The next day, Sean left for work with red eyes. He hadn’t slept all night. His plan to kidnap Clara was fully ford. He didn’t want to lose his wife. He didn’t want to be apart from her.
"Clara, no matter what, you will always be mine. I will have you completely. I will get you pregnant again, and let’s raise many children together."
Sean didn’t act imdiately. He knew his biggest mistake all this ti had been acting on emotion. Not this ti. This ti... everything had to be neat, quiet, and leave no room for error.
In his spacious office, Sean sat alone. The computer in front of him was on, displaying stock market charts. Sean’s face looked stiff. His breathing was irregular.
His phone lay on the desk, the screen still lit—nas he only contacted when the situation was truly dire.
He exhaled, then tapped one na.
"Do it today," he said briefly, without beating around the bush. "I want Clara brought back alive, healthy, and unhard!_
The voice on the other end replied simply, "Understood."
"If you so much as touch a single hair on Clara’s head, I’ll kill you by myself!"
"Roger that, boss!_
Sean imdiately hung up. He leaned back and closed his eyes. In his mind, Clara’s face appeared. A calm, cold, and defiant face. Not the face of a victim, but the face of soone who felt free.
"Soon," he muttered. "You’ll be mine again."
********
That day, Mrs. Diana’s house looked just as usual. The morning dragged on. Clara had just finished breakfast.
She sat in the living room with a cup of tea that was starting to get cold, staring at the front yard through the large window. There was no sense of foreboding. Only the silence that had recently beco her companion.
Mrs. Diana was in the kitchen, washing dishes. When suddenly the doorbell rang.
Clara looked up. She turned toward the kitchen. "Mommy, soone’s here."
Mrs. Diana wiped her hands with a dishcloth, then walked toward the door. She wasn’t suspicious. The house did indeed often have visitors—usually delivery people, neighbors, or people just asking for directions.
As soon as the door opened, two n were standing there. Neatly dressed, polite, looking ordinary, and smiling warmly.
"Excuse , ma’am," said one of them. "We’re looking for number 18A. We heard it’s around here."
Mrs. Diana frowned; she stepped out a little, then walked over to the house number sign.
"My house is number 16B. It looks like you took a wrong turn."
"Oh, I see..." the man smiled. "If I may ask, is number 18A close by?"
Mrs. Diana was about to answer. But it all happened too fast.
An arm wrapped around Mrs. Diana’s neck from behind. A cloth suddenly covered her mouth. Her body tensed, struggling, but their strength was far greater.
Clara, who heard the sound of sothing falling in front of the house, imdiately stood up.
"Mom?" she called.
There was no answer.
Clara stepped closer to the door.
That was when two other n entered the house.
Clara froze.
One of them imdiately covered her mouth from behind. The other held her down.
"Be quiet," soone whispered in her ear. "If you scream, your mother won’t wake up again."
Clara sobbed. Her body shook violently. Her hands reached out for sothing—anything—but it was in vain.
Within minutes, the house was silent.
Mrs. Diana lay unconscious on the living room floor. Clara was dragged out through the back door and shoved into a black car with no front license plate.
No screams. No suspicious neighbors.
The car sped away.
******
When Clara ca fully to, a strange scent hit her imdiately. The air was cold, the floor marble, long white curtains fluttering gently, and the scent of expensive perfu.
She was lying on a large bed with clean, soft sheets. Her wrists weren’t bound, but the bedroom door was tightly shut. From outside, she heard footsteps—a guard.
Clara sat up in a panic. She ran to the door and tried to open it.
But it was locked.
"HELLO!" she shouted. "ANYONE, OPEN THIS DOOR!"
There was no answer.
She backed away slowly, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes scanned the room. The room was... too luxurious to be called a holding cell. A plush sofa, fresh flowers on the table, even new clothes hanging neatly in the closet.
A villa.
Clara sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hands were trembling. She snorted.
"This must be Sean’s doing."
********
And sure enough, Sean showed up that night.
He stood in the doorway of the room, wearing a black shirt and a long jacket. His face was calm—too calm, even.
Clara turned her head.
The mont she saw him, her whole body tensed. Anger, fear, and shock all mingled together.
"You’re crazy," she said, her voice trembling. "You’re completely crazy."
Sean stepped inside, then closed the door behind him.
"I’m just trying to protect you, sweetheart," he replied softly. "You’re safe here. No reporters. No pressure. No one forcing you to make a decision."
"You kidnapped , Bastard!" Clara stood up, her eyes blazing with anger. "Did you hurt my mother?"
Sean stopped in his tracks. There was a fleeting flash in his eyes—not regret, but disgust at the accusation.
"Your mother is fine; no one has hurt her," he said. "I made sure she’s safe and well."
Clara let out a short, hysterical laugh. "I can’t trust the words of a kidnapper!"
Sean took a step closer. "Clara! I just didn’t want to lose you, Clara. I just... wanted to put you in the right place."
"Right where? This is like a prison," Clara retorted sharply.
Sean shook his head slowly. "You have everything you need here. Food, clothes, security, even a housekeeper. You can live like a queen."
"A caged queen," Clara replied sarcastically.
Silence.
Sean stared at his wife for a long ti. The look wasn’t one of love, but of a greedy obsession with possession.
"You’ll understand," he said finally. "You just need ti."
Clara clasped her own hands, holding back a tremor. Deep inside, a realization dawned—a cold, terrifying realization:
It seed Sean didn’t want to win her back. He just wanted to possess Clara to satisfy his obsession.
And that villa... wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a golden cage.
*******
Mrs. Diana ca to with a throbbing headache. The ceiling of her living room seed to be spinning slowly. The sll of carpet and cleaning fluid mingled in her nose. Her throat was dry, her body felt heavy, as if she had just been struck by a nightmare that felt all too real.
"Clara...?"
The voice ca out softly, barely audible.
She tried to sit up, propping herself up on her elbows. Her vision was still blurry, but one thing felt imdiately wrong: her house was too quiet. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious.
"Clara?" she called again, this ti louder.
No answer.
Mrs. Diana forced herself to stand, even as her head began to throb again. She stumbled toward the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room. Every corner of her house seed empty. Clara’s bag was there. Clara’s phone was left on the table.
And that was when the mory hit her.
Two n at the door. A seemingly trivial question about the address. Footsteps approaching from behind. A cloth covering her mouth. Darkness.
Mrs. Diana’s face went pale.
"Oh my God..." she whispered, trembling.
She grabbed the phone with a shaking hand, nearly dropping it twice before managing to dial the ergency number.
The police station was suddenly bustling that night.
Mrs. Diana sat in the interrogation room, her shoulders tense, both hands clenched tightly on her lap. In front of her, an investigator stared intently, pen ready to take notes.
"So, you’re saying you were approached by so strangers?" the investigator asked calmly.
"Yes," Mrs. Diana replied firmly, though her voice still trembled. "Two n. They pretended to ask for directions. I didn’t suspect anything. Anyone could get the wrong address."
"Then what happened?"
"Then, they... covered my mouth," she said, swallowing hard. "I passed out, for quite a while. When I ca to, my daughter was gone."
The investigator nodded slowly. "Was anything missing?"
"Nothing," Mrs. Diana replied quickly. "No jewelry was missing, no money was missing. Only Clara."
The words hung heavily in the room.
The investigator paused in his writing. "Do you suspect anyone?"
Mrs. Diana lifted her head. Her gaze was sharp. Without hesitation.
"Yes," she said firmly. "My son-in-law. Sean Weasley."
She spoke Sean Weasley’s na without a tremor in her voice, without excessive emotion, as if she had thought it through carefully.
"Their relationship was in trouble," Mrs. Diana continued. "Clara filed for divorce. And that man didn’t want to be left behind."
The investigators exchanged glances with their colleagues.
"We’ll process this report as a suspected kidnapping," he said finally. "And we’ll summon the relevant parties."
Mrs. Diana nodded. "I want my daughter back alive, safe, and unhard."
Reviews
All reviews (0)