96
Clarisa just stared at me, calm, relaxed—like we were standing in some fucking café, sipping coffee, having a normal conversation. Like she wasn’t feeding me complete bullshit in real-time. Like I wasn’t standing here, hearing her words, knowing they were wrong, knowing she was lying, and still, she had the audacity to act like I was the one who had it all twisted.
Adeline projects.
That’s what she called them.
The words kept looping in my head, but they didn’t make any goddamn sense. Projects? What kind of fucking projects? What kind of ‘projects’ demanded locking someone—seemingly a girl—inside a room like that? Someone who sounded gagged. Tied up. Trapped. The way she whimpered, the way she banged against the door, desperate, frantic, like she was fighting to be heard—what the fuck kind of ‘project’ was that?
A sick feeling coiled in my stomach.
Adeline.
I knew that name. Bobby’s daughter. Dominic’s ex. But that was it. That was all I fucking knew about her.
I hadn’t questioned it before. Hadn’t thought much about her beyond that. But now, standing here, staring at Clarisa, my mind started racing, started unraveling the holes in what I thought I knew.
Apart from her connections to Bobby and Dominic, I knew nothing about Adeline.
Not her job. Not her role here. Not even the most basic shit—like where she had come from, how she fit into all of this.
And it hit me like a fucking slap—
This morning, when she introduced everyone, she gave backstories. Explained how each person fit, what they did, why they were here.
Except for herself.
She never said a single word about herself.
And I hadn’t even noticed.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. My skin prickled with unease.
Clarisa was still watching me, that same patient expression on her face, like she was waiting for me to work through it, waiting for me to ask, waiting for me to challenge her.
And for the first time, I hesitated.
Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.
My throat felt dry. My pulse hammered in my ears.
“You told me there were projects,” I said, voice low. I almost didn’t know what to believe now. She had told me, I had fucking heard her loud and clear as she told me they were Adeline’s project
Clarisa blinked, head tilting slightly. “Did I?”
My jaw tightened. “Yes.”
She exhaled, slow, patient, almost amused, and her arms stayed crossed as she leaned slightly on one leg, gaze steady, face smooth. “I think you misunderstood me.”
I stiffened. My fingers curled into my palms, nails digging into my skin.
“You barely fucking know me,” I shot back, my voice low, steady.
Clarisa didn’t even blink. If anything, her smirk deepened, like she found my reaction amusing, like she had expected it.
“Oh, I know enough,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly. “I know how your mind works. I know you latch onto things, twist them up, make them bigger than they are.”
I felt something ugly coil in my chest.
“You don’t know shit about me.”
She let out a soft hum, like she was considering that.
“I know you’re doing it right now.”
I took a step closer.
Her eyes flicked to the movement, but she didn’t move back. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, completely at ease, watching me like she was watching something predictable.
I felt my pulse hammering in my throat.
“You’re trying to make me think I’m crazy.” My voice was quieter now, but not weak. Not unsure.
Clarisa sighed, almost tiredly, like I was exhausting her.
“Eleanor,” she said gently. “No one is making you think anything.”
I laughed—a sharp, humorless sound.
“The fuck you aren’t.”
She shook her head, like she was disappointed in me.
“You always do this,” she said softly, her eyes meeting mine with something too smooth, too knowing.
My stomach churned.
“Do what?” I demanded.
Clarisa smiled.
“Look for ghosts that aren’t there.”
I felt crazy.
It was triggering.
I hated feeling crazy.
My teeth clenched so hard, I thought they might crack. My stomach churned, a tight knot twisting in my gut, and my eyes stung, not from the bitter air but from the realization that cut deeper than anything physical. Clarice, who I had once seen as the gentler, more honest one, was nothing but a quiet manipulator. The one I seemed to have trusted, the one who had seemed to care, to see me as something fragile that needed protection and tenderness. She was nothing like that. Nothing at all. Now, I knew the truth. And, God, how much I despised that.
I could picture it clearly now—the difference between Clarice and Adeline. Adeline, at least, was transparent in her anger. She was loud, brash, and unpredictable. You could see the storm coming from a mile away with her. She had a way of exploding, her temper like a grenade that always went off when things didn’t go her way. She had this innate need to be in control—of everything, of everyone. When things went south, she’d let everyone know, her voice a booming command that left no room for doubt. There was no subterfuge with Adeline. She was who she was, fiery and demanding. You could never mistake her for anything other than what she was: a control freak with anger issues. She could tear you apart with a single glare, and you'd feel it deep in your bones, but at least you knew where you stood with her. The damage was swift, but it was clear.
Clarice, on the other hand, was a master of the silent game. She didn’t need to raise her voice. Her control wasn’t marked by loud outbursts or volatile tantrums. No, Clarice seemed far more subtle, her manipulation like a whisper in the dark. She seemed to know exactly how to push you just far enough without you even realizing it—until it was too late. Her kindness was a mask, perfectly crafted, and with it, she lured you into a sense of security. She seemed to be the kind of person you’d trust, thinking she was the one person who understood, who cared. But beneath that surface of sweetness was a mind that spun its own web, quiet but efficient. She seemed like one who didn’t explode when she didn’t get her way, she simply recalibrated, shifting her approach, playing with your emotions until she had you right where she wanted you. She seemed like the one to watch you falter, and instead of confronting you, she’d just keep the pressure on, tightening the invisible strings around you little by little until you were tangled up in her game.
Silent manipulators. The bane of my existence.
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