whatever happens in that room, you are not alone. Keep them talking. Stall them if you can. We’re going to get you out.”
On the feed, she swallowed hard, a flicker of movement in her throat. Her chin dipped, the tiniest nod, almost imperceptible. But Jonas saw it, catalogued it, clung to it.
Lotus’s voice broke in over the team’s comms.“That nod was for you, Watchdog. She trusts you. Don’t waste it.”
Lotus was coaching him, trying to calm him. Jonas shoved the rush of feeling into focus. His fingers flew over the keys, shifting feeds, locking angles, tracking every heat signature in the house. “Secondary threat,” he reported. “South corridor, one armed, moving like trained security. Not staff.”
“Reaper,”Bás barked.
“Already moving,”came the reply.
Jonas checked Clara’s feed again. She stood stiff-backed, her hands curled into small fists at her sides. Even through pixels, he could read her anger, betrayal, fear, all layered across her face.
He pressed comms again, voice softer. “Clara, listen to me. Sutton will try to make you feel small. Oliver will try to make you feel trapped. Neither of them owns you. Do you understand?”
