Chapter 1: The Engagement
The wheels of the plane screeched against the tarmac, jostling Clara from her uneasy sleep. She blinked at the frost-coated window, groggy and disoriented. Snow blanketed the landscape outside, the cold northern light casting everything in a pale, wintry blue.
“Welcome to Oslo,” the pilot announced.
Clara exhaled through her nose, dragging a hand down her face. Her mother, seated beside her, wore an eager smile that made Clara’s stomach twist.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” her mom whispered, eyes sparkling.
Clara didn’t answer. She stared blankly out the window, her pulse tightening with every breath of cabin air. Norway was a world away from their old life in Edinburgh — from everything familiar, from her school, from her friends, and most painfully, from the ghost of her father, who had disappeared six years ago like a puff of smoke.
"Clara?" her mom prodded gently. "We’ll be meeting John soon. I just... want you to give him a chance. Please?"
Clara turned slowly. “You’ve known him for four months, Mom.” Clara couldn't accept the fact that they left home to a new city, to live with a man she barely knew.
Her mother flinched. “It’s been longer than that—”
“You met him online.”
“And we’ve been talking for almost a year. We love each other.”
Clara shook her head. “You barely let Dad’s toothbrush dry before you moved on.”
Her mom’s smile faltered, pain blooming across her face. “That’s not fair.”
But Clara didn’t want to be fair. Not now. Not when the ache of being ripped away from everything she knew still pulsed behind her ribs.
As they disembarked, Oslo’s bitter wind slapped Clara’s cheeks. The airport was modern and bustling, but she barely noticed. Her mind swirled with dread.
Then she saw him.
Tall, silver-haired, with a handsome, clean-shaven face and expensive wool coat, John stood near the arrivals gate, holding a paper sign that said “Clara & Grace” in neat block letters.
He had kind eyes, Clara noted with reluctant objectivity. He wrapped her mom in a long, warm hug, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh like a teenager.
Clara hung back.
“Clara!” John turned to her, his smile easy. “I’ve heard so much about you. Welcome.”
He extended a hand.
Clara stared at it, then shook it with the stiffness of someone handling an artifact.
“Thanks,” she said. “This is... cold.”
John laughed. “You’ll get used to it. Wait till January.”
She didn’t reply. Behind them, her mom rolled her suitcase and gave her a quiet look that begged for civility.
---
Later That Night – John’s House
John’s house was all modern glass and stone, tucked into a wooded hill just outside Oslo. Warm lights glowed from the inside. Clara couldn’t deny it — it was beautiful. Scandinavian minimalism and cozy textures. But it wasn’t home.
She trudged up the driveway, boots crunching snow, heart heavy with fatigue and resentment.
A younger woman opened the front door. She looked about Clara’s age — mid-20s, maybe a little older — with auburn curls and bright green eyes.
“You must be Clara,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Liv, John’s niece. I’m staying here for a few weeks.”
Clara blinked. “Oh. Hi.”
Liv gave her a warm smile, then stepped aside. “Come in. You must be freezing.”
Inside, the house was blissfully warm, smelling of cinnamon and pine. Clara’s mother looked utterly at home already — coat off, hair down, cheeks pink from the cold.
John poured them glasses of gløgg — warm spiced wine — and handed Clara one.
She sniffed it. “Is this legal?”
John chuckled. “It’s just a holiday tradition. You don’t have to drink it.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Liv glanced between them, sensing the tension but saying nothing. Clara appreciated that. She could already feel the eyes on her — watching for signs of rebellion, or worse, reluctant acceptance.
Dinner was served at a long wooden table: roast duck, potatoes, gravy, something with lingonberries. Clara barely tasted it. She pushed food around her plate, tuning out the conversation until something cut through.
“…and that’s why we wanted you here tonight,” John was saying, glancing between Clara and her mom. “We didn’t want to wait any longer. Life is short, and when you find the right person—”
Clara looked up.
Her mom reached for John’s hand and smiled. “We’re getting married.”
The words hit Clara like ice water.
There was a second of stunned silence.
“…Married?” Clara repeated, her voice flat.
“Yes,” her mom said, her eyes hopeful. “We wanted to tell you in person. John proposed last week.”
Clara set down her fork slowly. “So, what, we’re just pretending Dad never existed?”
Her mom’s face fell. “Clara—”
“You couldn’t even wait to see how I was adjusting here before throwing this at me.”
“It’s not about that. John and I—”
“Do you know how this feels?” Clara stood abruptly. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor. “You dragged me away from everything, and now you want me to smile and clap like this is some fairy tale? You’re marrying a stranger!”
John tried to interject. “Clara, I know this is a shock—”
“Don’t,” she snapped, “don’t pretend like you know anything about me.”
Liv stood up too, tense. “Maybe we should take a breath—”
“I’m done,” Clara said, storming out of the room, heart pounding, vision blurry.
---
Clara’s Room – Later
She sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, staring at her phone. No service. Of course.
She clenched the blanket in her fists, furious at herself for feeling so helpless.
Six years. Six years of unanswered questions, of waking up hoping for a message, a call, anything from her father. And her mom had moved on like it was nothing. Like her pain was disposable.
She got up, paced the room, then opened the window. Cold wind rushed in, biting at her skin. She didn’t care.
She needed out.
“I’m going for a walk,” Clara muttered as she grabbed her coat and made for the front door.
“Be back before dark,” Grace called.
Clara didn’t reply.
---
Downtown Oslo – Late Night
Clara walked for nearly an hour, trying to lose her thoughts in the cobbled streets and fresh snow. The town glowed softly under string lights and amber streetlamps. She passed a small pub with music spilling from the windows and, on impulse, stepped inside.
Warmth hit her immediately—wooden beams, laughter, clinking glasses. A band played a jazzy tune in the corner. Clara found a spot near the bar and ordered a drink, something sweet and strong.
She was halfway through her second when she noticed him.
Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, leaning at the end of the bar, casually flipping a coin through his fingers. He was watching her.
Their eyes met. He smiled. She looked away.
He came over anyway.
“New in town?” he asked.
Clara raised an eyebrow. “That obvious?”
He grinned. “It’s a small town. I’d remember someone like you.”
She laughed despite herself. “Well, lucky me.”
They talked. One drink became two, then three. They moved to a quiet corner, the music fading into the background. His laugh made her stomach flutter. He was smart, charming, a little mysterious. And there was something achingly familiar about him…
Outside, snow drifted gently. The cold nipped at their cheeks as they walked back to his apartment, saying nothing, just sharing glances, touches.
Inside, it was warm. Bookshelves lined the walls. A guitar rested by the window.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Clara whispered.
“I know,” he murmured, stepping closer. “But you are.”
His kiss was slow, searching. She melted into it.
The world narrowed to hands and lips and whispered names.
---
Morning Light
Clara woke to golden sunlight slicing through unfamiliar blinds. She blinked, registering a warm body beside her.
Memory hit her in fragments—the bar, his lips, her legs tangled with his.
She turned — slowly — and froze.
The guy from the bar.
His dark hair tousled against the pillow, one arm thrown across his chest.
What had she done?
Her stomach dropped.
She sat up too fast. A flash of movement. Clothes. Where were her clothes?
She pulled on her jeans and sweater, barely breathing.
She looked at him one last time — handsome, peaceful, a stranger.
Then she slipped out the door and ran.
