Clara’s POV

When we arrived at the estate, he guided his nauseated, morning-sick mistress up to the master suite, his hand firm on her lower back. He instructed the chef to prepare her favorite dishes, then lingered in the doorway for a moment as if savoring her approval.

On his way back downstairs, he caught sight of me trudging toward the guest wing, dragging my suitcase behind me like it contained everything I had left in the world.

He paused mid-step and muttered over his shoulder to the chef, “Prepare two more plates—the ones Clara likes. Set three places.”

That snapped my attention. Did I imagine it, or was that the faintest hint of regret? A pathetic attempt to show he cared, even just enough to set a table for me while his mistress rested in our bedroom?

I didn’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity or scream at the nerve. He couldn’t even remember the exact day we met, yet now he expected the chef to prepare my favorite roasted lamb with rosemary as if a dish could erase betrayal.

I clenched my teeth, said nothing, and kept moving.

The guest room door closed quietly behind me, the click of the lock sounding heavier than any insult. The silence was suffocating, as if the walls themselves acknowledged I didn’t belong here anymore.

I set my bag on the edge of the bed and knelt to unzip it. The moment the zipper slid open, my stomach dropped.

Every single item of clothing—torn. Shredded into neat, deliberate strips. Whoever did this wanted to make a statement. My heart sank.

Then I noticed what remained: tucked deep in the lining, my passport, my plane tickets, and every other document I couldn’t afford to lose. Untouched. Protected.

I sat back for a moment, stunned, anger and disbelief warring for dominance. And of course, I didn’t have to guess who was responsible. Nina. Only she would be petty enough to mutilate my belongings while leaving the things that mattered most. But there was no time for confrontation—not yet. I had to focus on leaving this place in one piece.

I crouched by the bed, shoving the remaining salvageable items into my bag, when the door creaked open behind me.

Nina appeared, one hand dangling a small black bottle. Her eyes swept the room as if she were critiquing an art gallery, nose wrinkling like she had just smelled something offensive. Then her gaze landed on me—and if looks could kill, I’d already be nothing but ash.

“Well, Clara,” she purred, tilting her head with that fake sweetness that always made my skin crawl, “you really are something. After everything I’ve humiliated you with in front of every socialite, every investor, every influential person in the city, you still cling to this place like it’s your lifeline.”

Her voice dripped mockery.

“Oh, right. Your grandmother passed last month, didn’t she? Now that your only family is gone, I suppose it makes sense. You’re desperate, clinging to Mark like he’s the only anchor left in your life.”

Then she giggled. Light, cruel, infuriating.

“Remember how you begged him to fly you out to see her one last time? You want to know why he didn’t?”

She waved her phone like a weapon.

“Because he promised to take me to the coast that day. We watched the sunset together. That kiss photo? That’s when it was taken.”

Her words sank into me slowly, spreading like cracks across glass. The more I processed, the hotter my blood became.

She had done this deliberately. She had known. She had flaunted that photo, reminded me of the helicopter, reminded me of the one day I’d fallen to my knees, begging him to let me see my grandmother one last time. And he had chosen her.

The weight of it pressed down on me, jaw tightening, fists clenching at my sides. My control snapped.

“You think this is funny?” I hissed, voice low and sharp. “You think destroying what little I have left makes you something? Like you could ever be his equal?”

Nina raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a predatory smile. “I don’t need to be his equal. I already have everything.”

“You have nothing,” I spat back, teeth bared. “You’re a parasite. A leech sucking scraps from his life, from mine!”

Clara's POV

She shrugged, lips curling with satisfaction. “Still more than you’ll ever have.”

That did it.

I knocked the phone out of her hand. It skidded across the floor and cracked loudly against the marble.

Before my mind could catch up, my body moved. I surged forward, fingers closing around her throat, rage roaring through me so fast it stole my breath.

The small black bottle slipped from Nina’s grip and struck the floor with a dull, hollow sound. The cap rolled. And then—

The smell hit.

Gasoline.

Sharp. Acrid. Violent. It flooded the air in an instant, searing my nose, burning my throat as it spread across the room like a living thing.

We struggled—hands shoving, nails clawing, bodies crashing into furniture. She kicked wildly, heel striking something metallic. Maybe it was a lighter. Maybe it was a spark from metal scraping stone.

Either way, the fire didn’t hesitate.

Flames exploded outward, hungry and fast, licking the curtains, racing along the walls like they’d been waiting for permission. Heat slammed into my skin. Smoke poured in, thick and black, swallowing the room whole.

My body—still weak, still recovering—betrayed me. My lungs seized. I collapsed, coughing so hard it felt like my chest might split open. The world tilted, spinning through fire and shadow.

The last thing I saw before everything went dark was the ceiling igniting, flames crawling across it like something alive.

“Clara!”

A voice tore through the smoke.

“Sir, it’s not safe! Security is on the way—you can’t go in there!”

“Move!” Mark shouted. “She’s still inside!”

I tried to open my eyes. Was it real? Or was my mind playing cruel tricks on me? Had he really said my name? Had he actually come for me?

“N-Mark,” Nina cried weakly. “I’m here too. Please—save me. Save our baby.”

For a heartbeat, hope flared inside me. Pathetic. Fragile. Dangerous. I wanted to believe—just for a second—that he’d fight for me. That I still mattered enough to run into fire for.

Then reality crashed down.

He hadn’t charged in because of me. He hadn’t come because he cared. He came because people were watching. Because the press would hear about it. Because a billionaire CEO couldn’t afford to look like a coward.

And the moment Nina called out?

He didn’t hesitate.

He lifted her like she was priceless, shielding her from the smoke, carrying her out while I lay choking on the floor, fire and darkness closing in.

Time blurred. Minutes—or maybe longer—passed.

After ensuring she was safe, he tore through the estate, shouting my name, searching every wing.

But I was already gone.

I still don’t know how I made it out.

The fire was everywhere, roaring in my ears, stealing the air from my lungs. Smoke shredded my throat, dizziness crashing over me in brutal waves. But something raw and desperate took over—pure instinct.

I crawled. Dragged myself. My fingers brushed against my bag. I grabbed it with shaking hands, clutching it to my chest like it was the last thing tethering me to life.

I stumbled toward a window already cracked from the heat and threw myself through it.

Glass tore at my skin as I hit the lawn outside, rolling hard, gasping. My legs collapsed beneath me. My chest burned. But I was alive.

I didn’t look back.

One of the service corridors must’ve been untouched—or maybe the fire just hadn’t reached it yet. I don’t remember much. Just staggering through smoke-free darkness, barely upright, until I found the rear exit.

Cold night air hit my face as I fell outside, coughing violently, body shaking uncontrollably.

No one saw me.

No one followed.

And I didn’t stop.

Not when my knees buckled. Not when I had to grip street signs, lean against parked cars, drag myself forward inch by inch. I kept going because I knew—deep down—that if I stopped, if I let myself be found again, I wouldn’t survive a second time.

I disappeared into the city.

Hours later, I boarded a flight bound for the Northern Territories.

Just before takeoff, my phone vibrated.

A message from Mark.

[Stop playing games, Clara. I don’t have time for this.]

I stared at the screen, feeling nothing.

Then I powered the phone off and leaned back in my seat as the plane began to move—finally, mercifully, carrying me away.

Mark’s POV

[Tomorrow at 10 AM, Nina has her prenatal check-up. You’ll go with her. Get your annual health screening while you’re at it.]

There was no reply. Not that I expected one. I didn’t know it at the time, but Clara had already removed her SIM card, powered down her phone, and disappeared completely. Just like that, she had vanished from my world, leaving me with the unmistakable finality of a door slammed shut—one that might never open again.

---

The next morning, the private clinic hummed quietly, the soft scent of antiseptic mixing with the faint aroma of fresh flowers. Nina clung to my arm as if I were her only anchor.

“Mark, is the baby okay?” she whispered, panic threading through her voice.

I kept my tone calm, steady. “The doctor said the baby’s fine. No complications from the incident at the estate.”

Relief flooded her features. “Thank the stars. You’ve been so quiet since we arrived. I was worried something went wrong.”

Something had.

I couldn’t shake the image of Clara from my mind—the way she had looked at me amid the chaos, not pleading, not begging, just quiet and resigned, as if she already knew I wouldn’t come for her. And the cruelest truth? She was right. I hadn’t carried her out. I had carried Nina.

---

After lunch with Nina, I dropped her off at the Sterling estate and went straight to the council hall.

That’s when my assistant caught up with me.

“Mr. Mark, Mr. Kirkland has returned from Europe. He’s requested a full executive briefing with the board.”

I nodded, continuing my stride, but beneath the practiced calm, something sharp twisted in my chest. Clara was nowhere to be found. She hadn’t gone to the clinic. She hadn’t returned to the estate. None of the staff had seen her leave. No one had any idea where she could be. She had vanished completely—and I had no clue when or how she had slipped out of my life.

Where the hell had she gone?

I quickened my pace, then spoke over my shoulder to my assistant. “Send someone to retrieve a few of the newest designer handbags and that custom jewelry set.”

“For Nina?”

I paused, teeth clenched. “Send it to the Sterling estate.”

If Clara was anywhere, that would be her destination.

And if she wasn’t?

I didn’t want to finish the thought. My chest tightened, unease gnawing at me relentlessly.

What if she was hurt? Still recovering somewhere, alone?

What if she’d truly left for good?

---

A week later, just past midnight, I returned home, bone-deep exhausted after a marathon strategy session. The estate was silent, moonlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

A soft figure curled on the couch caught my eye, swathed in silk, as though a memory had been left behind in my absence.

I exhaled, a low chuckle escaping me. “Clara… I told you. Once I’m done with work, I always come back. You don’t need to—”

I stopped mid-sentence.

It wasn’t Clara.

Nina’s face fell as she looked up at me, a hint of fear in her wide eyes. “Mark… she hasn’t returned. Not once. I’ve sent her so many messages—apologies, explanations—nothing. Maybe I should leave… I don’t know what else to do.” She sniffled, on the verge of tears.

I let out a long breath and lowered myself beside her, pressing a hand to her forehead. Not tenderness, not affection—more routine than anything—but it offered reassurance. “Don’t overthink it. The baby needs stability. Calm surroundings. This… this is your home now. Yours and the baby’s. Whether Clara agrees or not.”

---

Later, I stood alone on the terrace, robe loosely tied around my shoulders, the city lights stretching endlessly before me. I lit a cigarette—something I hadn’t done in years—but tonight, I didn’t care. The craving wasn’t for nicotine; it was for the restless tension gnawing at me from inside.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled, fingers pausing over the last name at the very bottom of my contacts. Clara. I hovered over the call button, my chest tight with everything I wanted to say—but didn’t. In the end, I didn’t dial.

I sent a message instead.

[Clara, tomorrow is Mr. Kirkland’s 80th birthday. Don’t cause a scene. Keep your distance from Nina and the baby.]

I stared at the screen, chest constricting. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was the cold night air, or something else entirely. No. Not panic. Something sharper. Something heavier.