Part 2: Clara scrambled to her feet.

Part 2: Clara scrambled to her feet.

“It’s Clara, sir. Clara Higgins. I’m clearing the glass so you don’t step on it.”

Her voice was soft but steady. She did not speak to him like he was a child. She did not pour pity into every syllable the way the doctors had. She simply gave him information.

Vincent filed that away.

“See that you do, Clara.”

He turned and began ascending the stairs.

Halfway up, he glanced back.

Most of the staff had already stopped watching him. Blind men, apparently, no longer deserved eye contact.

But Clara was still looking.

Not with pity.

Not with disgust.

With focus.

As if she sensed something no one else did.

For the first time since the explosion, Vincent felt the faintest spark of interest.

The game had begun.

And the unassuming maid with tired eyes and calloused hands had already become the only piece on the board he had not

anticipated.

Part 2: 6:34–14:16

A week into the charade, the Romano estate became a den of vultures.

Without the fear of Vincent’s gaze, discipline rotted from the inside out.

He spent hours seated in the leather wingback chair of his mahogany-paneled study, dark glasses on, cane within reach, face angled toward the fireplace like a ruined king contemplating ashes.

But behind the illusion, he saw everything.

Chloe slipped gold cufflinks from his dresser into her apron pocket while changing his sheets.

The chef, a man who once shook when Vincent entered the kitchen, spat into his truffle risotto before sending it out.

Two guards abandoned the rear gate to play poker on their phones.

Agnes took inventory of his wine cellar with the hungry focus of a widow measuring inheritance.

Every betrayal was written into Vincent’s memory.

Every name moved onto a list.

It took every ounce of his control

not to reach into his desk drawer, pull out the Beretta hidden beneath a stack of contracts, and teach the entire house what blindness had not changed.

But Clara remained an anomaly.

She worked double shifts without complaint. Agnes gave her the worst tasks. Chloe laughed when Clara carried laundry baskets up three flights of stairs. The footmen called her slow, clumsy, heavy, invisible.

Yet Clara noticed everything.

On Tuesday evening, she was assigned to serve Vincent dinner in the grand dining room.

The room was dim, lit by only a few candles. Vincent sat at the head of the long table with his dark glasses on, his hands folded beside a crystal goblet of Château Margaux.

Two footmen stood in the corner whispering.

“Look at him,” one murmured. “Used to scare the city. Now he can’t even find his fork.”

The other snickered.

Vincent did not move.

Then Clara

entered through the swinging kitchen doors, carrying a silver tray with a seared ribeye, roasted asparagus, and a small dish of salted butter. Her footsteps were distinctive, steady, heavier than the others, honest in a way the mansion was not.

She set the plate before him with care.

“Your dinner, Mr. Romano.”

Vincent decided to test her.

He reached toward the wineglass and deliberately misjudged the distance.

His hand struck the crystal.

Dark red wine spilled across the white tablecloth, spreading toward his tailored trousers.

The footmen laughed under their breath.

“Damn it,” Vincent snapped, feeling around the table. “Where is the napkin?”---