Serena's exit left Clara slumped at her desk. Two kinds of pain now—the throbbing cheek and the deep cramping below. Is this divine punishment for last night's recklessness?
Mia pressed a warm mug into her hands.
"Just heat helps," Clara murmured. The ceramic burned her palms but soothed.
"That Serena..." Mia's knuckles whitened on her own coffee cup. "What gives her the right?"
"Starlet status. Vance heiress privilege." Clara dabbed her cheek with a chilled compress. The mirror in her compact showed five distinct fingerprints blooming crimson.
"Washed-up starlet," Mia scoffed. "Thank heavens Mr. Hartwell humbled her. She actually thinks she could land Sebastian Hartwell?"
Clara hummed noncommittally.
Why did he intervene? Guilt over last night's brutality?
Mia studied the livid marks. "High-school trash"—Serena's words. They clearly shared history. Yet the woman before her—porcelain skin, wide amber eyes, rosebud mouth—could've been homecoming queen.
How could someone who looked like she could be Homecoming Queen be trash? What shadows hide behind that smile?
"Lunch? My treat! Spicy hotpot to numb the pain?"
Clara nearly smiled. "The smell alone would make Sebastian toss us out with the takeout containers."
Mia's retort died as Yan Wu emerged from the CEO's office. "Mr. Hartwell requires you, Clara."
Sebastian didn't glance up when Clara entered. "Closer."
She approached like a soldier reporting to a court-martial. "Sir?"
His pen stilled.
This wasn't the woman who'd traced my thigh with a manicured nail last Tuesday. Where was that calculated seductress? Had last night shattered her?
His gaze lifted—and fury ignited. Serena's handprint glared across Clara's cheek. A bead of blood jeweled her split lip.
"Have PR buy a trending topic."
"Topic?"
"#SerenaVanceAssault."
Clara's breath hitched. "Unnecessary! It's merely—"
"Did I say it was for you?" Ice coated every syllable.
Of course. Sebastian's moves always served corporate chess. With Vance Holdings contracts canceled, this scandal would crater their stock. Never about me.
"Further instructions?"
He didn't even lift his eyelids. "Did you take the morning-after pill?"
Clara Morgan's heart slammed against her ribcage.
Sebastian Hartwell… How could he ask such a thing in the office without batting an eye?
"Don't worry, CEO Hartwell," she managed, "I took it. Won't cause you any trouble."
Sebastian eyed her with a playful sneer. "You just called me a trash collector. When should I 'collect' you again?"
Clara's stiletto wobbled. A second round? The man who'd rejected supermodels? If he wanted women, why torment her?
His eyes darkened at her silence. "Was $1 million per night insufficient? Or..." His gaze raked her trembling frame. "...dissatisfied with the service?"
Service. The word scalded. She'd been too satisfied—satisfied into exhaustion, satisfied until her muscles screamed rebellion. "Sir..." She swallowed volcanic shame. "What if I return the money? We void the transaction?"
Sebastian's hand shot out, clamping her jaw. "My bed isn't a revolving door, Clara." Fingers dug into the same cheek Serena had struck. Tears welled—fresh pain layered over last night's bruises.
"S-sorry—"
For a heartbeat, her shattered expression pierced him. He released her abruptly. Damn it. Why did this woman unravel him? A decade of discipline obliterated in one night? "Out."
In the restroom stall, Clara finally shattered. Sobs tore through her ribcage. Regret. This acid-bitter regret.
Memory: Age eleven. Her parents' Mercedes wrapped around an oak tree. The orphaned girl shipped to the Windsors—her father's business allies.
Ethan Windsor, two years older, was perfection incarnate: debate champion, rowing team captain, heir to Windsor Family. Their families joked about arranged marriage. Young Clara believed it.
High-school purgatory. Ethan dated Serena Vance—St. Ignatius' undisputed queen. Clara's mere existence near Ethan became treason. Serena's clique "accidentally" spilled ink on her blouses, snapped her bra straps, chanted "Windsor's charity case!" in hallways.
The betrayal. Ethan's seventeenth birthday. Clara hid his gift—a vintage LeCoultre watch—behind the limestone gazebo. Then she saw them: Ethan pinning Serena against the pillar, mouths fused. His laugh carried on the breeze:
"Clara? That clueless mouse? Pathetic."
The watch shattered on the flagstones.
Graduation day. She returned early to pack for college. Moans seeped under Ethan's door—Serena's bare legs locked around his waist. Clara left Windsor Manor that hour with two suitcases and zero farewells.
Senior year at Columbia. CNN footage showed Serena, now a rising starlet, beside Sebastian Hartwell at a Fifth Avenue flagship opening.
Though Sebastian wore his usual icy expression, Clara knew he and Serena had broken up.
Serena had set her sights on the most untouchable man in the Imperial City: Sebastian Hartwell, CEO of Hartwell Enterprises and heir to the city's wealthiest dynasty.
A poisonous thought bloomed: What if I steal her prize? Even for one night?
She'd told herself it was vengeance. But deeper down, she knew: if Serena couldn't snare Sebastian Hartwell, what hope had she? Yet she'd gambled—auditioning as his secretary, "brushing" his hand during document exchanges, letting champagne "slip" onto his lap.
Last night. His penthouse. The moment his hands slid under her dress, vengeance dissolved into primal terror. She'd wept, begged—no cavalry arrived. Now she was chained to the consequences. Sebastian's words echoed: My bed isn't a revolving door.
Regret had no cure.
Clara knew she'd boarded Sebastian Hartwell's ship of no return—and there was no disembarking.