Chapter 1 Two Worlds of Clara
# Chapter 1: Two Worlds of Clara
I've always wondered if other people live double lives like I do. Not in the spy-movie sense, but in the way I exist as two completely different people depending on which side of sunset I'm facing.
My name is Clara Bennett. At least, that's who I am when the sun is up.
"Dr. Bennett, we need you in Room 304." The nurse's voice crackled through my pager as I finished reviewing Mrs. Sanchez's chart.
"On my way," I responded, my voice carrying the practiced calm that had become my professional signature at St. Mary's Hospital.
I straightened my white coat and tucked a strand of my auburn hair behind my ear before heading down the corridor. The antiseptic smell of the hospital had become so familiar that I barely noticed it anymore. The rhythmic beeping of monitors and the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes against linoleum were the soundtrack to my daylight hours.
Room 304 held a young man who had been in a motorcycle accident. His vitals were stabilizing, but his family needed reassurance. I spent twenty minutes explaining his condition, using the precise, measured tones that inspired confidence. I answered their questions patiently, my hands steady as I demonstrated how his recovery would progress.
"Thank you, Doctor," his mother said, her eyes filled with gratitude. "You make everything sound so manageable."
I smiled and touched her shoulder gently. This was Clara—composed, responsible, meticulous. The doctor who triple-checked medication doses and stayed late to ensure her patients were comfortable. The woman who wore sensible shoes and kept her nails short and unpolished.
By six o'clock, I had finished my rounds and completed my paperwork with the thoroughness my colleagues had come to expect. My office was organized, my desk clear—everything in its place, just as I liked it.
"Heading out?" Dr. Martin asked as I locked my office door.
"Yes, meeting Evan for dinner," I replied, allowing myself a small smile at the thought.
Dr. Martin nodded approvingly. "He's a good match for you. Stable. Reliable."
Just like Clara, I thought but didn't say.
Evan was waiting for me at Luciano's, our favorite Italian restaurant. He stood when he saw me, his gentle blue eyes lighting up. He was handsome in a comfortable way—sandy hair neatly combed, wearing a crisp button-down shirt and khakis. The kind of man who remembered anniversaries and sent flowers for no reason at all.
"Hard day?" he asked as he pulled out my chair.
I settled into my seat, feeling the tension in my shoulders begin to unwind. "The usual. A few complicated cases, but nothing I couldn't handle."
Evan reached across the table and took my hand. His touch was warm and familiar. "I've been thinking about what we discussed last weekend," he said. "About moving in together."
I nodded, taking a sip of the water the waiter had poured. "It makes sense," I said, the rational part of me—Clara—analyzing the logistics. "Your lease is up in three months, and my place is closer to both our workplaces."
"It's more than just practical," Evan said, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "I want to build something with you, Clara. A real life together. Maybe even start thinking about a family someday."
A family. The word hung in the air between us. Clara, the responsible doctor, could picture it—a tidy home with Evan, perhaps a child with his kind eyes and my determination. It was the logical next step in a relationship that had progressed steadily for nearly two years.
"I'd like that too," I heard myself say, and part of me meant it.
We ordered our usual—linguine for him, grilled chicken salad for me—and discussed our days. Evan talked about the architectural firm where he worked, his current project designing a new public library. His passion for creating spaces that served communities was one of the things I loved about him.
"To us," he said, raising his glass of Chianti.
"To our future," I responded, clinking my glass against his.
By the time we finished dinner, it was past eight. Evan walked me to my car, kissed me goodbye, and asked if he would see me tomorrow.
"Not tomorrow," I said apologetically. "I have an early shift the next morning. I should get some rest."
He nodded understandingly and kissed my forehead. "Take care of yourself. I love you."
"Love you too," I replied, the words coming easily after so many months of saying them.
I waited in my car until his taillights disappeared around the corner. Then I checked my watch: 8:45 PM. The transformation was already beginning inside me, like a tide rising as the moon pulled at the waters of my consciousness.
By the time I reached my apartment, Clara was receding. I stripped off my conservative blouse and slacks, scrubbed the minimal makeup from my face, and stepped into the shower. As the hot water pounded against my skin, I felt myself changing—shedding Clara like a skin that had grown too tight.
When I emerged, wrapped in a towel, I faced the mirror and watched as she took over. My posture changed first—shoulders back, chin lifted with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. My eyes, usually focused and analytical, now sparkled with mischief and promise.
"Hello, Vera," I whispered to my reflection.
Opening my closet, I pushed past Clara's sensible wardrobe to the hidden section at the back. Here were Vera's clothes—bold colors, daring cuts, fabrics that clung and shimmered. I selected a deep red dress that hugged every curve and slipped into black heels that Clara would never dream of wearing.
My makeup was dramatic—smoky eyes, crimson lips—and I tousled my hair into wild waves. The transformation was complete.
By 10:30 PM, Vera was strutting into The Blue Room, a nightclub downtown where the music throbbed like a second heartbeat. The doorman nodded in recognition as I passed, and I felt the familiar rush of power that came with being Vera—desired, fearless, free.
"There she is," a deep voice called from the bar.
Zane. Where Evan was sunlight and warmth, Zane was midnight and fire. He sat on a barstool, one elbow propped on the counter, dark eyes following my approach with undisguised hunger. His black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves. A dangerous smile played on his lips.
"Miss me?" I asked, sliding onto the stool beside him.
"Always," he replied, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard over the pulsing music. He signaled the bartender. "The usual for the lady."
The bartender placed a whiskey neat in front of me—something Clara would never drink. I took a sip, savoring the burn as it slid down my throat.
"What kind of trouble are we getting into tonight?" I asked, leaning close enough to catch his scent—leather and spice and something uniquely Zane.
He clinked his glass against mine. "Whatever kind you're in the mood for, Vera."
The way he said my name—my night name—sent a shiver down my spine. With Zane, there were no careful plans, no discussions of the future. There was only now, only tonight, only the wild current of possibility sweeping us along.
"Dance with me," I said, not a question but a command.
He followed me to the crowded dance floor, his hand finding the small of my back. As the music enveloped us, I let myself become fully Vera—moving with an abandon that Clara could never allow herself, pressing against Zane with none of the restraint that characterized my daytime self.
"You're incredible," he murmured against my ear as his hands traced the curve of my waist. "Like no one I've ever met."
If only he knew how true that was. How I contained multitudes that even I couldn't fully comprehend.
Later, as we shared drinks at a corner table, Zane told me about his latest motorcycle restoration project. Where Evan designed buildings meant to last for decades, Zane lived in the world of engines and velocity, of things built for speed and sensation rather than permanence.
"Come back to my place," he suggested, his fingers intertwining with mine. "I want to show you something."
"What kind of something?" I teased.
His grin was wicked. "You'll have to come find out."
The night stretched ahead, full of promise and recklessness. As Vera, I craved the unpredictable, the intoxicating rush of living without boundaries. Tomorrow, Clara would return to her ordered life, her responsible choices, her gentle relationship with Evan. But tonight belonged to Vera and Zane, to whiskey and music and desire.
I leaned forward and kissed him, a kiss that held none of the tender affection I shared with Evan but burned with a different kind of passion altogether.
"Lead the way," I said.
As we left the club, arm in arm, laughing into the night air, I pushed away the small voice in the back of my mind that wondered how long I could maintain these two separate worlds before they inevitably collided.
Tonight, I didn't want to think about tomorrow. Tonight, I was Vera, and Vera lived only for the moment.
