As they sat at the table, he forced himself to engage in light conversation, hiding his intention under a veneer of normalcy.

After dinner, as Clara’s eyelids grew heavy and her words slurred, Daniel feigned concern. “You look tired, love. Why don’t you head to bed? I’ll clean up here,” he suggested, his voice masking the treacherous thrill thrumming beneath his calm facade. Clara nodded, murmured something unintelligible, and trudged upstairs.

Once assured that she was asleep, Daniel slipped out of the house, his heart pounding in his chest—not with fear, but with excitement.