Chapter Six: A War of Silence

Some truths don’t need to be spoken—they’re written in silence, in stares, in the way the air stops breathing around you.

I was still holding her phone. Still staring at the glowing screen. The words burned into my memory like a brand, cruel, mocking, impossible to erase: "I couldn’t resist you. I’m so sorry if I went hard. You’re sweeter than your sister. Hotter than her. How I wish I had met you first."

My hands trembled. The phone felt heavier than stone, but I couldn’t let go.

Then Clara stepped into the room, steam curling around her like a second skin, a towel clinging to her body, her hair damp and shining. She was humming lightly, her face glowing with careless joy.

Until her eyes fell on me. And then on the phone.

Her hum died. Her smile vanished. The air thickened between us.

The silence screamed louder than anything we could say. I saw it all in her eyes—her guilt, her fear, her calculation. And I knew she saw everything in mine too—my devastation, my rage, the ugly betrayal twisting inside me.

“Bella…” Her voice was cautious, low, almost a warning. “That’s my phone.”

The screen dimmed and went black, but the words still echoed in my skull. Slowly, as if my fingers had turned to stone, I handed it over. She snatched it, pressing it to her chest, her breathing uneven. For a moment, neither of us moved. We just stared, two sisters standing on opposite sides of a war neither of us had declared but both of us had entered.

Then Clara straightened, her face hardening into something unreadable. She turned on her heel and walked out without another word, her wet footprints trailing across the floor.

I sat there frozen, my chest aching. Betrayal didn’t feel like fire—it felt like drowning, slow and suffocating.

The morning dragged like lead. Clara reemerged later, dressed in a silk robe, her hair wrapped neatly, her phone glued to her hand. She didn’t mention what had happened. Instead, she carried shopping bags into the living room, humming again, louder this time—as if pretending nothing had happened could erase everything.

“Morning, sis!” she chirped, setting the bags on the table. “Guess what? Look what he got me!”

She pulled out boxes and boxes—heels, handbags, a perfume bottle that sparkled under the sunlight. All of it expensive. All of it proof of what I had just read.

“Wow,” I managed, forcing a smile. My throat was tight. “He must really like you.”

“Of course,” Clara said smugly, slipping a gold bracelet onto her wrist. “Who wouldn’t? You just have to know how to handle men, Bella. Stop overthinking and start enjoying.”

Her words were knives wrapped in honey. I turned away before my tears betrayed me.

By midday, I was in my room, the silence pressing against me. Clara’s laughter echoed faintly from the living room.

She was probably still texting him—my Dickens, her Dickens.

I pulled out my diary, my hand brushing against the small card tucked inside. The man I had met a week ago. The one who had looked at me differently, without calculation. He had told me to call if I ever needed anything. Maybe now was the time.

I picked up my phone, dialed the number with shaky fingers. It rang. And rang. No answer. I dropped a message and after a short while, I tried calling again but there was still no response, my heart pounding harder with each ring. Still nothing. The silence on the line mocked me, just like Clara’s smile.

Frustrated, I tossed the phone on the bed. The card slipped out, landing on the blanket, its edges sharp and accusing. I stared at it, wondering if even he had forgotten me.

The door creaked open. Clara. Her eyes swept the room, then locked on the card lying boldly beside me. Her steps slowed, her head tilted.

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice soft but dangerous.

My hand shot forward, covering the card too late. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like anything.” She crossed her arms, her silk robe slipping slightly at the shoulder. Her gaze was sharp, unblinking. “Whose card is that, Bella? You… seeing someone?”

Her tone carried more than curiosity. It carried a challenge. Suspicion. A warning. I swallowed, my throat dry. My heart thudded painfully. Clara took a step closer, her perfume sweet and suffocating. “Answer me.”

For a moment, the room seemed too small for both of us. Two sisters, two secrets, both balancing on the edge of lies. Her betrayal was burning me alive. But now she was staring at me like I was the one who had something to hide. And maybe I did. The silence stretched.

Our eyes locked again. And I realized—the war between us had only just begun.

The afternoon dragged on, heavy and suffocating. I didn’t speak to Clara; I didn’t even look at her. She was there, in the house, but it was as if a wall of ice had grown between us. My silence became my shield. My distance, my armor.

I retreated to my room, shutting the door softly behind me, and sank onto the edge of my bed.

My hands shook slightly as they reached for my diary. My fingers brushed the small, familiar card tucked between the pages. My phone buzzed. Dickens. Again. Six missed calls, all unanswered. My chest tightened. Part of me wanted to pick up, to hear his voice, to let him claim me again in that suffocating, possessive way I secretly craved. But another part—the larger, angrier part—rebelled. I ignored him.

Later that evening, I grabbed my coat and slipped outside, taking a walk to clear my head.

The night air was cold, sharp against my cheeks, but it was the only thing that made breathing easier.

By the time I returned, my heart sank. Dickens’ car was parked right in front of the house. I forced myself inside, only to find him, Clara, and Mom gathered in the living room, laughing like a perfect little family. The sight nearly broke me.

The moment Mom spotted me, her smile faded. “Isabella,” she said sharply. “Why haven’t you been answering Dickens’ calls? That’s not the way to treat a man who loves you. After everything he’s done for you, this is how you repay him?”

Her words stung like lashes.

But Dickens only raised his hands in mock humility, his voice smooth and calm. “Mom, please, it’s fine. You don’t need to be upset. It’s okay. Isabella and I… we have our own way of settling things. Maybe she’s just angry at me.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw his lies into the open, to tell my mother the truth about him and Clara. But what was the point? Mom wouldn’t believe me. She liked Dickens too much—liked the gifts, the money, the comfort he provided. My truth would only sound like jealousy. So I said nothing. I just walked away, holding my silence like a shield.

A while later, Mom knocked on my door. “Isabella,” she said. “Dickens is leaving. He wants to see you before he goes.”

Reluctantly, I stepped outside. Dickens was already in his car. He lowered the window when he saw me, his eyes locking on mine with that suffocating intensity.

“You can’t hide from me,” he said, voice firm, almost commanding. “Why haven’t you been taking my calls? After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me? Don’t be ungrateful.” He paused, his lips curling slightly. “By tomorrow, 12 noon. I want to see you. We’ll spend the day together.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order. I didn’t answer. I turned and walked back inside, swallowing my rage. But when I reached my room, my blood boiled hotter.

Clara. She was in my room, rifling through my things as if she had every right.

“What are you doing?!” I snapped, storming in.

She froze, caught red-handed, but her face didn’t flinch. I grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the door. “Get out. Don’t ever step into my room again. Do you hear me?”

She didn’t reply. She just stared at me, cold and

unblinking, eye to eye, until she finally turned and walked away.

The next morning, the storm broke. I reached for my diary, for the one fragile piece of hope I had left—the card Eli had given me. But when I opened the drawer, my heart stopped. It was gone.

I tore through my things, but it wasn’t there. Fury surged through me as I marched to the living room. Clara was with Mom, sipping tea like nothing was wrong.

“Where is it?!” I yelled.

Clara blinked. “Where is what?”

“You know what I’m talking about. The card you saw me with yesterday. Where is it?!”

“I didn’t take anything,” she said, her voice cracking, eyes widening with practiced innocence. “Why are you accusing me again?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Clara. You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

Tears welled in her eyes. She clutched her chest and burst out crying. “I don’t know what I did to you, Bella! Why do you always treat me this way? We’re sisters! Aren’t we supposed to love each other? You’ve been so cold to me, so distant—what did I ever do?”

Mom shot to her feet, her face hard. “Isabella! Enough! This isn’t how to treat your younger sister. Yesterday you even stopped her from entering your room. And now you accuse her of stealing? What’s wrong with you? Clara is your sister! Stop this behavior at once!”

The words crushed me. I stood there, speechless, watching my mother comfort Clara—the thief, the betrayer—while I was cast as the villain. My throat tightened. I couldn’t even defend myself.

And then—my phone buzzed. I looked down. An unknown number. My breath caught.

“This is Eli. Sorry I didn’t pick your call earlier, I’ve been busy with work. Can we meet Today by 12 noon?”

My chest loosened for the first time all day. A smile crept across my lips—soft, unguarded. For a fleeting moment, I felt light again. But then it struck me. 12 noon. The exact same time Dickens had ordered me to meet him.

My heart skipped, and Clara’s quiet sobs stopped. She was watching me now, her tears drying, her gaze sharp. She saw the smile I didn’t mean to show.

I forced myself to turn and leave, clutching my phone like it held the answer to everything.

Inside my room, my phone buzzed again, “Please, let me meet you at St. Louis Restaurant by 12 noon. I’m sorry for not picking your call earlier, I promise to make it up to you.”

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the glowing screen, my heart pounding so hard it echoed in my ears. My hands trembled as though the phone itself carried fire. St. Louis Restaurant. 12 noon. The exact time Dickens had already ordered me to see him.

It felt like the walls of my room were closing in, pressing the air out of my lungs.

A part of me wanted to scream in relief—finally, Eli had reached out.

Another part of me sank in dread. If I chose Eli, Dickens would know. If I chose Dickens, I might lose the only lifeline out of this mess.

My chest ached as I sank back onto the bed, clutching the phone to my chest. I didn’t even notice the creak of my door until I looked up.

Clara was standing there, her face still damp from tears—but her lips curved into a knowing smile