Imperial Hotel Ballroom, 2nd Floor.
The walls were draped in sumptuous silk embroidered with gold thread, shimmering like a priceless tapestry under the chandeliers. Crystal prisms hanging from the ceiling refracted light into starry fragments, while ornate moldings traced the ceiling in delicate patterns. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city's neon skyline, casting a romantic glow over the opulent space that made Clara Morgan's head spin.
Standing beside Sebastian Hartwell, Clara forced a smile for each guest, her cheeks aching from the effort.
"CEO Hartwell, who might this be?" A man in a tuxedo eyed Clara curiously after shaking Sebastian's hand.
"Mr. Bennett, my secretary, Clara Morgan," Sebastian introduced curtly.
"Ah, Secretary Morgan." Mr. Bennett offered a champagne flute. "Care for a sip?"
Clara hesitated, but Sebastian cut in: "She doesn't drink." He turned without another word. "Come."
Clara bowed apologetically and trailed after him, aware of Julian Roth's amused gaze from across the room. Sebastian, notorious for never bringing dates, had caused a stir by arriving with Clara, whose innocent yet sultry aura only heightened the intrigue.
"You holding up, Secretary Morgan?" Julian murmured as they passed.
"Managing, Mr. Roth," Clara lied, fighting a wave of dizziness. Sleepless nights, grueling work, and the constant stress of Sebastian's attention had left her body throbbing, her high heels rubbing blisters into her ankles.
Across the ballroom, Ethan Windsor nursed a champagne glass, his gaze fixed on Clara. The Windsor Group's financial crisis had turned them into social pariahs, but Ethan's eyes burned with a mix of longing and regret as he watched Clara in her pearl-white strapless gown. The dress bared her porcelain shoulders and the curve of her collarbone, a tantalizing contrast to the demure girl he'd once dismissed.
He wanted to approach, but Clara hadn't left Sebastian's side. When she finally murmured, "CEO Hartwell, may I use the restroom?" he nodded, and she fled.
In the restroom, Clara ripped off her heels to reveal bleeding blisters. Tall by nature, she rarely wore heels, and the hours of standing had taken their toll. Worse, the strapless neckline exposed love bites on her chest—thankfully hidden by layers of foundation. Gazing in the mirror, she felt bone-tired. Her upbeat facade was a survival tactic; without it, she'd have crumbled long ago.
Just make it through the night. She touched up her makeup and forced the heels back on, wincing at the pain.
As she stepped out, a hand clamped around her wrist. Clara flinched—Ethan's bloodshot eyes met hers, wild with desperation.
"Clara, we need to talk," he growled.
"Ethan, let go!" She tried to wrench free.
"You used to love me. How can you just—"
"Love you?" Clara laughed bitterly. "You called me ugly. You let Bianca Sterling and her cronies attack me. When I was sick, you told me to die."
Ethan's grip tightened. "I was an idiot! The company—"
"Your company isn't my problem." Clara's voice shook. "I repaid the Winstons for raising me. I owe you nothing."
"I can fix this, Clara. Just be with me." His eyes welled up. "I love you."
"Love?" She yanked her wrist. "You loved my trust fund, not me."
As she struggled, her hair fell aside, exposing two fresh hickeys behind her ear. Ethan's gaze locked onto the marks, his face paling.
"Who did that?" he demanded, voice hoarse.
Clara covered them quickly, cursing Sebastian's possessiveness. "None of your business."
Ethan snarled, "You're screwing someone else? After everything we—"
"We had nothing, Ethan! You made that clear." Clara's wrist ached under his grasp. "Let me go!"
Just then, a cold voice cut through the tension:
"Secretary Morgan."
Sebastian stood nearby, his gaze fixed on Ethan's hand wrapped around Clara's wrist. His eyes darkened, a predatory glint flickering to life.