Minutes later, she returned with a steaming cup.

Clarissa took a sip. The bitterness hit her tongue hard, making her frown. She’d never quite gotten used to black coffee. Still, she forced it down, cup by cup, until the heaviness behind her eyes began to lift.

By the time her desk was covered in documents, her focus was sharp again.

.....

That evening, the wrap-up party was in full swing. The company was riding high on success, laughter and chatter filling the air. Glasses clinked, people toasted, music swelled.

But Clarissa sat alone in a quiet corner, drinking steadily, one glass after another.

“Miss Clarissa,” a low, smooth voice interrupted. “You don’t seem in the mood to celebrate.”

She turned. Mark was standing there, dressed in a silver-gray suit that fit him perfectly, silver hair glinting under the lights. His face had sharpened, his presence transformed. The careless playboy she once knew was gone—replaced by a man who radiated charm and control.

Clarissa regarded him coolly. “Congratulations. You’ve made it big. Per the contract, I’ll see to your raise.”

Mark’s lips curved. “Still as sharp-tongued as ever. But tonight isn’t for business, is it?”

Clarissa gave no answer. She only reached for another glass of wine.

But before her fingers closed around it, his hand caught hers.

“Too much drinking isn’t good for you,” he said softly. “You should stop.”

Her eyes lifted, narrowing. “Mark, don’t you think you’re being a little presumptuous? I’m your boss. You don’t have the right to control me.”

She yanked the glass free and downed it in one breath. The alcohol burned her throat, leaving her flushed and faintly breathless.

By the time she rose to her feet, the liquor had spread warmly through her veins. Her balance wavered, her steps uneven as she stumbled toward the rest area.

Mark watched silently as she went.

Clarissa made it to the doorway, steady enough to stand but flushed with drink, her lips slightly parted, her eyes glassy.

She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t slurring. She was perfectly conscious.

Clarissa decided to step outside for some air before heading back.

But as she turned toward the door, her heel caught on the carpet.

“Ah!”

She let out a startled cry as she pitched forward—only to be caught by a pair of strong arms.

A clean, sharp, masculine scent rushed over her, and Clarissa’s eyes widened to find herself pressed against Mark’s chest, his face closer than it had ever been before.

“You okay?” he asked, concern etched across his increasingly handsome features.

Clarissa froze for a split second, then panic surged. She slapped a hand over her mouth, shoved him away violently, and bolted for the bathroom.

She barely made it before she fell against the sink and vomited hard, body trembling.

It was strange—she hadn’t felt sick a moment ago. But Mark’s scent, that unfamiliar male closeness, had made her stomach twist violently. His smell wasn’t unpleasant at all—it was crisp, sharp, almost too clean—but something about it left her nauseous.

Could it be the alcohol finally hitting her?

She clung to that explanation, too dazed to think of anything else. After rinsing her mouth, she straightened up and stared into the mirror. Her reflection looked pale, shaken. She splashed water on her face, forcing herself back together.

When she emerged, the party was still in full swing. She let herself be dragged back into the noise, drinking and laughing until past one in the morning. By then she was unsteady, half-drunk, and leaning heavily against Oriana and another colleague.

“Miss Clarissa, you’ve had too much,” Oriana said, holding her up with a frown.

“She’s never drunk like this before. Something’s bothering her,” the other woman whispered. “We should call Atticus to come get her.”

Oriana was already pulling out her phone when a deep voice came from behind them.

“No need. I’ll take her.”

Both women turned—and froze at the sight of Mark’s tall frame, his handsome face calm but unreadable.

“You?” Oriana’s eyes narrowed in open suspicion. She shifted Clarissa behind her. “Forget it. Miss Clarissa has a boyfriend. If anyone takes her home, it’ll be us. Not you.”

The colleague beside her hesitated. “But… it might be safer if he drives. We’ve been drinking…”

“Exactly,” Mark said smoothly. “She’s drunk, you’re both drunk. Let me take her—”

“No.” Oriana cut him off sharply, her tone protective, almost hostile. “You deliberately stayed sober tonight, didn’t you? Don’t think I don’t see through you. I’ve already called Atticus. He’ll be here soon.”

Mark’s eyes flickered with something cold, though he kept his voice even. “Two girls struggling with a drunk woman isn’t exactly safe. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

But Oriana didn’t back down, glaring at him until footsteps echoed across the hall.

They all turned to see Atticus approaching, his presence heavy, commanding.

Oriana exhaled in relief. “Finally. Atticus, she’s so drunk I was worried.”

Atticus’s gaze fell briefly on Mark. Their eyes met—an unspoken spark of challenge flaring—before Atticus dismissed him without a word and strode toward Clarissa.

She was murmuring something incoherent, half-conscious. As Atticus bent to lift her into his arms, she stirred, nose brushing against his chest. A familiar scent enveloped her—his scent. Unlike Mark’s, this one pulled her in, soothed her, made her nestle closer with a faint sigh.

Atticus' voice was calm as he looked at Oriana. “You handled this well. I’ll add thirty percent to your reward.”

Before she could even respond, he was already walking away, Clarissa held tightly against him, her body pressed into the safety of his embrace.

Oriana, once her shock wore off, suddenly broke into laughter. “Great! I’m rich!”

Her colleague beside her cast a jealous glance her way. “You’re lucky. Working under Atticus and Clarissa is already enviable, but Atticus really takes the prize—he’s ridiculously generous.”

Clarissa was the type of boss to throw money around, but Atticus? His largesse was legendary. Everyone in the company had benefited from it, and now his influence far overshadowed Clarissa’s.

Oriana, grinning from ear to ear, was already pulling out her phone. “I think tonight I’ll reward myself with a new bag,” she teased.

They walked off together, still laughing—completely unaware of the chilling, venomous stare burning into their backs.

Mark’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. That bitch Oriana… always in the way.

But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t in a hurry. Clarissa wasn’t slipping through his fingers.

She was his. Forever. No one—not Atticus, not anyone—would take her away.

He glanced out the window, smoothed his tie with deliberate calm, and left the bar.

......

Harrington Group Headquarters.

Dorian was wrapping up the day’s paperwork when his private phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number. His brows knit with suspicion, but he answered anyway.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Mr. Dorian.”

The voice was harsh and gravelly, like an old man’s rasp.

Dorian’s brows furrowed. “Who the hell are you? How did you get my number?”

“That’s not really the question you should be asking.”

Dorian’s eyes sharpened, his voice low and dangerous. “Then what question should I be asking? Since you know my name, you should know the price of provoking me.”

The caller chuckled—a warped, mocking sound. “Since you know I called *you* specifically, you might want to look at what I’ve sent. Check your email.”

Suspicion prickled down Dorian’s spine. He opened his laptop, fingers flying across the keys. A moment later, his sharp features hardened.

“Mr. Dorian? Still there?” the voice sneered.

Dorian’s tone shifted, tight. “Is all this real?”

“Of course. You’ve been digging into Atticus, haven’t you? You’ve found nothing, because he’s clean where it counts. But people around him? They always leave cracks. And where there are cracks, there are secrets.”

Dorian leaned back, eyes calculating. “Why bring this to me? What’s your angle?”

“Because you and I share the same enemy. You’ve already guessed Atticus isn’t what he pretends to be, but you can’t prove it. Clarissa is his weakness. She’s everything to him. I want him to lose her—to suffer the agony of watching the woman he loves slip away.”

The venom in the stranger’s voice made Dorian pause. He let out a slow breath, the corner of his mouth curving in disdain. Atticus had clearly made plenty of enemies.

“If you’ve got evidence,” Dorian drawled, “why not go after him yourself instead of crawling to me?”

The rasping voice chuckled again. “Because I’m a nobody. Clarissa wouldn’t believe me. But you… you’re her childhood sweetheart. She once had feelings for you. Who better than you to reveal Atticus’s true colors? Who knows—she might even run back into your arms.”

Dorian’s eyes flickered, but his reply was cool. “You’re overstepping. I have a wife. Clarissa’s nothing more than a little sister to me.”

Silence, then another dark laugh. “Call her what you like. I don’t care. I only care that Atticus bleeds.”

The line went dead.

Dorian lowered the phone slowly, his gaze unreadable. After a long silence, he called out, voice firm: “Someone!”

A secretary hurried in.

Dorian slid his laptop across the desk. “Dig into this. Everything. Especially Clarissa’s biological mother. I want to know who gave birth to her. Three days. Whatever you find, bring it to me.”

His tone was like steel—cold, commanding.

The secretary stiffened, sensing the gravity of the order. “Yes, sir.”

And with that, the man left. Dorian sat back in his chair, eyes glittering with something unreadable.

Atticus carried Clarissa out of the building. Autumn nights in Westhaven dropped to around twenty degrees, and the cool breeze swept over her bare skin. She flinched, shivering in her thin shirt, her soft body pressing instinctively into the hard heat of his chest.

The brush of her curves against him made his Adam’s apple bob. A slow, dangerous flame flickered in his eyes.

“Atticus…”

Her lips moved against his collar, her voice faint and trembling.

His heart clenched. “Clarissa? Are you dreaming of me?”

“Mom… Mom…” Her cheeks were damp with tears, her lashes fluttering as she whimpered, “Mom…”

Atticus froze. Clementine had been gone for three years. For the first year after her death, Clarissa had often cried in her sleep, sobbing out her mother’s name—but over time, the dreams had faded. Until tonight.

He lowered her into the passenger seat, his fingers brushing away the wet streaks on her skin. “Clarissa… are you dreaming of her again?”

But she couldn’t hear him. Her body shook as silent tears kept spilling.

A shadow fell across his eyes. That gnawing unease—the same dread he had carried for years—was back, sharper than ever. And the deeper he fell for her, the stronger it became.

It was why he’d drugged her. Why he’d slipped a tracker into her without hesitation. He couldn’t afford to lose her.