Clara Afton Fanart の小説・ストーリー

” 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.

Clara. She stood frozen at the top of the staircase, her eyes locking with his. Time seemed to stand still as their gazes met. Clara stood at the top of the stairs, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light. Her long, auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, framing a face that was delicate yet striking. Her almond-shaped eyes, a deep shade of emerald-green, glimmered with a mix of shock and curiosity. Her skin was flawless, a warm golden tone that seemed to glow under the light. She was breathtaking, a vision of beauty that made his wolf howl in approval.

There was only one thing he wished to convey at the moment. Clara, you are a living Aphrodite. Raphael was not really into mythological stories, but he had seen pictures of The birth of Venus and how Aphrodite were usually depicted in the common media, Clara's features did resemble her, pale skin, light honey golden hair and a striking beauty. She was fit to be called a living Aphrodite, he was just glad Clara was not as flirtatious as the goddess herself, his possessive ego would never allow it.

“Clara, I just remembered that your mother left me before she died.” Clara looked at her friend’s hand. She’s holding a small notebook that looks like her mother’s diary. “It’s with a picture of you when you were little, and I just noticed that there’s a contact number on the back of the picture. Clara frowned when she saw the picture. She knew she was being held by a woman, but she didn’t recognize her. It has a man next to her, and both of them are smiling in the picture. She estimated that she was two years old in the picture.

He looked toward me through the window, holding Maya under the night sky. And I knew he was silently swearing: I’ll tear down anyone who dares forge her name. Across the city, Walter Crane raised his glass. “Tomorrow’s headlines will bury her,” he said. Savannah’s smile was sharp. “And Adrian with her.” But somewhere darker, in a quiet cell, Clara laughed softly. “Forged signatures?” she mused. “Walter, you fool. You’ve opened a door I can walk right through.” That night, I stood barefoot in the kitchen, staring at my untouched tea. My reflection in the glass looked like someone else—haunted, hardened, but unbroken.

She warned. Clara remembered that this is the girl that appeared so meek before. Beside the girl, Diana and Tamara were amazed at the speed and strength of this girl. If it weren't because of how serious the situation is, they would have clapped for her in amazement. Tamara glanced at the visitor's ID that the girl was wearing. Katherine Atwood. She took note of her. Clara ran up to Bryan trying to seek comfort. "Bryan, do something. This is going to leave a bruise on me." Clara pouted, making her eyes teary.

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.

"My parents. My sister. They've been asking about you for weeks." "You've been telling them about me?" "Constantly. My mother thinks I'm obsessed." "Are you obsessed?" "Completely." He leaned across the table and kissed her. "Is that a problem?" "No. I like being obsessed over." "Good. Because I don't plan on stopping." Clara came home to find Colt sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by colored paper, markers, glue sticks, and a large poster board. His T-Rex was propped against the salt shaker, supervising the operation.

By the time we left the club I felt the anger still burning in my chest. We got back to the mansion after midnight. I walked through the quiet halls and pushed open the library door. Clara sat at the long table with her head resting on a stack of philanthropy papers. She was asleep. I moved closer without making noise. The papers had notes in her handwriting, but in the margins she had drawn small clumsy sketches. They showed us the beach house we visited once in Delhi. One sketch had the sand, another had the water line, and a third had the simple shape of the house with two small figures on the porch.