Ryan shuffled back to the living room, rummaging through drawers until he finally stumbled upon a set of keys. Standing outside Clara’s makeshift prison, a pang of unease washed over him—he felt a bit too easily swayed.
Clara had already caught his approaching footsteps, and called out impatiently, “Come on, open the door! What’s the holdup?”
“Promise me, Clara, you won’t slap me again,” Ryan pleaded, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
Clara rolled her eyes but relented with a half-hearted, “Alright, I promise I won’t slap you.”
With that assurance, Ryan unlocked the door and involuntarily stepped back when Clara stormed past him, making a beeline for the exit. The air in the house had become stifling for her, and she couldn’t bear another moment of it.
Ryan trailed her closely, his voice tinged with urgency. “Are you really leaving now? Can’t you at least fix me a meal first? Is this just a hit-and-run?”
Clara paused at the doorway, her face a mask of indifference. Ryan felt a sting in his chest, a heavy weight settling in as he averted his gaze. “Fine, go ahead. It’s not like I’m desperate for your cooking. I always knew you didn’t care much about me.”
He watched, feeling adrift, as Clara got into her car and drove away. Once, he could sense her care, but now it felt like an echo of a memory.
He wanted to call her back, but years of being the bossy brother held him back. So he stood there, rooted, as she disappeared from view.
Ryan lingered in the yard, lost in thought until Naomi and others returned from their dinner out. Quinn was in a buoyant mood and ready to confront Clara, but the room that should’ve held her was empty.
Back in the living room, Quinn didn’t waste time, pinning Ryan with a sharp look. “Did you let her go?”
Ryan, now aware of how he’d been played, felt deflated. Quinn’s accusing tone only deepened his discomfort. “What else could I do? That room’s meant for the maid. Clara’s not staff, is she?”
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