Adrien’s POV
"...The true success of a structure lies not in its height, but in its permanence," the white-haired man was saying, swirling the amber in his glass like it was the only thing worth looking at.
I nodded, half-listening, my attention split.
Where the hell was Clara?
It had been a bit long since I asked her to go check on Isabella... on purpose.
—FLASHBACK BEGINS—
It had been three days after Isabella was hospitalized that I confronted Clara about what she did.
I still rember her tears. The performance she put on while she begged to believe her.
"I’d never hurt her, Adrien," she’d said, trembling in my office that day.
I’d tested it myself—watched her tremble as I made her soak cucumbers, patch-test her skin, stand in silence while the clock ticked.
Nothing happened.
And for one second—a weak, stupid second—I’d almost believed her.
Almost believed the girl who used to follow barefoot through the Walton estate gardens, mud on her knees, always demanding I pick her for hide-and-seek.
I had even opened my arms that day. She had clung to like she did when we were kids—when her father ignored her, when her mother’s voice was too sharp.
But Caron... Caron didn’t buy it.
Caron had burst into my office.
No knock. No hesitation. A sachet in his hand.
"This is the one the spa worker gave us," he said, dropping it onto my desk.
We had it tested. The difference was imdiate.
The sachet Clara gave during our little ’recreation’?
Clean.
The one Caron just handed ?
Laced with low-level irritants. Nothing too harmful—unless applied to the eyelids.
Exactly where Isabella had reacted.
"She didn’t tell the truth," Caron said. "She staged that whole scene, Adrien. Whether or not she ant actual harm... she manipulated it."
I stared at the sachet in silence. My jaw locked tight, more from confusion than anger.
"I don’t get it," I muttered. "Why would she do this? What’s the point?"
"That’s what we need to find out," Caron said.
That was when I told Gray to keep an eye on her. Nothing aggressive—just quiet observation.
And then, just a week before the gala, Caron walked in again and dropped a grainy photo onto my desk.
Clara. In an alley. Speaking to two n—one smoking, the other with a face that belonged in underground collections and unpaid-debt warnings.
"She’s eting the wrong people," Caron said. "And I think whatever’s going on in her head... it’s connected to this gala."
I stared at the photo for a long ti, the weight of betrayal thick in my chest. It didn’t make sense. This wasn’t so rival or assassin.
This was Clara.
My Clara.
Soone who had a reason. A past. A ss of her own.
"We stop her before she does anything," I said.
"No," Caron replied, asured. "We don’t. We let it play out. We let her walk straight into her own trap."
I turned my head slowly, my stare sharp enough to pin him in place.
"You want to let her keep going?"
"Don’t you want to know why she did it?" Caron asked, his voice quieter this ti. "Adrien... I know Clara hasn’t done anything that says she’s out to destroy you or Isabella. If she were, we’d know it by now. But what she did at the spa?" He held up the sachet. "That wasn’t an accident. She went out of her way to pull that stunt── paid for it, and we still don’t know why."
I didn’t speak. Just listened.
"If you confront her now," Caron continued, "she’ll cry, spin another apology. You’ll walk away with nothing. But if you let her think you trust her—give her space, real responsibility—she’ll stop hiding. People reveal themselves when they think no one’s watching. Whatever drove her to hurt Isabella, whatever she is planning next... it’ll surface."
I turned the sachet over in my hand, thinking of Clara’s trembling voice, the way her hug felt almost genuine, like sohow I was betraying her.
"And your genius plan is what?" I asked tightly.
"Make her think she’s safe," Caron said. "Give her real control—like handling the gala as Vantage & Cole’s representative. No hidden guards tailing you, no Gray shadowing Isabella. Bring Isabella as your woman, not as your assistant, so Clara feels like she finally has the chance to... whatever she’s been planning, we’ll see it."
Sothing inside snapped.
I grabbed the nearest crystal paperweight, and for a split second, I was ready to throw it at him.
"You want to put her in the line of fire?" My voice dropped to sothing lethal. "Use Isabella as bait to see what happens? After what just happened to her? Are you out of your damn mind? What if Caden takes that chance?"
Caron didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, calm, like he expected the outburst.
"Adrien," he said evenly, "we’ve already got n on Caden. If he so much as steps within a mile of that gala, we’ll know. And you already stationed soone to watch him—you trust your own orders, don’t you?"
I gritted my teeth but said nothing.
Caron went on, voice firm but calm, "No one will follow you inside, yes. But we’ll have teams outside, surrounding the venue. The second you think sothing’s wrong—press the button, use the comms, and we’re there. Worst case?" He hesitated only briefly. "Worst case is a kidnapping attempt. And even then, Adrien, you know we’d get her back before anyone laid a finger on her."
His words hung in the air, a cold, calculated bet on my ability to control the chaos he was proposing.
For a long mont, the only sound in the room was the hum of the air conditioning and the frantic beat of my own heart. The crystal paperweight felt cold and heavy in my hand, a perfect conduit for the rage coiling in my gut. Kidnapping. He’d said the word so casually.
I set the paperweight down on the desk with a quiet, deliberate thud that was more threatening than if I’d thrown it. My eyes never left his. "Fine," I bit out, the word tasting like ash. "We do it your way. We let her walk into her own trap." My eyes t his, and I let him see the ice there. "But Caron... if Isabella gets as much as a scratch, the consequences won’t be confined to Clara. I’ll burn everything connected to this failure to the ground. Starting with your ’genius plan.’"
Caron nodded once, accepting it without a word. He knew better than to argue when my voice sounded like that.
—FLASHBACK ENDS—
He took another slow sip, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Take this gallery, for instance. All glass and stark white walls. A monunt to the transient whims of the art world. In fifty years, it will be a relic, or repurposed into sothing banal. But a cathedral... a pyramid... now that is a statent. That is a legacy."
Then—finally—she reappeared.
Clara wove through the glittering crowd like she belonged to it, her gown catching the low light like liquid ruby. She smiled as she approached, breathless and polished all at once.
I tilted my head slightly without fully turning from the man. "Everything alright?"
"She’s fine," Clara said lightly. "Just a little overheated. Probably just the lights and the crowd—or maybe standing too long, who knows?" She gave a small shrug. "She said she needed a mont to lie down. I found her a quiet guest suite upstairs."
I gave a single nod.
Clara stepped closer, extending a glass toward . "The Temptress," she said with a practiced smile. "You didn’t get one earlier. Thought you’d want to try it before the trays disappear."
I took the drink from her, more out of courtesy than desire. "Thank you."
It passed my lips smoothly—chilled and bright, laced with citrus and sothing floral. Familiar. Deceptively soft.
I let the taste linger but didn’t swallow right away. "Thoughtful," I said, my voice even.
Clara’s lashes dipped, a flicker of sothing unreadable crossing her face before she settled just behind my shoulder—hovering like a loyal shadow.
I set the glass down, untouched after that first sip as I turned back to the white-haired man beside .
The man resud his monologue—sothing about zoning regulations and international bids. I answered when I needed to. Smiled when required.
Then we moved.
From one na to another. A woman in jade green with a smile sharp enough to draw blood. An older gentleman with a limp and a mory like steel. Clara stayed close, chiming in occasionally, laughing at the right monts.
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