//CLARA//
Dinner was a masterclass in awkward silence, the kind that makes you hyper-aware of every chew and swallow like you're in a mukbang video you never agreed to star in.
Aunt Cornelia attacked her roast beef like it owed her money. Casimir studied his wine glass like it held the answers to a philosophy exam he forgot to study for. And me? I pushed food around my plate and counted the minutes until I could escape.
It was a lot of seconds.
Then the bitchy witch set down her fork dramatically.
"Bartholomew has arranged a promenade for you tomorrow. In the park."
I froze mid-chew, a piece of potato hovering tragically in my mouth.
Again?
The word screamed through my brain like a fire alarm. Didn't we just do this? Didn't he get tired of this?
I swallowed the potato down with a mouthful of wine that was absolutely not meant to be consumed like a shot of cheap tequila.
