Departure**

Arthur adjusted his clothes, running a hand through his tousled hair. His golden eyes flickered with amusement as he looked down at Amelia—completely ruined, trembling, and unable to move properly.

Clara smirked as she crouched beside the exhausted girl, brushing sweat-dampened strands of hair from Amelia's flushed face. "Tsk tsk," she murmured, voice filled with amusement. "Look at the mess you've made, young mistress. If anyone sees you like this…"

Amelia whimpered softly, still dazed.

Arthur chuckled. "We wouldn't want that, would we?"

Clara hummed. "No. She needs to be cleaned up—properly."

Arthur, satisfied, stepped back, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Then I'll leave that to you, Clara." He turned towards the door, stretching his shoulders as if he hadn't just broken her moments ago.