She had been thirteen when her mother had died, so suddenly that it had taken her years to accept her absence. A fatal fall down the stairs, they had said. An accident. But for Clara, this tragedy had always had a taste of unfinished business, a bitter taste that no amount of adult staid talk could erase. Then there had been Hugo. With his square shoulders and deep voice, he had established himself as a pillar in their family chaos. Too charismatic to be ignored, too perfect to be honest. An impromptu stepfather who was both an enigma and an anchor.
But Hugo did not fill the void; he masked it.
That day, Clara was walking down the stairs, her bare feet sliding on the polished wood. She loved this moment of the morning, before the manor fully woke up. At that precise moment, it was *her* space. Not that of the busy servants or that of Hugo, locked in his office, with his doors closed as if to hide an unspeakable truth. She let her fingers slide along the railing, brushing the cold of the solid wood. An almost childish habit that she had never lost.
"You're up early today," a deep voice called out, tearing Clara from her thoughts.
Hugo was already in the dining room, impeccably dressed, a coffee in his hand.
"I couldn't sleep," she replied, avoiding his piercing gaze.
He nodded, almost imperceptibly. Hugo wasn't one to ask too many questions. Or maybe he already knew everything.
Clara sat down in silence in front of him. There was this tension between them, a mixture of intimacy and distance that always left a strange aftertaste. She couldn't help but observe him out of the corner of her eye. The features of his face were both severe and elegant. Nothing about this man seemed to be left to chance.
"You're eighteen tomorrow," he finally said, breaking the silence.
She looked up, surprised that he mentioned it.
"Yeah, I guess it's... important."
He frowned slightly, as if he didn't approve of her casual tone. But instead of reprimanding her, he placed a black box on the table.
" For you. "
Clara hesitated. Hugo wasn't the kind of man to give gifts for no reason. Still, she slowly undid the ribbon, her heart beating a little faster than she would have liked. Inside, a sparkling watch rested on a velvet cushion. Not just any watch, but a piece that seemed to have stood the test of time, as precious as it was timeless.
"It belonged to my mother," he explained calmly.
Clara was speechless. Hugo rarely spoke about his family, much less about his mother. This watch represented much more than just a piece of jewelry.
"Thank you," she finally whispered, unable to take her eyes off the object.
"You deserve much more than that, Clara."
There was a sincerity in his voice that unsettled her. For a moment, she felt a strange warmth, almost comforting. But that feeling was quickly replaced by a question she didn't dare ask: Why was he doing this? Why now?
The day went on as usual. The staff cleaned and polished, the cutlery was lined up with military precision, and the manor gradually filled with the hum of daily activity. Still, Clara couldn't help but feel a weight on her shoulders. The watch she now wore on her wrist seemed to radiate an energy she didn't understand.
Late that afternoon, she found her diary, buried under a pile of books in her room. Writing had become her escape, the only place she could express her thoughts without fear of being judged.
* »Hugo has changed, or maybe it's just me who sees him differently. There's something about him that scares me as much as he attracts me. I'd like to understand why he's so... elusive. But maybe I should just be content with what he gives. After all, the answers aren't always what you hope for."*
She closed the journal abruptly, almost annoyed by her own thoughts. But deep down, she knew she couldn't ignore what she felt.
That evening, she went downstairs to dinner. Hugo was there, as always, sitting at the head of the table, an implacable figure of authority. Yet when he looked at her, there was something else. A shadow of vulnerability, or perhaps a reflection of his own doubts.
"So, ready for your majority?" he asked, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Clara shrugged.
"It's just a number."
"A number that changes everything," he replied calmly.
She frowned. What did he mean by that? But before she could ask, he stood up, ending the conversation.
That night, Clara couldn't sleep. She lay awake, watching the watch glow faintly in the darkness. There was something about this house, about this man, that troubled her deeply. It wasn't just the luxury or the unspoken things. It was a constant tension, as if some buried truth threatened to upend everything.
She closed her eyes, trying to calm her mind. But the question continued to resonate within her: why this watch? And above all, why did Hugo seem so close and yet so far away?
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