Chapter 4: The Durian Incident
Clara's Pov
The moment the lock clicked shut behind him, my entire body unclenched.
Like a disguise I could finally drop.
Strictly speaking, the durian was an accident.
On my way home from school, I passed an imported foods store and spotted it in the refrigerated case. It felt like running into an old friend in a foreign country.
Half a durian.
Triple-wrapped in cling film.
Even bagged in paper on top of that.
Absurdly expensive.
I bought it anyway.
Back home, I stood in the kitchen and ate one piece.
Then a second.
Then realized I genuinely couldn't eat any more.
So, being the considerate person I was, I rewrapped the remainder, slid it back into the paper bag, shoved it to the very back of the fridge, and barricaded it behind several rows of sparkling water.
I even added an extra plastic bag for good measure.
At the time, I truly believed—
I had been remarkably thoughtful.
Not even nine o'clock yet.
I was lying on the living room carpet sketching when the front door suddenly opened.
My pen stopped.
That wasn't right.
I looked up at the clock.
8:47.
Julian stood in the doorway.
He'd just set his briefcase down.
But he didn't change his shoes the way he usually did.
He simply stood there.
Very still.
Then his nostrils flared—barely, almost imperceptibly.
My stomach dropped.
Julian's gaze swept the entire living room.
Then, without a moment's hesitation, he walked straight toward the kitchen.
I hadn't even managed to stand up before he'd already opened the fridge.
It was over.
I knew.
Even before his hand moved those rows of sparkling water aside, I already knew.
The paper bag was extracted.
Julian straightened up.
Arm extended as far from his body as it would go.
Like he was holding a hazardous object requiring quarantine protocols.
He looked at me.
That expression—
It wasn't the way someone looks at food.
It was more like reading a diagnostic report.
"Clara."
"I'm sorry."
I practically tripped over myself to speak first.
"I shouldn't have put durian in the fridge."
He said nothing.
What little color his face normally had seemed to drain another shade.
I pressed on immediately.
"I also shouldn't have put anything with a strong smell in there."
"It won't happen again."
"I mean it."
I got to my feet. My hands didn't know where to go, so they ended up clutching the hem of my hoodie.
Julian's jawline was taut as a wire.
His entire being seemed pinned in place by sheer force of will.
In that instant, I had a strange feeling.
What he was truly enduring went far beyond "unpleasant smell."
The silence lasted several seconds.
"Get rid of it."
In the end, that was all he said.
His voice was level.
Not even particularly stern.
He set the paper bag on the island counter.
Turned.
Went into his study.
The door closed.
A soft click.
No slam.
And yet somehow, that excessively controlled sound of a door closing made me feel guiltier than an actual slam would have.
I sat on the carpet and slowly let out the breath I'd been holding.
He hadn't lost his temper.
Hadn't even raised his voice.
But I was absolutely certain that, for one fleeting moment, Julian Mason had come closer to losing his composure than perhaps ever before.
I survived.
Good.
Now I needed to deal with the crime scene.
I opened every window on the first floor.
Late-autumn wind came rushing in.
I shivered.
But the cold felt reassuring right now.
At least the wind could carry the smell away.
I took every drink out of the fridge.
Wiped the shelves.
Wiped the walls.
Wiped the drawers.
Sniffed.
Wiped again.
Soon only one problem remained.
The leftover half durian.
More precisely, the remaining half of the half.
I stood in the kitchen holding the bag, confronting one of life's great dilemmas.
Throw it away?
No.
It had cost me three lunches.
Keep it?
Also no.
I suspected Julian would have the entire refrigerator replaced by tomorrow.
I looked down at the paper bag.
Three seconds of silence.
"Fine."
"If it can't stay."
"Then the only option is to eat the evidence."
This was the most economically sound solution.
I carried it out to the balcony.
Slid the glass door until only a sliver remained open.
That way the smell could drift out.
And not come back in.
Scientifically sound, in theory.
I sat on the lounge chair.
First piece.
Second piece.
By the third, I'd forgotten I was "disposing of evidence."
I was genuinely savoring it.
So incredibly good.
I closed my eyes and chewed slowly.
Even swayed a little, involuntarily.
"This is so unbelievably good."
The whisper escaped me.
The cold wind stung my eyes slightly.
Whether from the chill.
Or from sheer bliss.
"Calling this a biohazard is the real crime."
I didn't hear the study door open behind me at all.
Julian's Perspective
The emails took only ten minutes.
When I emerged from the study, the living room looked much the same as before.
Sketches still on the floor.
Drinks piled on the island.
Every window thrown open.
She hadn't done what I'd initially expected—simply fled.
The fridge had been unplugged.
Its door stood ajar.
Clearly cleaned.
The problem was—
The smell was stronger now.
I stopped in the center of the living room.
Closed my eyes.
Inhaled.
Then exhaled, slowly.
This was a habit I'd developed over two centuries. In any situation that threatened to compromise rational thought, control the breathing first.
Today, for the first time, it was completely useless.
The smell was migrating. Seeping through the crack in the balcony's glass door, drifting inside bit by bit.
I followed it to its source.
And there she was.
Clara sat with her back to me on the lounge chair. Both feet tucked underneath her. Shoulders swaying gently.
Completely oblivious to anyone standing behind her.
She was holding a piece of durian between her fingers. Eating it as though it were some rare delicacy—small bites, careful, utterly devoted.
She was even humming.
I stood there for two seconds.
Then cleared my throat.
Clara launched off the chair.
Literally launched.
The piece of durian flew from her hand.
It traced a remarkably complete arc through the air.
Then—
Landed less than an inch from the toe of my shoe.
I looked down.
At it.
In that moment.
I must confess, I came alarmingly close to losing all semblance of civilization.
Four hundred years of self-control.
The Mason family code of conduct.
Every principle regarding restraint, decorum, and the imperative that a higher vampire never be governed by base instinct.
All of it became extraordinarily thin in those few seconds.
And a piece of durian.
Lay beside my shoe.
Still giving off a wisp of warmth.
"I'm sorry!"
Clara had already rushed over.
"I'll pick it up, I'll pick it up—don't move—let me—"
She bent down and snatched it up in one grab.
Then, barely pausing.
Bolted past me.
Through the living room.
Down the hallway.
Seconds later.
The bathroom lock engaged.
Click.
I stood alone on the balcony.
Late-autumn wind sweeping past.
The air saturated with durian.
A profoundly absurd question suddenly occurred to me.
What exactly was I?
Some kind of monster she had to immediately flee from and barricade herself against?
I had never once raised my voice at her.
I closed my eyes.
Surveyed the surroundings once more.
At least the durian was the sole contaminant.
No secondary sources.
No secret reserves she'd smuggled into the cabinets.
This fact provided a small—inexplicable—measure of comfort.
Ever since I'd signed my name next to hers on the marriage certificate, my tolerance for chaos had been in a state of continuous revision.
A year ago, if someone had told me that one day my balcony would feature durian.
That my fridge would be stuffed with chips.
That the living room would be littered with colorful sticky notes, drafts, and candy wrappers.
I probably wouldn't have believed it.
Now.
Standing there.
I realized the line had retreated yet another step.
And I had no desire to push it back.
I went to the kitchen to check the fridge.
Mostly just to give myself something to do.
The power was already off.
Door propped open.
Shelves wiped down.
So she had genuinely tried to clean up.
She'd simply gotten halfway through before instinct overpowered reason—
And she chose to eat the problem away.
I looked into the fridge.
And for the first time, truly registered what she'd been living on.
Three flavors of potato chips.
An entire bag of dried fruit.
A packet of alarmingly red spicy snacks.
Instant noodles.
Soda.
Chocolate.
And some kind of spicy dried fish whose packaging I couldn't begin to decipher.
The door shelf was so packed with sodas that the mineral water had been crowded out entirely.
I was quiet for a moment.
Then it struck me.
The durian wasn't the problem.
At least not the real one.
It had merely drawn my attention to the fact that Clara's daily sustenance relied almost entirely on sugar, salt, caffeine, and whatever happened to be within arm's reach.
This could not continue.
I retrieved a storage bin from beneath the island counter.
And began placing the snacks inside, one by one.
Chips.
Dried fruit.
Chocolate.
Soda.
And finally, the spicy dried fish.
I closed the lid.
Then called toward the hallway.
"Clara."
