Chapter 4 Four

CLARA'S POV

I stop at the sight of the seven special, climate controlled cases mounted on the wall. The big one in the center is empty, but the other six contain charcoal sketches of Jace...a Jace, however, who I've never seen in real life. The drawings span the time from when he was a newborn to his mid teen years. My gaze lingers on one. It is of Jace when he was just a toddler. Despite the rough lines, joy beams from his wide eyes as he gazes back at me.

The housekeeper always dusts the cases daily Jace's explicit instructions. I once asked him why the center case was empty. He said it was reserved for his grandfather's painting. He was...reverent when he ran his hand over the glass, and there was a palpable longing in the way he gazed at the empty spot. Judging from the sketches, his grandfather's painting must be something very special. I've never seen Jace react like that to any other artwork and he has a very large collection.

My office is nice, with plenty of shelf space, cabinets and a great view of a sparkling blue pool and flower garden that cost five figures a month to maintain. The place feels like a slice of southern Florida heaven...so long as I don't look too far beyond the pool and see the concrete gray walls with barbed wire and security cameras along the top. Jace doesn't have a mansion. He has a compound.

A big box covered with red heart stickers waits for me on my antique Louis XIV desk. It has YOUR GREATEST FAN in all caps...like that would make Jace notice. Despite the lack of return address, I immediately know who sent it. This one comes from a particular loony tunes I've dubbed Loopy because of her overly rounded handwriting.

I place my cup of ginger ale it calms my nausea on my desk and fish for the box cutter in the upper drawer. The furniture is ridiculously ostentatious for an assistant, but it's part of Jace's home, so that's that. Interior decoration isn't my responsibility or prerogative, and if Jace wants me to use a pricey antique desk, so be it. At least it comes paired with an incredibly comfortable ergonomic chair.

I run the box cutter along the clear packing tape. Inside is a white card. "Loopy, Loopy, you really need to stop." I pull out a card with fat, childish handwriting. The overzealous woman never signs her name. And she always sends food at least once a week. The card reads, The expressway to a man's heart is through his stomach. Pure delusion. There's no expressway to Jace's heart. There are roadblocks all over. Countless women are currently stuck, mired in the traffic jam. They'll all die before they get anywhere near his stomach, much less his heart.

On the other side of the card it says, Don't forget I am your soul mate, the Cinderella you've been looking for all your life. I shake my head. She never used to say that until Jace starred in a blockbuster retelling of Cinderella. He played Prince Charming naturally and rumor has it that the ushers were scooping melted women off the floor after each viewing.

I look inside the package. A red, heart shaped tin of homemade chocolate truffles sits in the center, just waiting to be devoured by the object of Loopy's loopy desire. What a waste. Nobody touches food items delivered to Jace. Everything is restuffed into the boxes for storage. Ever since a psycho fan tried to run him over in her Jeep screaming, "If I can't have you, nobody can!" Jace has everything from his fans tagged and shelved in storage as evidence. Just in case the police need them. It turned out that the psycho in the Jeep had sent him over two hundred letters in five months' period.

I dump the box on the floor behind my chair, making a mental note to put it away later. Then I see another piece of mail a big manila envelope. Thankfully this one doesn't come with heart stickers. Just the logo and address of one of the most expensive and exclusive hotels in the state. What is this about? It's not the place I went to drag Jace out of the hot tub, and hotels this exclusive do not send junk mail. No, they stick to the old way of doing things like having humans hand deliver messages that could've just been emailed instead.

I work a letter opener under the flap. A letter and a three page long invoice along with colored photos spill out. I snatch the letter and start reading, toying with the apple shaped silver pendant around my neck that I never take off. The general manager has addressed it to me directly. I would've been impressed if it were his first time. That one, he addressed to "To Whom It May Concern."

Dear Ms. Clara Bellamy, the letter begins. That is the only nice part. The rest is a litany of complaints about the woman Jace screwed and left behind in the hotel's presidential suite. I can't decide if it's good or bad that the general manager used such polite yet pointed language. The H&D women can be forces of destruction, fueled by spite and a sense of betrayal. The former is completely understandable, but the latter? I don't get it. Jace never promises anyone anything. When he takes you into his suite, it's for a night of good fucking. You can't even call it sex, if what the media reports is even ten percent accurate.

I toss the letter on the desk and pick up the invoice. Then wince. The bill lists over twenty thousand dollars' worth of damage to the suite. Twenty thousand dollars? Did Jace pick up a feral cat? I scan the enclosed photos. The minibar is cleaned out. Broken glass everywhere. Numerous green and brown stains of dubious origin cover the pale ivory carpet. The woman also left a message on one of the walls with what looks like bright red lipstick. F U! assole

I laugh. I can't help it. It's either that or cry, and I'd rather not waste any tears on a person who can't even spell "asshole." I've already shed plenty over my worthless ex, Cole. I take a few deep breaths. How did I get on Cole? I'm better off without him. He only wanted me for my connection to Jace. I'm not going to let him know about the baby either since he would only use it against me to get me to help his "career transition" into acting.