Chapter 7: Echoes of the Past
The peace they had built was fragile, and late October brought a harsh reminder of that fact.
It was a rainy Saturday, the kind of day perfectly suited for indoor forts and movies. Julian was in the kitchen preparing hot chocolate while Clara and Lily were curled up on the rug in the living room, an educational documentary playing on the television.
Julian was pouring the milk into a saucepan when he heard a sharp, terrified gasp from the living room, followed by the heavy thud of a dropped tablet.
He dropped the milk carton, the white liquid splashing across the granite counter, and sprinted into the living room.
Lily was backed against the sofa, her knees pulled to her chest, her breathing shallow and rapid. Her eyes were fixed in pure terror on the iPad lying face-up on the rug. Clara was already on her knees beside the little girl, her hands hovering gently, not wanting to startle her further.
Julian looked down at the screen. It was an online news portal. An alert had popped up, featuring a large, high-definition photo of Victoria Harrington. The headline read: Disgraced Socialite Involved in Parisian Hotel Altercation.
Just the sight of her face was enough to trigger Lily’s deep-seated trauma. The ghost of the iron door had rushed back into the room.
"Lily, look at me," Clara said, her voice dropping into a steady, rhythmic cadence. She didn't panic. She didn't yell for a doctor. She pulled the bright pink inhaler from her pocket—she never went anywhere without it—and pressed it into Lily’s trembling hand.
"Take a puff, sweetie. Just one," Clara guided her.
Lily squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled the medication.
"Good. Now, look at my eyes," Clara instructed, moving directly into Lily's line of sight, blocking the tablet entirely. "Breathe in for four seconds. One, two, three, four. Hold it. Now out for four."
Julian stood frozen, watching the masterclass in empathy and crisis management. He quietly leaned over, picked up the iPad, and powered it down completely, tossing it onto a high shelf.
"She's an ocean away, Lily," Clara whispered, taking the little girl's hands in hers. "She is never coming back. You are in your house. Your dad is right there. Barnaby is asleep on the porch. You are completely safe."
It took ten minutes, but the panic attack subsided before it could fully take hold. Lily uncurled her small body and threw her arms around Clara’s neck, burying her face in the woman's shoulder. Clara held her tight, rocking her gently.
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Julian sank onto the sofa beside them, wrapping his arms around both of them. He kissed the top of Lily's head, and then, overwhelmed by a surge of fierce affection, he pressed a kiss to Clara's temple.
"Thank you," he mouthed silently over his daughter's head. Clara just nodded, holding their makeshift family together.
