The next instant, Clara Morgan felt four pairs of eyes searing into her—so intense, she could almost taste the heat. Time congealed in the first-floor elevator lobby, silence so absolute it echoed with the phantom sound of a pin striking marble.
Julian Lorimer pinched the bridge of his nose. If Sebastian Hartwell had foreseen this, why hadn't he dragged Clara from the private room hours ago? Now they were all pawns in his goddamn game.
Bruce Sterling's voice cut through the tension. "Care to explain, Mr. Hartwell?"
Sebastian's laugh was low, dangerous—like a blade sliding from its sheath. "Ask your Clara." His tone dripped with scorn, each word a barb aimed at Bruce's composure.
Vivian Sterling's nails dug into her palms, her knuckles white. The air hummed with unspoken threats, the kind that precede a brawl in a dive bar.
On Sebastian's face, the message was crystal clear:
I PLAY DIRTY.
What the fuck are you going to do about it?
In the adjacent elevator descending to the underground garage, Bruce Sterling stared at the mirrored walls, his reflection a mask of stone. Vivian Sterling finally broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper: "Clara, are you holding up?"
Clara Morgan forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm fine. Heading out now—you two should call it a night too." She waved to Bruce, her wrist fluttering like a wounded bird. "See you, Bruce."
"Get some rest, Clara." Bruce's nod was curt, his gaze lingering on the pulse point at her throat.
Alone in the parking garage, Clara's steps echoed off the concrete. Her mood hung like a leaden cloud, each breath a struggle against the weight in her chest. She slid into the driver's seat of her white Audi, fingers fumbling for the door—
Thud.
A designer loafer blocked the doorframe. Sebastian Hartwell loomed above her, his eyes two chips of ice in the dim light. "Ms. Morgan."
Before she could react, he crowded into the driver's seat, pinning her against the leather. The recliner clicked back with mechanical precision, and the door slammed shut—bang—echoing through the garage. Clara gaped at his fluid movements. How many times has he done this? The thought was a chill down her spine.
His hands found her wrists, pinning them above her head. Through his dress shirt, she felt the hard planes of his chest, his body heat searing through the fabric. "No one says no to me, Ms. Morgan."
Clara licked her lips, tasting salt. "Then treat me like furniture."
He laughed, a dark sound that vibrated through her. In the murky light, his pupils swallowed the blue of his irises. When his mouth crashed onto hers, it was all teeth and heat, a branding iron searing her cool lips.
She thrashed, but his grip was vice-like. His teeth grazed her collarbone, and she gasped: "I'll scream!"
Sebastian pulled back, a wolfish grin on his face. With a flourish, he rolled down both windows, letting in the hum of distant cars. "Scream away. I'd love the audience."
Clara's eyes widened. The garage was mostly empty, but headlights occasionally swept past. Yet he looked perfectly at ease, as if they were in his penthouse. Psychopath.
Watching her panic, Sebastian's smile deepened. He wanted her raw, unguarded—no more of that prim secretary act. Her lips were swollen, glistening with saliva, and something in him snapped. He hadn't planned to go this far, but now he needed to consume her, break her.
With both windows open, Clara knew she was trapped. "Close the windows or find a hotel," she hissed.
"No." His fingers trailed up her thigh, each touch a spark.
"For fuck's sake, be human!"
"Define 'human.'" His smile was cruel. "Is it human to want you this badly?"
Clara bit back a curse. She should have left with him earlier, should have—
The Audi rocked gently in its spot, the only sound the occasional car passing by and the muffled thumps from within. An hour later, when the windows finally cleared, Clara's silhouette emerged, shoulders hunched, as the car peeled out of the garage.
In the Maybach, Bruce tapped the partition. "Driver Zhu, close it."
Once sealed, he turned to Vivian, his face hard. "What's between Clara and Hartwell?"
Vivian picked at her cuticles. "She's his secretary."
"Don't play dumb."
Her voice trembled: "He—he forced himself on her, Bruce. Those marks on her neck..."
Bruce's fist hit the armrest. "I thought she had a boyfriend."
"No! She's been hiding it." Vivian grabbed his arm. "We have to help her."
Bruce stared out at the city lights. He remembered Clara at eighteen, leaving the Windsor mansion with a single suitcase, too proud to ask for help. "Does she want our help?"
Vivian fell silent. Clara had always been the sun, but now Sebastian Hartwell was a black hole, sucking the light from her.
Bruce rubbed his temples. "If she asks, we'll intervene. Until then..." He didn't finish. The unspoken truth hung in the air: Clara fights her own battles.
Vivian leaned against him, watching the white Audi disappear in the distance. "Does it hurt, Bruce? Seeing her like that?"
He didn't answer, but his jaw twitched. In the darkness, his hand curled into a fist. If Clara Morgan needed a knight, he'd be ready. But first, she had to ask.