Clara's heels clicked sharply against the marble floors as she stormed through the towering lobby of Richards Enterprises, her chin held high despite the tremor in her stomach. Every head turned. Every whisper burned against her skin.
There she is.
The witch from the gala.
Did you see the slap? I would've slapped her too if she were my kid.
Poor Ella. No wonder Nicholas Carter stepped in.
The murmurs were like knives, cutting her pride to ribbons. Clara kept walking, keeping her posture perfect, shoulders back, lips pressed in a pale, thin line. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her crack—not here, not in public, not now.
She had one goal. One priority.
Adrian.
She had worked too hard for this engagement. Too many sleepless nights pretending to laugh at his boring jokes. Too many fake smiles at charity dinners. Too many carefully calculated comments to make sure his insecurities made him need her. She built this relationship. It was supposed to be hers.
