Chapter 9: Strangely Familiar

Clara’s POV

The library door swung open.

Lucien Hargrove stepped through, his presence filling the doorway like a force of nature. He was taller than I remembered, broader too, with his dark hair slightly disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it. His eyes swept over the room with casual arrogance, then stopped on me. The girl's hand flew to her chest, her face flushing crimson.

“Sir! Good afternoon, sir!” she stammered. “We were just—the library needs cleaning, and I brought the new maid to help.”

Lucien didn't look at her. His eyes remained fixed on me, dark and searching, as if he were trying to peel back my skin and find something hidden underneath. The intensity of his stare made my heart stumble. I could barely breathe beneath the weight of it, and every instinct screamed at me to tell him the truth before someone interrupted again. The girl grabbed my hand and forced it downward into an awkward bow.

“Bow to the boss,” she hissed. “Show some respect.”

I didn't bow. I couldn't. My body had frozen the moment his eyes met mine, and something about the way he looked at me made the room feel smaller. Without a word, Lucien crossed the room until he stood directly in front of me. He was close enough that I could smell woodsmoke and something expensive clinging to his skin.

“Have we met before this morning?” he asked finally. It wasn't quite a question; it sounded more like he was testing the words against a memory he didn't trust. “Sir, we were just going to clean the—” the girl began, but he raised one hand without looking at her. His gaze never left mine.

“I wasn't talking to you,” he said. “You. Dante said your name is Clara.”

This was it. I could tell him everything right now—the folder, the hotel room, the night I couldn't forget, and the child I hadn't found the courage to name out loud yet. I opened my mouth, but the girl moved before I could speak. “Her name's nothing, sir, she's new, she doesn't—”

Lucien's expression hardened. “I asked her, not you.”

“I'm—” I started, but the girl suddenly grabbed my wrist. “Sir, I'm so sorry!” she blurted, her face turning pale as she pulled me toward the door.

“She’s new, sir. She doesn't know the rules yet.” Her fingers tightened around my wrist as she continued apologizing. “I'll make sure she understands her place. It won't happen again, I promise.” Before Lucien could stop her, she had dragged me through the doorway. The library door swung shut behind us.

The girl didn't stop until we were halfway down the corridor, her grip still tight around my wrist. “What is wrong with you?” she hissed. “Do you have a death wish?” Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared at me. “That's Sir Lucien Hargrove, and you can't just stand there letting him interrogate you like that.”

“He asked me a question.” I yanked my arm back, finally freeing myself from her grip. “I was answering it.” She stared at me in disbelief, as if I were the most impossible person she'd ever encountered. “You don't answer him unless you're given permission by Mrs Gloria,” she snapped.

“They're not lies!” I shot back. “I was kidnapped, I was drugged, and I woke up in this house with no idea how I got here.” Her anger slowly faded, replaced by something closer to uncertainty. “I don't know if you're telling the truth or if you're just confused,” she admitted.

“But throwing accusations at the boss is a fast way to land yourself in serious trouble.” I stared at her, frustration tightening my throat. “Then what am I supposed to do?” I demanded. “Accept that I'm trapped here forever?” She sighed and rubbed her forehead.

“For now? Yes.” She looked at me with reluctant sympathy. “Keep your head down and wait.” Her expression softened slightly. “Tobias will be here soon, and he'll sort everything out.” I frowned at the name.

“Tobias,” I repeated bitterly. “Everyone talks about him like he's some kind of savior.” She started walking again, then glanced back at me over her shoulder. “I'm Zara, by the way, since we're going to be working together.” I hesitated before answering.

“Clara,” I replied. “Clara,” Zara repeated, studying my face. “So Sir Lucien was right.” I nodded slowly. “Yes.”

She led me through a maze of corridors until we reached a small room near the servants' quarters. It contained a narrow bed, a wooden wardrobe, and a single window overlooking the gardens. Zara pushed the door open and gestured toward the room. “You stay here and rest,” she said.

I stared at her. “This is the servants' quarters.” Zara nodded. “Yes, this is where you were supposed to be.” I looked at her in disbelief. “The room Gloria took me to wasn't a servant's room.”

“That was the family's main guest room,” Zara explained. “Mrs. Gloria took you there because you were sick.” I stepped closer, desperate to make her understand. “Don't you understand that I'm not a maid?”

“I've been trying to explain that to you since I met you, but you wouldn't listen.” Zara folded her arms. “You really aren't a maid?” she asked, her voice suddenly uncertain. I shook my head firmly.

“No, I'm not.” I took a breath, trying to steady myself. “I'm a data analyst at Apex Creative Group in Toronto.” Zara's eyes widened slightly. “Then what happened to you?” she asked. I looked toward the window, remembering the pieces I still couldn't put together. “Something happened, but I can't tell you everything right now.”

“It somehow led me here.” I turned back to her. “Do you know Marcus?” Zara shook her head. “No.” “Thomas?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered immediately. “Mrs. Eleanor's driver.” My heart skipped at the name. “Mrs. Eleanor,” I repeated. “Gloria mentioned that name when she took me to that room.” I swallowed hard.

“She said Mrs. Eleanor would see me as soon as she arrived.” Zara's entire expression changed. The confidence drained from her face, replaced by sudden nervousness. “Oh.” She took a small step backward.

“I'm sorry,” The word came out so quickly that I almost didn't recognize her. “I thought you were another maid brought here who wanted to get close to Mr. Lucien.” She looked genuinely embarrassed now. “That's why I dragged you around and tried to make you work.”

“So that's what this was about?” I asked. Zara nodded, her cheeks reddening. “There was another girl who tried something similar, and she was thrown out.” She lowered her eyes. “I thought you were going to be like her, and I didn't want you to lose this job before you even started.”

I couldn't help the small smile that touched my lips. “It's okay.” Zara looked up. “You're not angry?” “No,” I said softly. “I know you were trying to look out for me.” Her shoulders finally relaxed.

“Thank you, ma'am,” she murmured. “I'll help you however I can.” I nodded, but my thoughts had already returned to Lucien. The way he'd looked at me in that library still burned against my skin. There had been something in his eyes that frightened me, but it had also felt strangely familiar.

Lucien’s POV

I stood in the library, staring at the empty doorway where she'd been dragged out. A stack of unshelved books sat untouched on the reading table, but I couldn't bring myself to care about them. Her name echoed through my mind like a half-remembered melody. Clara.

I tried to place it, tried to remember where I'd heard that name before Dante spoke it this morning. Every time I reached for the memory, it slipped away just beyond my grasp. I walked back toward my study, my mind turning over every detail of her face. Those grey-green eyes, that defiant chin, and the small mole beneath her eye refused to leave my thoughts.

I'm not a maid.

She had said it twice now, and there had been something about the certainty in her voice that made the claim difficult to dismiss. Dante had noticed it too—her hands had no calluses, and her speech was far too refined for someone who had spent years working as household staff. I hadn't wanted to agree with him then, but now I was beginning to wonder if we'd both been wrong about her.

I closed my eyes and tried to force the memory further. Flashes came first—the Glovert nightclub, bright lights, loud music, and the bitter taste of alcohol on my tongue. Then came the memory of the woman I'd spent that night with, her face partly hidden beneath loose strands of hair as she looked at me.

I remembered her voice now, soft and nervous, telling me her name before she left. I couldn't remember the name itself, no matter how hard I tried, but I remembered something else with unsettling clarity. She had been nervous when we'd first touched, and there had been blood on the sheets the following morning.

She had been a virgin. I had been her first.

The realization made my jaw tighten. I hadn't used protection that night, and I'd been too intoxicated and careless to think about the consequences. I had spent weeks telling myself the encounter meant nothing, that she was gone and my life had moved on. Yet now Clara's face kept appearing in the memory, fitting into the gaps I'd never been able to close.

What if she was pregnant?

I opened my eyes sharply. “No,” I muttered under my breath. “Concentrate, Lucien.” I had no time for women, no time for complications, and certainly no time for a mysterious woman appearing in my home claiming she'd been kidnapped. But the thought refused to disappear.

Clara. The woman from that night. The memory I'd buried. I stared at the documents on my desk, but the words blurred before my eyes. “Oh, Lucien,” I muttered bitterly, rubbing my forehead. “No time for women in your schedule.”

The door to my study opened. My assistant stood there in silence, waiting, and I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge her immediately. My mind was still caught somewhere between the nightclub and the woman whose face I could no longer separate from Clara's. Nearly ten minutes passed before she finally cleared her throat. I blinked, the spell breaking.

“What?” I asked.

She flinched slightly, then recovered. “Sir, your mother has arrived.” Her voice remained careful as she continued. “She's in her private office, and she said it was urgent.” I straightened in my chair.

“My mother?”

“Eleanor?” I asked, already feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. “Yes, sir.” She glanced at the clock. “She arrived about twenty minutes ago.” My mother never visited without warning, which meant whatever had brought her here couldn't be ordinary.

“Tell her I'll be there shortly.” I rose from my chair and left the study. As I made my way through the winding corridors, afternoon light filtered gold through the tall windows, but my mind remained anything but quiet. Clara's face followed me with every step. Why did she feel so familiar?

I reached my mother's door and paused. My hand hovered over the handle as an uneasy feeling settled in my chest. Whatever this was, I knew it wouldn't be simple. Nothing in my life ever was.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. My mother stood at the window with her back to me, a phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was low and urgent enough that she hadn't noticed the door opening.

“—yes, confirmed,” she was saying. “It's Lucien's.”

The phone slipped from her hand and struck the carpet with a soft, useless thud. She turned toward me slowly, and for the first time in my life, I watched my mother—a woman who had never once looked frightened of anything—go pale.

“Lucien.” My name came out of her mouth like an apology already forming. “You weren't supposed to hear that.” I wasn't looking at her anymore. My attention had shifted to the open folder on her desk.

A photograph was clipped to the corner, and my breath caught. Grey-green eyes, dark hair, that small mole beneath the eye. Clara's face stared back at me from a stack of medical paperwork.

My gaze dropped to the document beneath the photograph. A pregnancy report. A due date circled in red ink. My pulse began pounding against my ears.

“What,” I said, very quietly, “is that