Clara Afton Fanart Novels & Stories

Others tilted their heads at Raffaele's frozen storm-clouds, caught between awe and melancholy. And there, near a waterfall print that spanned an entire wall, stood Ines. She wore a dress the color of twilight, simple yet radiant. Raphael’s breath caught. In that instant, the thought that had haunted him for months flared like lightning: he could not imagine a forest, a life, or a death without her. Near the center of the gallery, Falvio raised a glass of champagne. The crowd hushed.

She exclaimed excitedly. Clara’s fingers stilled around her fork, lips trembling. The last thing she wanted was to be all alone with Anya, not after what she had witnessed yesterday and how she had been caught watching. How could she joke about with Anya when the image of her moaning breathlessly was still etched in her mind? When every time she looked at Anya all she saw was the woman who had held her gaze seconds after swallowing her husband’s load. “I… I’m not very artistic,” Clara stuttered.

Clara carefully observed her surroundings. She was afraid that she would be discovered by security. She had never been a stalker before. To execute the plan perfectly, she gathered all of Jonathan's information. She wanted to make sure he fell in love with her quickly. Marble will return to her.

Serena stood at the end of the metal table, heart hammering as the sheet was pulled back. Clara’s face was pale, her lips tinged blue, eyes shut as if still mid-sentence. Her throat had been torn cleanly from left to right, and the skin around her wrist was singed with a circular sigil a crescent moon pierced by a jagged slash. It wasn’t a wolf clan mark. It wasn’t vampire either. It was something else. Something… older. Serena didn’t return to the office. Instead, she went straight to Clara’s room. The building was still under police lockdown, but she flashed her credentials and pushed past the yellow tape.

And in the center of the image, sitting in a comfortable chair, was Clara herself. She was smiling. It was a genuine smile, a warm smile, a smile that spoke of peace and contentment and hope. She was holding a cup of tea, her hands wrapped around the warm ceramic, her eyes bright and alive. She looked healthy. She looked happy. She looked like a woman who had survived the apocalypse and thrived. She had written a note to accompany the photograph, her handwriting neat and deliberate. It was short, only a few sentences, but every word was chosen with care. Every word was designed to cut deep, to wound, to destroy whatever was left of Julian's spirit.

The gravel paths were dark and wet from the storm, scattered with oak leaves and broken twigs. Near the stone fountain, a wooden wheelbarrow bumped over the flagstones. Clara. She wore her faded canvas work jacket, her thick, mud-stained gloves wrapped around the wooden handles. She pushed the cart slowly toward the rosebeds beneath my wing, her boots leaving dark tracks in the wet grass. She stopped beside the stone stairs and set the cart down. Then she looked up. Her brown eyes met mine through the second-floor window. She saw me standing behind the glass, pale and barefoot, my dark hair hanging in tangled knots around my bare shoulders.

And that fear made my blood run hotter. Clara… she looked different. She wore a long gray singlet dress that tied at her neck and left her back bare. The fabric was thin, almost see-through, clinging to her in ways that made every curve clear. I could see too much. But I don't care about her right now. My eyes stayed on Amara. She moved slowly toward one of the poles, her hips swaying with each step. Clara went to the other side, taking the second pole. I leaned forward in my seat, elbows on my knees. The music slowed even more.

she asked. “They... uh... she...” I stammered, completely tongue-tied. “I guess. They have the same hair, but one can’t be sure.” “I am absolutely sure. She’s the one. See?” Clara continued staring at the picture, completely convinced she had solved the mystery. “They look similar, but Elena is skinnier,” Ava argued. “Okay, let’s make a bet. One thousand dollars. To be paid when her face is finally revealed,” Clara said. “Deal?”

” as she looks at both her brothers and draws reassurance from their touch. It came out like a montage from the past. There were a few pictures from the orphanage, the older staff members, and then he ended with the picture everybody had been waiting for. An image of Clara at the age of ten. It showed a very frail and weak 10-year-old girl, a little sad around the eyes, but compared side by side with the news article, they could not deny the fact that it was indeed Clara in the picture.

Doing a photoshoot for the well-known Exclusive magazine across the nation. "I made sure that this girl is indeed Fathia Bernessa Claire. And I confess, it was a huge mistake for me to fake all the death documents for Fathia because this girl's life is in danger." Clara closes her eyes momentarily. She doesn't want to utter the name she despises the most, but it's a necessity now. Especially since what she feared has truly come to pass in her eyes.