Claire, Darling

by Callie Kazumi

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

“In this taut psychological thriller, one woman’s desperate quest for answers reveals just how far she’s willing to go for love—or revenge. I devoured this book . . . utterly engrossing!”—Liv Constantine, New York Times bestselling author of The Next Mrs. Parrish

She’s been ghosted. But she won’t be forgotten.

Claire is excited to drop off a surprise workday lunch for her fiancé, Noah. It’s their anniversary, after all. But when the receptionist tells her that no one with Noah’s name works there, Claire thinks there must be a mistake.

Noah isn’t picking up her calls. Her texts go unanswered. It turns out Noah has a different life . . . one with a beautiful girlfriend, a beautiful house. Claire was never really in the picture.

Desperate to speak to Noah and convince him to return to their dream life, Claire plunges into a nightmarish journey of obsession that submerges her deeper into the murky waters of her own past—a past dominated by a manipulative mother who shattered her sense of self.

Will Claire break free from the ghosts that haunt her? Or will they become more costly than any of Noah’s lies?

Release date: March 11, 2025

Publisher: Bantam

Print pages: 288

Sample

One

September 19, 2025

Dear Diary,

I’m writing this on my way in to work. The tube is pretty rammed but I managed to grab a seat. Last night I was too busy to write, but it was a wonderful evening and I want to make sure to note down as much of it as I can so that I can look back on the memories. Our anniversary!

I picked up some celebratory prosecco on the way home, as well as all of Noah’s favorite treats. Two juicy sirloin steaks from Sainsbury’s, some potatoes, veg, and Jaffa Cakes for dessert. Obviously those were for Noah, he’ll eat a whole packet in one sitting. The question is: Are they a cake or a biscuit? Noah says cake because of the spongy texture, and I’m inclined to agree. I managed to put together dinner for us, with some hand-cut chips roasted with garlic and rosemary. I didn’t even overcook the steaks! Medium-rare, just how we both like it. I wanted it to be special, our first big milestone together.

Noah greeted me when I arrived home with a box of my favorite chocolates, which he’d wrapped in a ribbon—bless him. I’d made the right choices, too, because when he was helping me to unpack the shopping he brought his hand to his chest and exclaimed, “Steaks and Jaffa Cakes?” in dramatic delight. I slapped his hand away from the Jaffas playfully before he could spoil his supper. He slipped a hand around my back, kissed the base of my neck, and said, “Happy first anniversary, my Claire.”

I love when he says that. My Claire.

I spent all my energy focusing on him, on the dinner, on the night. I didn’t want to spend one moment thinking about the other Thing that happened this time last year. I wanted it to be a wonderful night, to leave the past behind me where it belonged. Noah made it easy.

We spent the evening chatting away easily, always on the brink of flirtation. He put on some old-school romantic music while I cooked, Nat King Cole crooning about love and Noah occasionally stopping me to pop a chocolate bonbon into my mouth. Cliché, but it didn’t feel that way. I know if I were watching I’d squeeze my eyes shut in a cringe, but I can’t help behaving like this with him.

So he fussed about me while I seasoned and flustered over supper, sometimes pausing with a hand on the small of my back while he got us bubbly top-ups from out of the fridge, and I caught him up on how work has been going. I didn’t want to speak about work particularly, but he asked. He’s been so invested in it, which I suppose makes sense as he’s the one who convinced me to apply for my new job.

I’ve been there for six months now, and I have him to thank for this role. I’d probably have just stayed put otherwise, but now I’m at a small boutique PR company and enjoying it so much. We laughed about the fact I’d been so worried about applying, going over the story again between sips of prosecco and sending joking eye-rolls at each other. He’d seen the job advert and printed it out, left it unsubtly on the kitchen table at my usual breakfast seat. I’d read it and pretended to forget about it, until a week later he’d raised it casually over dinner.

“Did you ever see that job ad I saved for you?”

I’d told him I just “wasn’t sure it was the right role for me.” He’d asked why, told me it sounded like the perfect next step for me, and that was when I realized I didn’t really have an answer for him. It had sounded great, and he was so sincere in his belief I could get it that it made me give it due consideration. I’d been nervous to apply, of course. Mostly of the rejection if I didn’t get it, but also of meeting a new team, having a new office . . . it all felt daunting and overwhelming. I didn’t even have to say any of this, though: Noah knew. Somehow he always knows what I’m thinking and feeling. He spent the whole of that dinner convincing me I deserved a pay raise, and stroked my hair and told me I was brilliant, until it seeped in and I convinced myself to apply. And now here I am, six months in, probation officially passed!

So as I prepared our meal I told him about my newest client frustrations and the lunchtime gossip shared with Sukhi from my team. I’m not sure I’d go so far as to say we are friends, but I think we’re getting there. We spend nearly every lunchtime together now, and occasionally talk about personal things outside of work. By the time I had caught him up on everything PR-related, dinner was steaming on two plates at the table, and he lit a candle and put it between us.

“To us.” I held my glass up in the air and he mirrored the action with a smile that made me weak at the knees.

“To us.”

After dinner, with a belly full of prosecco (okay, okay, and a glass of wine), my head was hazy as I made my way to the bedroom. I still have a bit of a headache now, truth be told. I’m obviously not used to drinking, but last night was a cause for celebration. Plus, this time of year, the things that happened the week I met Noah . . . well, it’s an exception.

Noah insisted he’d do the washing-up as I’d cooked, and after the glasses of fizz I was too sleepy to protest. I was in bed, half-asleep and drowsy with alcohol, when I felt him slide in beside me. I’d been imagining us in five years, with a little baby, half him, half me. A loved, cared-for little baby who I would always put first, no matter what.

Noah’s body was warm and firm against mine and I snuggled in deeper, smiling softly. We made love, of course. I fell asleep in the blissful throes of post-orgasm relaxation, and the last thing I remember was him saying, “Goodnight, my Claire,” as I fell asleep in his arms. It was the perfect anniversary.