I walked over to the kitchen counter, my movements deliberate and slow.

“You came here tonight to offer me my old life back,” I said. “You stood there and acted as if you were doing me a favor.”

Another heavy blow struck the front door, followed by the sound of splintering wood near the latch.

“Clara, this is not the time for a performance,” Arthur growled, stepping closer to me.

“It is exactly the time,” I said.

I leaned my lower back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You always looked at me as if I were a stray dog you rescued from the street,” I said.

“I gave you everything,” he said, his eyes scanning the windows.

“You gave me a desk and a salary that was a fraction of what your captains made,” I said.

The wind howled outside, throwing a sheet of rain against the glass like throwing a handful of gravel.

“I was never the stray, Arthur,” I said.

“I was the architect.”

He paused, his gaze snapping back to me, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.