Clara Afton Novels & Stories

"Mr. Hale, I'm sorry. This lady insisted on coming in, and we couldn't stop her—" I waved her off, signaling her to step out. My gaze moved past her and landed on a group of uninvited guests at the door. At the front of the group sat Clara in a wheelchair. In just a few days, she had become haggard, her face sallow and her eyes sunken. "Sebastian, I came to take you home," she said. I looked at her without a flicker of emotion, feeling only irritation at being interrupted while I was working.

Maybe she expected me to come crying, I was just confused at this point. “Can I see her profile?” I murmured out “Sure” Shaun responded and immediately swiped on his phone. “Dr Clara, a highly respected surgeon who has never had a failed surgery. A woman of zeal with a flawless record. Beyond the operating room, Clara is a business woman with a lot of landed property to her name. Despite her success, Clara's heart and compassion towards children remained strong. She owns and run an orphanage home where she provide shelter, love and education to abandoned children”

But the weight in my voice pushes her forward. She takes the phone. Clara's fingers feel strangely numb against the smooth glass. The first image loads instantly, it was Aiden and Gina. Too close to be explained away. His hand at her back, her head tilted toward his shoulder, the intimacy casual and unguarded. It was not posed but real. Clara’s breath catches, sharp and shallow, but she keeps scrolling. More pictures, in different places. A restaurant she recognizes. An apartment she doesn't have. Smiles she’s seen before, now rearranged into something unmistakable.

"The thing that is important is that the mark we saw in Hannah's and Bella’s necks was there in that person’s neck!" His eyes darkened, and his exclamations turned hard as soon as I revealed the information. "Do you want to have another attack from a vampire?" "I am not sure—Bryant has already died," I muttered, shrugging my shoulders, and told myself not to judge anything. I pulled out my phone and opened the article about the dead—the article was published this morning on the Internet. Jacob zoomed in on the picture, seeing the marks on the person's neck. "I am not sure, either, Aurora." He sounded.

"So how can I help you, Mr. Clifford?" Clarissa watched Brandon Clifford's striking blue eyes drift towards her chest and linger there. Disturbed, she glanced downwards and noticed the robe was gaping in the middle, revealing the gentle curve of one breast. Her cheeks warmed as she hurriedly pulled it closed and, once more, she was unable to meet his eyes when he spoke. "I hear you are trying to get on my island." Clarissa nodded. "Then you will know why." "Yes, you are investigating the murder of the American Sarah Elliott and her family in 1893. I saw you taking photographs of the island, this morning."

Jeri's angry tone indicated that nothing would stop her from exacting revenge on them. The atmosphere was charged with rage and fear as the two charming ladies stood silently, glaring at each other with skeptical brows. After a long silence, Aysel finally said, "It is obvious that you do not know what you are talking about. Because how are you going to make a deceased person regret what she did to you while she was alive?" “What exactly are you talking about?” Jeri was taken aback by Aysel's words. "Jeri," Aysel sighed heavily and shrugged." Just so you know, Aunt Clara was murdered in a hotel by an unidentified person. So… hmm…”

One Friday evening, after finalizing a small project proposal with a client, Jade suggested we celebrate with beef hotpot. We just drove to the entrance of the creative park when a figure suddenly burst out from the bushes by the roadside and stepped directly in front of the car. The moment I looked up and recognized the person standing there, it felt as though all the blood in my body froze and flowed backward. Clara. She grew painfully thin. Her once carefully styled curls now hung limp and lifeless against her cheeks. Her eyes were sunken, bloodshot veins spreading through them as she stared straight at me inside the car.

he murmured against my hair, his breath warm and comforting. "Yes," I nodded, even though my heart still raced with lingering terror. My eyes settled on Clara, who remained kneeling, her face buried in her hands. I approached her cautiously, my voice soft but firm. "Clara, please tell me one thing. Who helped you do this? Someone was definitely working with you, right?" Her silence spoke volumes. Clara's hesitation was palpable, her body tensing as if weighed down by an unbearable burden. Rafe's demeanor shifted sharply; he strode over and gripped her by the neck, not harshly, but with enough force to demand her attention.

The cult had retreated, but the fear remained. Serafina and Benedict walked through the quiet alleys, heading toward the home of a survivor—a girl named Clara. One of the few who had seen the true face of the flame-bearers and lived. When they arrived, Clara's mother hesitated at the door, blocking their view. "She doesn't talk anymore," the woman said. "We don't need her to," Serafina answered. "Just her presence. Her silence speaks more than any sermon." Inside, Clara sat by a window, staring at the horizon. Her hands moved restlessly over a scrap of cloth, folding, unfolding. She was young, barely fifteen. But her eyes were a void. Serafina recognized that void. She carried it for years.

The hacked Clawford server, its data was her handiwork, and it was drawing in tighter around my cousin's neck. Natasha’s heels clicked as she moved into the room, wearing a red coat. “Clara’s in the van,” she said, tossing a tablet onto the table, a grainy feed playing of Clara, gagged and shivering, in the back of a moving vehicle. “Valenticia’s down at the dock’s wasting her time. ”