The silence after Bianca Sterling's removal felt like the vacuum before a detonation. Clara slumped at her workstation, pressing a chilled Perrier can to her throbbing cheek. Double agony—Bianca's slap still sizzled while cramps knifed through her abdomen.
Sophia appeared with chamomile tea. "Here. No aspirin on an empty stomach."
"Thanks." Clara winced as the warm mug touched her split lip.
"That ice-queen act Bianca pulls?" Sophia scoffed. "Her last film flopped harder than Lehman Brothers. Why does Hartwell tolerate her?"
Because monsters recognize their own, Clara thought bitterly. Aloud, she shrugged. "Her family owns shipping yards. Connections matter."
Sophia's eyes narrowed. "She knew you. Called you 'trailer trash.'"
Clara dabbed concealer over the swelling. Wellington Academy memories rushed in: Bianca's posse shoving her into lockers, Ethan Windsor's laughter soundtracking her humiliation. "Ancient history," she deflected.
"Lunch? I'm craving that new poke bowl place—"
"With raw tuna?" Clara managed a weak smile. "Sebastian would fire us for 'biological terrorism.' Remember the kimchi incident?"
William Chen emerged from Sebastian's office, trailing CFO Margaret Vance. His nod was a guillotine blade. "Mr. Hartwell wants you. Now."
Sebastian's office smelled of ozone and rage. He didn't look up from his Bloomberg terminal. "Come here."
Clara approached like a prisoner to the gallows. "Sir?"
His gaze sliced to her cheek—the vivid handprint marring porcelain skin. Fury ignited in his eyes. "Get me PR."
"Regarding?"
"The Wall Journal. Front page. 'Sterling Heiress Assaults Hartwell Executive.'"
Clara's breath hitched. "No! It was personal—"
"Did I claim it wasn't?" His tone frosted the glass walls. "Sterling Maritime's stock will crater by noon. I'll buy their assets at pennies."
Of course. Sebastian Hartwell weaponized everything—even her pain.
"Understood."
"One more thing." He swiveled, shark-eyes pinning her. "The Plan B. Taken?"
Heat flooded Clara's neck. How dare he? "Procedure followed. No… complications."
Sebastian rose, circling her like prey. "You called me a 'garbage collector.'" His knuckle grazed her bruised jawline. "When's pickup day?"
Clara's stilettos faltered. A second round? The man who'd ejected naked supermodels from his penthouse now demanded an encore? "Perhaps we could… void the contract?" Her voice trembled. "Return the money?"
His hand snapped up, crushing her chin. "My bed isn't a revolving door."
Tears welled—Bianca's slap, his grip, Ethan's sneers— all merging into one searing humiliation. Sebastian released her abruptly, as if burned.
"Get out."
In the marble sanctuary of the executive washroom, Clara finally broke. Sobs wracked her frame as she slid down the stall door. Regret was acid in her throat.
FLASHBACK
Thunder cracked over Wellington's lacrosse fields. Sixteen-year-old Clara huddled in the equipment shed, clutching Ethan Windsor's birthday gift—a vintage Mets cap he'd mentioned wanting. Rain blurred the plexiglass windows. Outside, under the overhang, Ethan had Bianca pressed against the chain-link fence, his hands under her pleated skirt.
"Why bother with Clara?" Bianca's giggle pierced the downpour. "She's built like a linebacker."
Ethan's mouth traveled down her neck. "And you're a fucking masterpiece."
The cap fell from Clara's hands. Mud swallowed it whole.
END FLASHBACK
Later, at graduation, she'd walked in on them in Ethan's dorm—Bianca's legs hooked over his shoulders, her uniform blazer discarded like trash. Clara had fled to the train station with nothing but a duffel bag and a trust fund statement.
At Columbia, she'd reinvented herself: honors student, marathon runner, Hartwell intern. But last year, seeing Bianca draped over Sebastian at the Guggenheim gala—"Hartwell's newest obsession!" tabloids crowed—a grenade pin had pulled loose in Clara's soul.
Make him want me. Just once. Make Bianca ache.
How naively she'd plotted: "forgetting" her phone in his boardroom to linger, "tripping" so his hands steadied her hips. That last, fatal provocation by the elevator—"Would you burn me, Sebastian?"—dripping with borrowed seduction.
But when he'd kissed her, reality detonated. This wasn't revenge. It was self-immolation.
She'd begged as he tore through her defenses. Sobbed as he mapped her body like conquered territory. And when he'd seen the blood on his sheets, his stunned pause felt like the ultimate mockery. Did you think damaged goods couldn't bleed?
Now, trapped in his gilded cage, Clara understood: demons don't grant escapes.
She blotted her eyes with linen towels. 11:47 a.m. Time to brief Sebastian for his lunch with the British consul.
As she reapplied lipstick, her phone lit up with Ethan Windsor's caller ID. She silenced it. The past was ash.
But the future? That belonged to the devil who owned her.