CHAPTER 284: IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN CLARA.

‎Dawn was a thin gray blade cutting through the city skyline when I arrived.

‎The convoy pulled into one of the private building I’d bought years ago for what I called classified operations — a steel and glass monolith buried in the quiet part of the district, guarded by men who knew better than to breathe too loudly when I stepped out.

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‎The air was cool, sharp, and sterile — a kind of silence that demanded obedience. My men lined the entrance in black, a living wall of precision. As I walked past, they bowed their heads in unison, the motion clean, choreographed. The scent of asphalt and leather lingered on my coat.

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‎Cameron was the first to appear, leaning against the doorway, his coat half-buttoned, hair wind-ruffled. The sight of me straightened him up, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if daring to lighten the atmosphere.

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‎"Morning, cousin boss," he said, voice carrying a teasing warmth that didn’t belong in a morning like this. "How are you feeling? Did you take your meds?"

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‎I said nothing.

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‎"I brought cookies," he tried again, holding up a small paper bag like it might earn him mercy.

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‎My eyes flicked to it, then back to him. He exhaled through his nose, and fall into step beside me as I strode toward the elevators, my boots echoing on the polished floor.

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‎"Right," Cameron muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "So it’s that kind of morning."

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‎The elevator doors slid shut with a whisper. The mirrored walls reflected the sharp angles of my face, the hollows under my eyes, the way my fingers flexed once—a habit I’d never quite broken. I could feel him studying me, weighing his next words with the careful calculation of a man who knew exactly how thin the ice was beneath his feet.

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‎Cameron had always been like this—unafraid in ways that bordered on reckless. It was why I kept him close, even when his humor cut too close to the bone.

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‎"You didn’t sleep," he said finally. Not a question.

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‎I exhaled, watching the numbers climb. "Irrelevant."

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‎He made a low noise in his throat, something between amusement and irritation. "You know, one of these days, someone’s going to have to remind you that you’re human."

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‎The elevator stopped. The doors parted, revealing the second lobby.

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‎Gray was already waiting just inside the lobby — composed, precise, tablet in hand. "Morning, boss. Second Boss."

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‎"I told you not to call me that, yo." Cameron said.

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‎Gray didn’t flinch. He nodded once and turned, leading us through the glass corridor. Security locks clicked open in rhythm to our footsteps. The place smelled faintly of metal and clean electricity.

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‎"We’ve recovered partial surveillance from the Walton estate — internal feeds dating back sixteen years. Most of it was corrupted, but the archive room had offline backups."

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‎He tapped the tablet, and the main screen lit up as we entered the operations room. The air was dim, the only light coming from the glow of multiple monitors. Rows of servers hummed quietly in the background.

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‎The first video began to play.

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‎***

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‎A kitchen — large, bright, filled with the innocent clutter of a summer morning. My mother moved gracefully between countertops, instructing a cook as she prepared sauces and fried chicken. A young version of myself sat at the end of the island, arranging ribbons and balloons over wicker baskets. The smell came back to me as though memory had taste — fried chicken, crackers, fresh brownies. I remembered that morning. Sophia’s birthday picnic.

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‎Young Clara was there too — blonde hair tied with a pink ribbon, standing beside my mother, finding ways to help. She turned once, smiling at the camera, a candid shot that captured the unblemished joy of childhood.

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‎Caden stood at the far end, beside another cook, his smirk too familiar.

‎"You’re too slow," the boy version of him sneered, glancing toward me. Even then, I remembered wanting to wipe that expression off his face.

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‎"You were right," Gray said quietly. "That day."

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‎The video rolled forward. Clara approached me, She was talking — her lips moved with that same composed and elegant energy she still carried.

‎"It’s unnecessary," she said. "It’s just a picnic, not a wedding."

‎The younger me didn’t respond — too focused on the ribbons. She frowned, dropped her hands, and stepped away, pout barely visible.

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‎The footage skipped, sped forward.

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‎"Fast-forward," I told Gray quietly.

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‎He did. The screen blurred with motion, then steadied again — Clara was back in frame, this time near the counter, pretending to help one of the cooks with the sandwiches.

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‎"Pause," I said sharply.

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‎Gray froze the image.

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‎"Rewind a few seconds."

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‎He did.

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‎The clip shifted back three seconds. Clara’s hand reached for the spread — not the regular jar beside the cook’s elbow, but another one slightly behind it. Nut butter.

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‎She spread a very thin layer on the bread before adding the other condiments, her hands steady, her face composed, even smiling slightly when my mother turned toward her.

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‎"Play."

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‎She placed the sandwich with the others. While repeating the same step to the other sandwiches.

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‎"Fucking hell," Cameron muttered, low and harsh. "You’ve got to be kidding me." he breathed. "She—she was what, twelve?"

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‎Gray paused the video. The silence that followed was suffocating.

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‎I pressed my fingers to my temples, massaging them slowly. A dull ache started at the base of my skull. How hadn’t I seen it? Why didn’t I think of her? She’d been in my house two days prior to Sophie’s birthday because her dad was traveling, so she had to prepare for our friend’s birthday party with me.

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‎I should’ve known.

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‎"Continue," I said quietly.

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‎Gray inserted another drive. "This one’s from the Gates villa. Hours later."

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‎The screen changed again.

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‎The footage was blurrier, grain older — an outdoor garden. Sophia in a summer dress, sunlight spilling across the garden. She sat on a picnic blanket, swinging her legs, hair in twin braids. Clara was there too, holding a popsicle. They were laughing — two girls in innocence.

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‎Then Clara handed her one.

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‎Gray froze the frame.

‎"We traced the packaging," he said quietly. "Our team compared it to the batch records from that summer. The one Clara Langford gave her was made with nuts and chocolate. Same allergen that caused her... Death."

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‎The air in the operations room grew heavy, thick with the weight of that single, damning sentence. My eyes were fixed on the frozen image – Sophia, innocent, accepting the popsicle from Clara, her smile wide. The sunlight that had seemed so warm now felt like a spotlight on a crime scene.

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‎Cameron let out a harsh laugh that was more disbelief than humor.

‎"What the fuck— the heck, bro." He ran a hand through his hair. "She was a kid, Adrien. Sophia was her friend. What kind of child thinks like that?"

‎He looked at me. "That’s—bro, that’s murder. That’s actual—why on earth—would she do that?" I didn’t answer him. My gaze was locked on the screen, on the ghost of Sophia’s laughter trapped in the grainy digital frame. The memory of her, vibrant and alive, warred with the cold, hard certainty of her absence. The question Cameron posed hung in the air, unanswered, a dark cloud over a sunny picnic.

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‎My chest felt tight, but not from surprise. From clarity.

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‎My jaw tightened. My hands had stilled completely, but every muscle underneath was a live wire.

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‎"She’s been doing this from the start," Cameron said, disbelief breaking into anger. "The two girls that mattered to you. Sophia. Then later— you had Isabella. She—fuck—she’s obsessed."

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‎Gray’s voice cut in, calm and lethal. "It doesn’t end there. We found proof she and Caden collaborated. The article leak was manufactured. Evidence traced back to an anonymous domain, but the funds routing through Caden’s offshore account." He swiped through the files. "And one more thing."

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‎He brought up a new feed — Vantage & Cole, main office, some months back.

‎Clara, wearing her intern badge, entered my office when I and Isabella was out. She moved to the desk, pulled a folder, flipped through the contents — the fake relationship contract. The one that started everything for my wife and me.

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‎She took photos. Carefully placed it back.

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‎Cameron leaned forward, his voice a rasp. "Christ."

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‎Gray continued, "She archived the original document and planted a copy in an external drive. My team confirmed it was uploaded to the same cloud network used for the article leak."

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‎The silence that followed was absolute.

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‎I stared at the frozen frame — Clara’s face tilted toward the light, smiling faintly as she pocketed the drive.

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‎The girl in that kitchen. The woman in my office. Same precision. Same sickness.

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‎My fingers tightened around the armrest, leather creaking beneath my grip. The air felt colder suddenly. The betrayal wasn’t just historical anymore — it was threaded through every timeline, every iteration of my life.

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‎Clara.

‎Always there.

‎Always smiling.

‎Always watching.

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‎And I had let her.

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‎"So Clara killed Sophia... and helped Caden almost ruin my wife."

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‎"Yes, sir."