Chapter 2

The next morning, the world was grey. The rain had continued through the night, and the view from my bedroom window was a wash of muted colors, mirroring the hollowness inside me. I hadn't slept. I had spent the night replaying Mark's announcement, the sight of the diamond on Isabelle's finger, the cold weight of Julian Thorne's business card on my nightstand.

I dragged myself downstairs, my cheap, worn robe a pathetic contrast to the polished marble and cold glass of my step-father's house. The air smelled of strong coffee and my step-father's cloying aftershave. He was standing by the vast kitchen island, reading a tablet, a grim set to his jaw. He didn't look up when I entered.

"Clara," he said, his voice clipped. "We need to talk."

My stomach tightened. I poured myself a coffee, my hand shaking slightly. The ceramic of the mug was smooth and cool. "About what?" I asked, though I already knew.

"About the merger," he said, finally looking at me. His eyes were small and shrewd. "The alliance with the Chens-with Isabelle's family-is a significant opportunity for us. It secures our position in the market for the next decade."

"I see," I said, my voice flat. I took a sip of coffee. It was bitter.

"To that end," he continued, placing the tablet down with a soft click, "we need to present a united front. A gesture of goodwill. You will be handing over the lead on the 'Aura' project to Mark and Isabelle."

The mug slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor. Hot coffee splashed across my bare feet, but I barely felt the sting. The Aura project was my baby. I had conceived it, nurtured it, spent the last two years of my life working nights and weekends to bring it to life. It was the one thing at the company that was truly mine.

"What?" The word was a strangled gasp.

"Isabelle has a background in international marketing," he said dismissively, his gaze flicking to the mess on the floor with annoyance. "Her perspective will be invaluable. It's a business decision, Clara. Don't be sentimental."

*Sentimental.* The word was a dismissal of my entire professional life. I stared at him, at the man who was supposed to be my father, and saw only a stranger making a cold, calculated transaction. There was no empathy in his eyes, no acknowledgment of what he was asking me to sacrifice. He was trading my work, my passion, for his precious alliance.

Rage, hot and potent, finally burned through the fog of my grief. I didn't bother cleaning up the mess. I turned and marched out of the kitchen, my bare feet leaving coffee-stained prints on the pristine white marble. I had to talk to Mark. He would never let this happen. He knew what that project meant to me. He wouldn't let them take it.

I found him in the home office, staring out the window at the rain-soaked garden. He turned as I entered, and for a moment, his face was a mask of guilt. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cool, distant resolve.

"Mark, Dad just told me," I started, my voice pleading. "The Aura project. You can't let him do this. It's my project. We built the foundation for it together."

He wouldn't meet my eyes. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, a nervous gesture I knew so well. "Clara, it's for the best. Isabelle has ideas, a fresh perspective that-"

"'A fresh perspective'?" I echoed, my voice rising with disbelief. "I've poured my soul into this for two years! You were there. You saw it. You told me it was brilliant."

"And it was," he said, his tone condescending, as if speaking to a child throwing a tantrum. "But things have changed. This is bigger than one project. It's about the future of the company, the future of our family."

*Our family.* The words were a lie. I wasn't part of his family, not anymore. I was an obstacle, a loose end to be tied up and put away. The man who had always protected me was now the one holding the knife. The last, fragile remnant of the bond I thought we shared shattered into a million pieces.

"So that's it?" I whispered, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a chilling emptiness. "Two years of my work, my life, just handed over to your fiancée because it's convenient?"

"Don't be so dramatic," he said coldly, finally looking at me. His eyes, the eyes I had loved for a decade, were devoid of any warmth. "It's just business."

I left the room without another word. There was nothing left to say. The betrayal was absolute, a clean, deep cut that severed the last thread of hope I had been clinging to.

Back in my own small office space at the house, a space that now felt alien and temporary, something on my desk caught my eye. A single sheet of paper, placed squarely in the center of my blotter. It hadn't been there before.

My hands trembled as I picked it up. It was a printed email.

**To:** Mark

**From:** Isabelle Chen

**Date:** Three weeks ago.

**Subject:** Strategy re: C.

*Mark, my love,*

*Following our discussion, I've outlined the plan for a smooth transition. The key is to position the handover of the 'Aura' project not as a takeover, but as a strategic enhancement. We'll need to frame Clara's involvement as foundational but ultimately limited in scope. By emphasizing my international experience, we can make it seem like a natural and necessary step for the project's global launch. Your father is already on board. The only remaining variable is Clara herself. We need to manage her sentimentality carefully. A clean break is best. Once we announce our engagement, the timing will be perfect to present this as a way to 'strengthen the new family alliance.' She'll have no grounds to object publicly without looking petty and unprofessional.*

*All my love,*

*Isabelle*

I read it once. Then twice. The calculated cruelty, the premeditated nature of it all, stole the air from my lungs. *Three weeks ago.* They had been planning this for weeks. While I was dreaming of a future with him, he was conspiring with his new love to professionally execute me. The "surprise" engagement, my step-father's cold decree, Mark's dismissal-it was all a carefully orchestrated coup.

The grief that had been choking me for twenty-four hours finally, blessedly, receded. In its place, a cold, hard fury began to build. It started as a spark in my chest and grew into a raging inferno. They thought I was sentimental. They thought I was a petty, dramatic child who would cry and then accept her fate.

They were wrong.

My gaze fell on the nightstand, on the stark white business card. Julian Thorne. *If you want to destroy them...*

My movements were sharp, decisive. I walked to the nightstand, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. I picked up my phone. My fingers were steady as I dialed the number on the card.

It rang only once.

"Thorne," a deep, familiar voice answered. No greeting, just a statement.

My own voice was low, tight, and vibrating with a rage so pure it was almost calm.

"This is Clara," I said. "I'm in. What do I have to do?"

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