Chapter 77: Survival
The second she ended the live, the first thing Clara did was throw her phone across the plush throw pillows of her couch. The soft impact didn’t satisfy her frustration the way she hoped it would. She sat there, frozen in her curated living room—the silk curtains, the gold accents, the stupidly overpriced crystal vase she didn’t even like.
Everything around her felt borrowed. Just like her life.
Her hand shook slightly as she ran it over her hair, smoothing down flyaways like that might flatten the chaos inside her head too.
It wasn’t the tears or the apology that bothered her. She could cry on cue better than half the actresses she watched on Netflix. No—the pregnancy reveal was what made her pulse hammer, her throat dry.
She hadn’t planned to say it yet. She’d rehearsed it, sure. She’d practiced the way her fingers would drift to her stomach, the slight tremble in her voice, the exact tilt of her head to get the light to hit just right.
But actually saying it?
That wasn’t supposed to happen now.
"God," she whispered, dragging her hands down her face, smearing remnants of mascara. "God, why did I say it?"
Because she was cornered.
Because Ella’s name was everywhere. Because Nicholas—Nicholas Carter of all people—had been pictured with Ella of all people, smiling like some lovesick fool, holding her hand like she wasn’t just some broke nobody with a tragic backstory.
Clara swallowed hard, heart thumping painfully. That should’ve been her. It was supposed to be her.