---- Chapter 5 No.5 The clinic was clean, quiet, and anonymous. Isolde had arranged everything. The bill was paid before Clare even arrived. There were no questions, no judgments. Just a quiet, professional compassion that Clare clung to like a life raft. She lay on the narrow bed, staring at the acoustic tile ceiling. The procedure was quick. A dull cramping, a sense of emptiness. Then it was over. A Chapter of her life, closed. A life that never was, erased. She didn't cry. The emptiness felt like a relief. A clean slate. Isolde was waiting for her in a private recovery room. She was tall and striking, with sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing. She didn't hug Clare. Instead, she handed her a bottle of water and a small paper bag. "Drink this," she said. "And eat this." Inside the bag was a warm, sticky cinnamon roll, heavy with icing. The sweet smell filled the sterile room. It was the first thing Clare had craved in days. "How did you know?" Clare whispered, her throat thick. ---- "Your mother always said you had a disgusting sweet tooth," Isolde said with a wry smile. "I figured some things don't change." She sat in the chair opposite Clare, her gaze steady. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" And so Clare told her. Everything. The party. Karis. The burning pain in her hands. The pregnancy. The mountain. She laid the ugly, brutal facts out one by one, her voice a low monotone. Isolde listened without interruption. Her expression didn't change, but her eyes grew harder, colder. When Clare finished, the silence in the room was heavy. "That man," Isolde said, her voice dangerously quiet, "is a monster. And that woman is his accomplice." She leaned forward. "First things first. Your hands." She gently took one of Clare's hands, examining the raw, peeling skin. "We're going to see the best dermatologist in the state. Today." "It's no use," Clare said, her voice flat. "My career is over. My agency has been trying to reach me. They'll drop me for breach of contract. Failure to maintain my primary asset." "We'll handle the agency," Isolde said dismissively. "Contracts can be fought. Or paid off. That's just money. Right now, we focus on you." She stood up. "Come on. My car is waiting. You're coming home with me. To California." ---- The idea of a home, a real one, was so foreign, so overwhelming, Clare couldn't speak. She just nodded That evening, she found herself in a sprawling, modern house perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The walls were glass, the air smelled of salt and eucalyptus. It was a world away from the suffocating opulence of Chase's apartment. Isolde gave her a tour, ending in a guest suite that was bigger than Clare's first New York apartment. "This is yours," Isolde said. "For as long as you need it." Clare walked to the window. The ocean stretched out to the horizon, vast and powerful. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, a sense of peace settled over her. Her phone, a new one provided by Isolde, buzzed on the nightstand. It was an unknown number. Against her better judgment, she answered. "Clare." Chase's voice. It was strained, frantic. He must have gotten the new number from her panicked agent. "How could you?" he breathed. "I went to the clinic. They told me. You actually did it." "It's done, Chase," she said, her voice calm. ---- "You had no right!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "That was my child too!" "You lost your rights on that mountain," she said, and the coldness in her own voice surprised her. "I'm coming to get you," he said, his tone shifting, becoming possessive, threatening. "I don't care where you are. | will find you, and you will come home." "Don't bother," she said. She ended the call and blocked the number. She walked out onto the balcony, the cool ocean breeze on her face. He could threaten all he wanted. He was in New York, a ghost from another life. Here, on this cliff, with the ocean roaring below, she felt safe. She was free.