Chapter90 – Mom! Atticus!
Veronica raised a single, graceful finger.
Silence.
“If you keep screaming, Julian, I’ll have them cut out your tongue.” Her voice was soft, gentle. But every syllable dripped with steel.
Julian’s lips clamped shut. His body trembled as he crouched lower, practically collapsing under the weight of fear.
She tilted her head slightly, beads still sliding through her fingers. “Where is that woman?”
“I—I don’t know\... I swear—”
“You’re still lying,” she said, her red lips curving into a smile. “Julian, you’re sixty. That grandson of yours…” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “He’s very adorable. Such a pretty little thing. And he looks just like you....”
Julian’s face drained of all color.
“No! No! Please—don’t touch him. I’ll talk. I’ll talk...”
Clarissa looked angelic as she slept.
The vibrant, captivating woman she was during the day now appeared soft and innocent, her breathing light, her rosy lips slightly parted in unconscious pout.
Atticus stood beside the bed, unmoving. His dark eyes lingered on her face, drinking her in. Quiet. Vulnerable. Too beautiful to look away from.
His fingers reached out instinctively, brushing lightly through her silken hair, then down to the gentle curve of her cheek.
Finally, they hovered over her lips.
His thumb grazed them, slow and reverent, tracing the plushness of her mouth with a reverence that teetered on dangerous devotion.
Only after a long moment did he finally pull away, as though it took effort to break the trance.
He straightened up, adjusted the covers around her one last time, and then turned—heading toward the adjacent bed.
Clementine lay still, her breathing even, her face calm.
Atticus sat down beside her, legs crossed loosely, posture relaxed. But his eyes—sharp, shadowed with something darker—were nothing like the boyish calm he wore around Clarissa.
He let out a low chuckle, amused. “Auntie... I know you’re not asleep.”
Clementine flinched. But she didn’t move.
Atticus tilted his head, his voice calm. “I know you’ve been hiding something for a long time. Something big. And today’s little ‘accident’... that wasn’t an accident, was it?”
He leaned back in the chair slightly, one arm draped lazily over the side. “Let me guess. The only thing that could make you that panicked… that shaken… has to do with Clarissa’s real father.”
At that, Clementine’s eyes flew open. “Atticus…”
Her voice trembled. Her entire body did.
Atticus met her gaze—cool, unreadable—and waited.
“Please… don’t tell Clarissa,” Clementine whispered, her voice breaking.
“Would it hurt her?”
“I—” Clementine’s throat caught. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled silently down her cheeks. “I don’t know.”
All she’d ever wanted was to protect Clarissa. But fear had started to eat through her resolve, fear that the woman from the past would return… and destroy everything.
She bit her lip hard, forcing herself not to sob aloud. Clarissa was still asleep.
Atticus, unmoved by the tears, watched her with cold patience.
“Aunt,” he said quietly, “she deserves the truth. You know that.”
“You don’t understand,” Clementine said in a low, urgent tone. “Her father… he’s not just any man. That family is darker than the Lancasters ever were. If she gets pulled back in, it won’t just be painful—it could kill her. If she stays with me, even if it’s ordinary, even if it’s small… at least she’ll be safe.”
She looked away. “Please, Atticus. I’m begging you. Whatever you think you know—don’t tell her..”
He studied her for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded once. “Alright. I promise.”
Clementine’s shoulders sagged in relief, her sobs finally tapering into quiet, trembling breaths. But in her heart, uncertainty still clawed at her.
Atticus had grown into someone powerful—clever, silent, beautiful, and dangerous. Would someone like him truly be safe?
But Atticus was already moving.
He stood, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a tissue. With surprising gentleness, he leaned over and dabbed at Clementine’s tears. “Don’t worry, Auntie. Go to sleep. Nothing will happen.”
He turned to walk away—but before he could step out of reach, Clementine grabbed a fistful of his collar, clinging.
“Atticus…”
He turned his head slowly, his expression soft. “Hmm? Are you feeling unwell?”
“No.” Clementine hesitated, her lips trembling. “Clarissa… she’s always been good to you. So you…”
Atticus’s smile never faltered, but his eyes turned unreadable. “She’s the most important person in my life. Do you really think I’d ever hurt her?”
Before she could respond, he gently pried her fingers from his shirt and tucked them back under the blanket.
“I’ll protect her. And you.”
Because that image of Clarissa earlier—alone, pale, vulnerable in the corridor—was burned into his mind. It had nearly unraveled him.
If anything happened to Clementine, Clarissa would break.
And he… he would burn the world down before he let that happen.
That night, sleep never came to either Clementine or Atticus.
But on the other side of the room, Clarissa lay peacefully beneath the covers—dreaming, untouched by the gathering storm around her.
When Clarissa woke the next morning, the room was filled with the faint scent of disinfectant and a comforting stillness.
Atticus and Clementine were still asleep.
The hospital sofa was clearly too small for Atticus’s long frame—his legs hung over the edge, the hem of his coat brushing his calves. He was still wearing the same coat from the night before, but nothing underneath. His bare skin peeked through at his collarbone, the lean lines of his body exposed in the soft morning light.
Clarissa paused for a moment, her gaze lingering on him.
Then she turned and quietly stepped out to speak with a nurse. A few minutes later, she came back holding a blanket. She knelt down, her fingers gently tucking the fabric over Atticus’s legs, careful not to wake him.
She didn't notice, but the moment the bathroom door closed behind her…
Atticus opened his eyes.
His hand reached for the blanket she’d placed over him—still warm. Still holding the faintest trace of her.
He brought it to his face.
It smelled like the hospital. Like sterilizer and cotton. But beneath that, he could swear he caught her scent—clean, warm, like sunlight on skin.
His lips curved in a smile. “Clarissa… Clarissa…”
He lay there for a moment longer, savoring the illusion, before finally sitting up.
After making sure Clementine had eaten and taken her medicine, and confirming that her condition had stabilized, he slipped out to handle her discharge paperwork.
Two days passed in calm. Clementine’s spirits were clearly improving. Her arm was still bandaged, but she moved with more ease, smiled a little more often.
Atticus’s school break was coming to an end.
That morning, he received a call. A short one. After hanging up, his demeanor shifted—quietly, but unmistakably.
He changed quickly, pulling on black clothes, a mask, and then left without saying much. When he returned several hours later, something in his expression had darkened. His jaw was tight, his gaze sharp and haunted. He glanced toward the attic.
And then—
Flames erupted.
The blast was silent at first, like a punch to the chest.
Atticus’s eyes reflected the fire, pupils narrowing. “Damn it.”
When Clarissa arrived, the street was already swarming—sirens wailed, flashing red and blue lights lit up the night. Neighbors had called the police and fire department, but the inferno had spread quickly.
The entire structure was ablaze. The heat curled the air, warped the view. Orange flames licked the sky like something alive.
"Mom! Atticus!" Clarissa screamed, her voice raw, tearing out of her chest.