Clara’s POV I sat cross-legged on the center of my plush duvet, staring blankly at the wall across from me, wrapped in an oversized fleece hoodie that felt like armor against the chill in the house. My phone lay face down on the mattress, silenced and ignored. I didn't want to see another text from Kendra, didn't want to field checking-in messages from mutual friends, and above all, I didn't want to hear another word of empty justification from the man whose face had haunted my nightmares.A soft, hesitant knock rapped against the heavy wood of my door.I didn't answer. I didn't even blink."Clara?" My father’s voice filtered through the wood—cautious, strained, and carrying that heavy, frantic tone of a man who was terrified of his entire world collapsing. "Sweetheart, can I come in?""The door is locked," I called out, my voice flat, cold, and entirely devoid of warmth."I know, honey. But... I brought something for you. Please, just open it for a minute. We need to talk."A surge
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