Imperial Hotel Ballroom, 2nd Floor.
Crystal chandeliers rained light over the Metropolitan Ballroom, their prisms fracturing rainbows across Clara's pearl-white Herve Leger bandage dress. Each step sent needles through her blistered heels, but she kept her smile nailed in place—a mannequin playing Sebastian's living accessory.
"Sebastian!" A barrel-chested man clinked champagne flutes with him. "Who's your radiant shadow?"
Before Clara could speak, Sebastian's hand materialized at the small of her back. "Mr. Thorne, meet Clara Morgan. My secretary." The possessive pronoun hung like barbed wire.
Thorne offered a coupe glass. "Champagne, darling?"
"She doesn't drink." Sebastian's voice dropped to subzero temperatures. He steered Clara away without apology, his grip leaving frostbite prints through silk.
"You holding up, Ms. Morgan?" Julian murmured as they passed.
"Managing, Mr. Lorimer," Clara lied, fighting a wave of dizziness. Sleepless nights, grueling work, and the constant stress of Sebastian's attention had left her body throbbing, her high heels rubbing blisters into her ankles.
Across the ballroom, Ethan Windsor nursed a champagne glass, his gaze fixed on Clara. The Windsor Group's financial crisis had turned them into social pariahs, but Ethan's eyes burned with a mix of longing and regret as he watched Clara in her pearl-white strapless gown. The dress bared her porcelain shoulders and the curve of her collarbone——When did that awkward girl become this devastating creature?
He wanted to approach, but Clara hadn't left Sebastian's side. When she finally murmured, "Mr. Hartwell, may I use the restroom?" he nodded, and she fled.
In the restroom, Clara ripped off her heels to reveal bleeding blisters. Tall by nature, she rarely wore heels, and the hours of standing had taken their toll. Worse, the strapless neckline exposed love bites on her chest—thankfully hidden by layers of foundation.
The mirror reflected hollow-eyed exhaustion. Three nights chained to Sebastian's bed, days spent navigating his corporate war games. Yet she pressed powder over violet shadows, whispering her survival mantra: "Dawn always comes."
Stepping into the hallway, iron fingers clamped her wrist. Ethan's breath reeked of desperation and single-malt scotch.
"Clara." His pupils were blown wide. "We need to talk."
She wrenched backward. "We exhausted every word years ago, Ethan."
"Don't say that!" He crowded her against damask wallpaper. "You loved me once!"
A bitter laugh escaped her. "Love? You called me ugly. You ignored Serena Vance and her cronies attack me. When I was sick,And you doesn't give a damn."
His grip became a vise. "I was young! Stupid! But now—"
"Now your family's bankrupt," Clara hissed, "and suddenly I'm fuckable collateral?"
In their struggle, her hair swept sideways, revealing the telltale bruise behind her ear.
Ethan froze. "He's touched you." The words curdled in his mouth. "That soulless corporate shark?"
She covered the mark like a brand. "None. Of. Your. Business."
"LIAR!" Spittle flew from his lips. "You were mine first! How could you spread your legs for that—"
"Enough."
The temperature plunged. Sebastian stood ten feet away, a glacier in Brioni black. His voice cracked through the hallway like Arctic ice calving. "Remove your hand. Now."