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

.

Adrian was supposed to be the ticket out of this mess—the solution to everything. His name. His money. His stupid, too-handsome face. And his family wanted it too. She knew they did. His father practically hinted at it over dinner the other night, sipping brandy, saying things like "Men like Adrian need women who understand responsibility."

And she could have been that woman.

If not for Ella.

Ella—who didn’t even try. Who didn’t even wear her hair properly most days or bother with contour. Ella who floated around acting like she was too good for everyone, like tragedy had made her holy or something. The sympathy for Ella was unbearable. The poor girl with the mom in a coma. The tragic heiress cut off by her own family. Boo hoo.

No one ever asked what Clara had lost in the mess of their stitched-together family. No one cared what it was like to be dragged along by her mother’s choices. No one asked what it felt like to finally have wealth and security and then watch it slip through her fingers like sand—all because of Ella.

Clara stood and began pacing, pressing her fingertips to her temples like she could massage away the panic now rising under her skin.

"Think. Think. Fix this."

The pregnancy reveal was messy, but necessary. The moment she saw those pictures circulating of Nicholas holding Ella, kissing her hair, laughing like some prince in a rom-com? She knew. She was running out of time. If the media fell in love with them first, she’d be nothing but background noise.

But a pregnancy?

That was a story. That was complicated. That was messy enough that people wouldn’t immediately jump to worship at Ella’s feet. They’d have questions. About the timeline. About the father. It was perfect to get Adrian back

It was leverage.

Clara moved to the mirror hanging above the marble console table. Her reflection stared back at her—smudged, exhausted, but still beautiful. Still sharp where it counted. She tilted her chin, inspecting herself like a predator licking its wounds.

"This is survival."

She repeated that phrase to herself often lately. When the bank statements came in lower than she expected. When her mother called to sob about lawyers. When invitations to events suddenly stopped arriving like they used to.

It wasn’t about being cruel. It wasn’t about being malicious. It was about survival.

People would judge her for going live. They always did. Too emotional. Too messy. Too loud.

Let them talk.

People loved a redemption arc.

Let Ella play the mysterious, sad little rich girl. Clara was going to be the mother. The woman doing her best despite impossible circumstances. The one betrayed by family and loved by strangers. There would be blog posts. Think pieces. TikToks psychoanalyzing her smile frame by frame.

And the baby—God, even if she hated the idea of stretch marks and midnight feedings—the baby was going to buy her something no social media following could:

Permanence.

The baby would be the anchor she needed in this storm.

And if Nicholas wanted to play the noble, brooding CEO with a damsel in distress on his arm, fine. Let him.

But once the headlines started twisting, once the media began digging... it wouldn’t be that easy to just play happy family.

Pregnant stepsister of girlfriend. Estranged heiress feud. Secret betrayal.

It wrote itself.

Clara smiled bitterly at her reflection. "They’ll eat it up."

And yet, as she smoothed her hair and touched up her lipstick, another feeling crept in under the confidence: Fear.

Because deep down, she knew something she wouldn’t say aloud—not even to herself.

If Nicholas chose Ella publicly, fully, no PR strategy in the world would save her. If Ella wanted this fight... she’d win. Not because she was clever. But because people always, always wanted to believe the girl who didn’t want the spotlight more than the one begging for it.

But it didn’t matter.

Clara would burn herself alive before she let that happen.

She picked up her phone again, scrolling through the endless notifications—praise, pity, backlash, confusion. Just noise.

And then one DM caught her eye:

"Clara... is the baby mine?"

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she posted a photo to her Instagram Story—soft-focus, pale pink background, tiny white text in the corner:

"Taking some time to heal. Love you all. Thank you for your support"

And she watched the views climb.

Let them wonder.

Let them talk.

Because Clara wasn’t done yet.

Not by a long shot.