Clara Afton Fanart Novels & Stories

After all, there were still many of her fans in the audience. Many people cared about her title as the Goddess of Art, but they actually did not have a genuine appreciation for her art. She believed that the rich fans who were practically idiots would still support her. Clara had brought five pieces of artwork here in total. So far, only two had been auctioned, and there were three more left. The auction continued. Next were several pieces of works by renowned masters, and they were sold at impressive prices. “Next up is Miss Clara’s painting, The Lotus Picker in East Lake. The starting price… Miss Clara has requested that there be no starting bid…” the host said.

I broke the wax seal and unfolded the note. My dearest Freya, Forgive my forwardness, but I find myself unable to wait to see your beautiful face again. Would you do me the immense honor of meeting me in the receiving room? I am waiting there for you now. Yours, Rafe Joy bubbled up inside me. Rafe wanted to see me, alone! My cheeks flushed at the implications. I held the letter to my chest, a giddy smile across my face. "Well, well, what has our lady Freya grinning like the cat that got the cream?" Clara walked over with a playful glint in her eye as she plucked the note from my hands before I could stop her.

Letting the paint come together the way it wants. I spin around and throw my hands up. I paint the face that's emerging on the canvas. My paint forms a face that's the subject of my secret infatuation. Bastian in a blue dress shirt with two buttons undone. I rock and wiggle to the music. When the song ends, I hear clapping behind me. I yelp and spin around. Pressing pause on my phone. Bastian is smiling, sitting on the arm of one of my armchairs. "That was good."

Then offered her the paper he’d been colouring. It was a stick-figure drawing of the three of us, standing under a big yellow sun. He’d written “I LOVE AUNT CLARA” in crooked block letters at the bottom. Clara took it with a trembling smile and hugged him tightly. “This is great, Kid. Good work.” “I'll make you a special one,” he said. “I'll be sure to keep it.” “I’m gonna miss you,” he said quietly into her shoulder. “I’ll miss you too, sweet pea. Come on guys, we don't have to do all the sentimentalities now. We still have time.”

—- Across the city, inside a dark apartment, Clara stared at Elena’s pictures on F******k with burning eyes. Then she smiled dangerously. “Enjoy him while you can, the battle has just begun.”

Beneath it, written in elegant script: I found your sketchbook in the infirmary. You left it by my bed. Your art is better than you think. Come find me when you're done with your duties. I'll be waiting. — M Clara's breath caught. She'd been drawing Morwen in her sketchbook for weeks, ever since the academy had fallen into chaos. It had been a way to cope, a way to hold onto something beautiful in the midst of everything terrible. She hadn't realized anyone had seen.

“We use the wealth to do good—to help your mother’s foundation, to make sure you and Clara have the best education. But we hold the legacy—the integrity, the compassion, the fight for what’s right—in our hearts. That’s the part you can never sell or lose.” Clara stirred on the sofa, sensing the shift in the room's energy. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and spotted the history book. “Ooh, old Papa Arthur’s boring book!” she exclaimed, scrambling off the cushions. She toddled over and picked up a brightly colored crayon from the coffee table, drawing a massive, cheerful orange heart right over the stern portrait of the original founder on the front cover. “There,” Clara announced, presenting th

"Nobody touches my pureborn friends and lives to see the morning sun!" ​"Calm down right now, Frostina," Bettoni ordered with a firm, authoritative voice, then turned her warm brown eyes back to Clara, comforting the girl gently. "I need you to tell me what happened, Clara. I promise you I'll make sure we get to the bottom of this nightmare. What'd he look like?" ​"It was dark, Commandress," Clara cried softly, gripping her torn silk blanket tightly. "He grabbed me from behind. I couldn't see his face at all. But he was very tall. He wore rough linen clothing, and smelled strongly of old parchment paper and dark ink."

The air smelled of paper, ink, and old timber — the comforting perfume of imagination and memory intertwined. Clara Wilson, barely sixteen years old, stood on a small stool behind the front window, her forehead resting lightly against the cool glass. Her breath fogged the pane as she traced absent shapes in the mist with her fingertip. She watched raindrops race one another downward, merging, separating, vanishing at the sill. There was something hypnotic in their movement — a quiet competition with no clear winner.

She had been here more than once, and she was very familiar with the layout and furnishings here. Clara strolled around slowly and opened a drawer. Unexpectedly, she found a piece of drawing paper in it. There was a half-finished drawing on the piece of drawing paper. It was a young girl who had a black scarf covering her face. The girl had beautiful black hair that was raised like an arc in the wind. Her fringe covered her brows which looked as radiant as the stars. This was… Clara’s heart beat frantically. She took the piece of drawing paper out from the drawer immediately. The anger accumulating in her heart had already reached its peak at this moment!