Clara knew the sound of silence, not the gentle silence of peace that settles over a home at dusk, but the heavier kind that belongs to empty mansions, to marble corridors where footsteps echo too loudly and remind you that you are present only in function, not in memory.

“Yes.” “Why?” She tilted her head slightly, as if the answer were obvious. “Because it was open.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “You weren’t curious?”

“Curiosity and character are not the same thing,” she replied gently.

Victor coughed softly, sensing tension. Arthur leaned back in his leather chair. “Do you know how much was inside?”

“I imagine enough,” Clara said. He folded his hands. “Enough to change someone’s life.” Her eyes did not waver. “Money changes circumstances, sir. It reveals character.”

The room fell quiet. Arthur stood abruptly and walked to the painting, swinging it open to reveal the safe once more. “You’ve worked here twenty years,” he said. “You’ve seen luxury beyond your salary. Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered what it would be like.”

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