Lawrence’s words had struck sothing in her. Made her reflect.
This life, she’d dared to do so many things her past self would never even have considered. And the boldest choice of all… was accepting the boy now holding her.
But Atticus clearly wasn’t finished.
“Don’t ‘it’s not his fault’ ,” he said grumpily. “First ti you talked to him, mom had a car crash. Then the horse he picked for you freaked out. And now, he just says a few words and you’re all distant and broody again…”
He ticked off each grievance, one by one, his voice growing increasingly indignant. The sulky seriousness in his expression made him look boyish and—unexpectedly—adorable.
Clarissa couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Atticus looked genuinely confused.
She reached up, cupped his cheeks, and kissed him on the lips. “You’re cute.”
Atticus: “…”
The joy hit him so fast, it caught him off guard.
Clarissa settled back into his arms and whispered, “Lawrence told red suits . And… that I shouldn’t give up what I deserve just because of how others see .”
Atticus’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re planning to fight Lyra for the Lancaster inheritance now? That’s fine. But when it cos to n—forget it. I’m the only one you can have.”
“Nonsense are you thinking?” Clarissa rolled her eyes. “What color do you think suits best?”
Atticus leaned in closer, his voice low and suggestive. “I think… no color suits you best.”
Clarissa blinked. “…What do you an by ‘no color’?”
Then she followed the direction of his gaze—and realized where his eyes had landed. Right on her chest.
“You pervert!” She shoved him hard, her face burning.
Atticus laughed, clearly unrepentant. “Relax, Clarissa. Just teasing. Don’t squirm—we’re on a plane.”
Clarissa glared at him. “You rember we’re on a plane now?”
He wrapped his arms around her again, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head. “Sing sothing.”
“…What?”
“You don’t know what to sing?” he asked knowingly. “Fine, I’ll help.”
He reached into his bag, plucked out a small herb leaf, placed it to his lips, and blew. The soft, lodious note that erged was like a lullaby in the quiet cabin.
Clarissa’s heart gradually cald.
After a mont, she began to hum—softly, in tune with the sound of his leaf whistle.
They sat like that, curled up together, letting their breaths and heartbeats intertwine in harmony. Sharing warmth, sharing silence.
Atticus held the woman quietly in his arms.
The storm inside him—the violence, the coldness, the darkness that had always simred beneath the surface—seed to ease in her presence. Like it was dissolving into the softness of her skin, the warmth of her breath, the quiet rhythm of her heartbeat.
He rested his chin lightly against her head. “You know... it’s beautiful,” he murmured. “I still rember when I was little, you used to sing to put to sleep. Just hearing your voice was enough to calm down.”
“You were much better behaved as a child,” Clarissa replied, a little mockingly.
But as she spoke, mories began to surface—fragnts of their shared past—and a quiet sweetness blood in her chest.
Atticus caught the shift in her mood, and his gaze dropped aningfully to her handbag.
“Return what Lawrence gave you. I’ll find sothing better for you.”
Clarissa blinked, then frowned slightly. “I can’t return it. It was a gift.”
Worried that he might take it the wrong way, she quickly added, “Don’t overthink it. I just…” She glanced at him, then looked down shyly. “I only like you.”
Atticus’s expression didn’t change, but his mood visibly lifted.
Clarissa hesitated for a mont, then said softly, “But I do want to prepare a return gift for him.”
The light in Atticus’s eyes dimd a little. Just as his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line, Clarissa reached out and gently touched his cheek.
“Will you give it to him for ?” she asked sweetly.
His scowl disappeared in an instant. “Really?”
Clarissa laughed lightly. “Are you still jealous?”
“Obviously,” Atticus said without hesitation. “So if you don’t want sulking, don’t talk to other n. Actually—just stay away from them altogether.”
“You’re impossible.” Clarissa shook her head, amused.
Then Atticus frowned again, his brows furrowed slightly. “Aren’t you ever jealous?”
That question had clearly been bothering him for a while.
He’d been surrounded by won ever since he was young. And yet Clarissa? She never seed affected by it—not in the past, not now.
She looked at him and said calmly, “Because I trust you.”
Just six words—but they pierced straight through Atticus’s heart like a warm blade.
Clarissa wasn’t sure when it had started—this unwavering faith in him.
If it were Dorian, she’d assu he was two-timing the mont he so much as looked at another woman. But Atticus? Never.
Whether it was the version of him in the book or the living, breathing man in front of her—Atticus was different.
Even now, Clarissa could hardly believe it when he said he loved her.
Despite how close they were now—despite the kisses, the touches, the intimacy—there was still a part of her that felt like it wasn’t quite real.
This half-year together wasn’t just for Atticus to cool down and think clearly. It was also her adjustnt period. A chance for her to understand whether what they had was love, or sothing else pretending to be it.
......
Three months had passed.
That afternoon, Clarissa, feeling a little bored, wandered into the piano room.
She sat before the white piano, fingers resting lightly on the keys. The lody she once played with Atticus echoed in her mory like a lingering whisper.
The urge struck her. She reached for manuscript paper and began composing—sketching notes, lines, fragnts—losing herself in the music. Page after page ford beneath her hand, until, finally satisfied, she looked up and realized three hours had flown by.
Clarissa let out a quiet breath, placed the sheet music on the stand, and began to play.
.....
Atticus stepped out of his room just as the music drifted through the hall.
The piano’s sound was warm and fluid, and threaded through it was a soft, wordless lody—a woman’s voice, delicate and clear. It wrapped around him like velvet, arresting him mid-step.
Even without lyrics, just the raw harmony stirred sothing deep inside him—sothing soft.
He stood still for a long second. Then, almost instinctively, Atticus pushed open the door to the piano room.
There she was.
Clarissa sat not far away, clad in a simple white dress, her long black hair cascading like ink across her back. The white piano, the white fabric, the contrast of her hair—so stark, so serene—it was enough to make him lose focus.
In that mont, she looked like she was glowing. Almost untouchable.
She was… pure.
Even the music she wrote radiated a kind of gentleness—warm and intricate—like it could heal the soul if you just listened long enough.
From the first ti he t her, she had stunned him. She had those eyes—clear, honest, untouched by the world.
And she was nothing like him.
He’d always known he was different. Cold. Broken. A creature molded in shadows, incapable of love the way others understood it.
He didn’t know if what he felt now *was* love.
But he knew he wanted her. With an aching, almost feral hunger. He wanted her scent, her voice, her warmth. He wanted to drag her into his arms and never let her go.
He wanted her so badly it scared him.
As if she might vanish in the next breath.
In the next second, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
Clarissa gasped—lost in the music just a mont ago, she hadn’t heard him co in.
The piano fell silent, a strange hush settling over the room.
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