The crash reverberated through La Perle Noire. Patrons' heads swiveled toward Vivienne's sprawled form. Clara lunged, hauling the actress upright before paparazzi instincts could trigger.
"Are you concussed?" Clara hissed, scanning for phone cameras.
Vivienne gulped orange juice like antifreeze. When the glass emptied, she slammed it down. "Explain. Now."
Over trembling hands, Clara confessed:
The strategic seduction
Bianca's catalytic slap
Three nights of Sebastian's unrestrained possession
Vivienne's Cartier sunglasses hit the table. "Clara fucking Windsor! That man atomizes obstacles for breakfast! You think walking away is an option?"
"I'd witnessed his celibacy for a year! Statistical—"
"Statistics?" Vivienne stabbed her brioche. "What's the number? Five times? Ten?"
Clara traced condensation on her water glass. "Thirteen."
The actress choked. "Christ. No wonder you needed Manhattan General's trauma unit." She seized Clara's wrists. "Resign tomorrow. Head Julian's architectural division or launch your studio. Daddy's funding either."
Clara's gaze dropped. Freedom shimmered—a desert mirage.
"Stop overthinking!" Vivienne's nails bit into Clara's skin. "Those morning-after pills? They'll induce chemical menopause before Christmas."
An innovative demise, Clara thought bleakly.
Vivienne leaned closer. "If he valued you, he'd sheath his weapon. Not poison you."
"I'm his stress toy. Nothing more."
"And returning $400k?" Vivienne's laugh bordered on hysterical. "Did martyrdom seem chic?"
Clara watched champagne bubbles die in her coupe. Her reflection—wide-eyed, bruise-necked—looked profoundly breakable. Vivienne's ice-prince brother Julian would combust if he saw this damage.
"Julian lands Thursday." Vivienne read her thoughts.
Clara's head snapped up. "He's returning?"
"Permanently. Chuang Global's Dubai launch succeeded." Vivienne gripped the table's edge. "Work for him. Or take my blank check. Just escape before Sebastian incinerates you!" She lowered her voice to a serpent's hiss: "That monster could cremate you in his penthouse furnace. No body. No inquest. Just... poof."
Clara's spine iced over. Poof. The finality crystallized her resolve.
"Alright."
Hartwell's trading floor buzzed with post-lunch lethargy. Sophie Reed glanced up from her terminal. "He's in. Lunch arrived at 1:05pm. No disturbances."
"Alone?" Clara confirmed.
"Unless his Bentley counts as company." Sophie's eyes widened. "Why?"
"I'm resigning."
The analyst's gasp echoed off glass partitions.
Sebastian's inner sanctum radiated controlled silence. Clara advanced toward the resting area, her Louboutins sinking into cashmere carpet.
There he lay—corporate titan at half-mast. On the coffee table, the remnants of his €350 kobe beef salad:
White truffle shavings (discarded)
Heirloom tomatoes (untouched)
Mineral water (unopened)
My final menu curation, Clara realized. For twelve months, she'd mastered his capricious palate:
Spring: Hokkaido sea urchin
Summer: Yubari melon flown on ice
Autumn: Périgord black truffle
Winter: Icelandic langoustine
Never a plate thrown. Never praise given.
She deliberately clinked cutlery against porcelain. Sebastian didn't stir.
Abort, her nerves screamed. Retreat—
Steel fingers locked around her wrist.
"Purpose?" Sebastian's eyes opened—fully alert.
"Nothing requiring your attention, sir."
"Specify." He sat up, shirt parting to reveal the scar bisecting his pectoral—a relic from hostile takeover negotiations.
Clara retreated. "Career realignment seems prudent. I've secured studio space near—"
"Leaseholder?" Sebastian powered on his smartphone. "I'll acquire their portfolio."
Clara's voice tightened. "An independent venture seems—"
"Independent?" Sebastian rose, eclipsing the skyline. "Your independence is my indulgence, Clara." He backed her against the Steinway. "Revoked."
"Tribeca zoning permits my—"
"Address." He thumbed a contact: REAL ESTATE LIQUIDATION.
"The building vanishes by sunset."
Clara's composure shattered. "Must you own every atom I touch?"
"Ownership?" His knuckle traced her jugular. "I authenticate. Like this..." His mouth branded her pulse point. "...provenance mark."
When she shoved him, his grip became a vise. Her skirt rode up, exposing Hartwell-embossed garters—corporate bondage.
"This is coercion!"
"Contractual fulfillment," Sebastian corrected. His knee parted her thighs. "You invoice services, then void payment. Penalties apply."
Below, Central Park's autumn foliage blazed. Clara detonated her weapon: "What if I conceive?"
Sebastian froze. The threat hovered—radioactive.
"Contingencies exist." His palm flattened against her abdomen. "Shall we test them?"
Knuckles rapped titanium. "Swiss delegation inbound, sir."
Wu Yan froze mid-stride, absorbing the tableau:
Sebastian's hand between Clara's thighs
Clara's tear-streaked defiance
The obscene intimacy of corporate insignia on flesh
"Acknowledged." Sebastian released Clara, adjusting his Tom Ford collar. "The witness serves its purpose."
Wu Yan's Patek Philippe trembled as he retreated. Two decades serving Hartwells taught him: Complicity is survival.
Alone, Sebastian lit a Cohiba. His reflection split in the panoramic glass:
Conqueror (disheveled hair, swollen lips)
Curator (hands that healed her wounds)
Beyond the glass, Clara jammed the elevator's emergency stop. He reflection fractured against mirrored walls—a hundred broken birds.
Fly, little sparrow, his smoke rings whispered. All cages are gilded.