The words cut deeper than any accusation he had ever faced. Slowly, Victor reached forward and unlocked the gate.
“Come inside,” he said, his voice unsteady in a way it hadn’t been in years. “Both of you. You don’t need to work. You don’t need to prove anything. You’re safe here.”
Clara stared at him, disbelief and exhaustion battling across her face. “Sir… I—”
“Victor,” he corrected gently. “Just Victor.”
That first night in the mansion, Clara slept sitting upright with the baby held tightly against her, flinching at every unfamiliar sound. Victor observed from a distance, ashamed of how long it took for her body to ease. Doctors were called; June was examined, fed, and warmed. Clara was given clean clothes, a private room, and something she had lacked for far too long: space.
As the days turned into weeks, Clara returned to school, throwing herself into her studies with an intensity fueled by more than just hunger. Victor watched her slowly relearn how to smile—tentatively at first, as if happiness were a fragile thing that might shatter the moment she believed in it.
