Chapter 7
Julian raised his glass slightly, a mocking toast to the tension humming in the air between them. "You always were stubborn, Clara. It’s what drew me to you in the beginning, and what makes you such a liability now." He set the crystal tumbler down on the edge of the mahogany desk with a sharp clink. "Victoria thinks you’re pathetic. A washed-up housewife clinging to a life that outgrew you." Clara didn’t flinch at the insult; she recognized it for what it was—a psychological tactic designed to provoke an emotional outburst, to make her look unstable if security or police were called. Instead, she maintained her breathing, slow and measured, keeping her body language entirely restrained. "Victoria doesn't know the first thing about who built this empire, Julian," Clara replied evenly, her voice steady and low. "She sees the penthouse and the bank accounts. She doesn't see the nights we sat at a folding table eating ramen while you drafted your first patents. She doesn't own this life; she’s just squatting in my history." Julian’s jaw tightened, his sharp features hardening as the reminder of his humble, struggling origins struck a raw nerve. He hated being reminded of where he came from; it ruined the aristocratic persona he had carefully cultivated behind the glass facade of the mansion. He took a sudden step forward, his hand darting out to grab the velvet ledger from her grip. But Clara anticipated the move, sidestepping smoothly and bringing her elbow up in a sharp, defensive arc that forced him to pull back with a curse. Before he could lunge again, the sharp, shrill ring of the house intercom pierced the heavy silence of the study. A voice echoed from the downstairs console—security reporting an unexpected visitor at the front gates. Julian swore under his breath, torn between subduing Clara and managing the sudden breach at the perimeter. Clara used the momentary distraction to her advantage, darting past him toward the hallway. "You won't get off the property," Julian shouted after her, his voice echoing down the corridor. "The gates are locked down!" Clara didn't look back. She sprinted down the spiral service stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs, clutching the digital drives and the velvet ledger like a lifeline. She reached the service entrance, slipped out into the cool, foggy night air, and melted back into the dense underbrush of the perimeter before the estate’s floodlights could sweep across the lawn. She had the evidence. Now she needed to ensure it reached the federal prosecutors before Julian’s influence could neutralize Arthur’s alliance.
