Chapter92 – You still have me
Clarissa was sobbing too hard to speak. She could only shake her head and clutch her mother’s hand tightly.
But Clementine’s breathing grew shallow. A wet, rattling cough escaped her throat, and her body shuddered with each breath. The smoke had done its damage—every word she spoke now was laced with pain.
“Clarissa… take care of yourself. I… I…”
She tried to continue, but her voice faltered—no more than a whisper, lost in the sterile air.
Her body lurched again with another cough, and blood spilled from the corner of her mouth, bright against the hospital whites.
And then—
Her grip tightened once… and fell limp.
“Mom?! Mom!”
Clarissa’s voice broke as she shook Clementine’s hand, calling her name again and again.
But she was already gone.
Behind her, Atticus had been standing silently. He’d witnessed every second.
And as Clarissa collapsed over her mother’s lifeless body, shattered by grief, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her from behind—holding her with a fierce tenderness.
His voice was low, ragged. “Clarissa…”
She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, on the cold floor of the hospital, his arms around her like the only anchor left in the world.
Her eyes were vacant, her soul adrift. But the heat of Atticus’s body against hers—the steady thrum of his breath at her ear—was the only thing keeping her from disappearing completely.
After what felt like forever, she turned her head, barely able to speak.
“…Atticus?”
“I’m here,” he murmured, lips brushing the edge of her temple. “I’m right here. You still have me.”
Clarissa didn’t respond. She didn’t move. She simply placed her freezing hands on his arms, gripping them like a lifeline.
“…You’re all I have left now,” she whispered, as if in a dream.
A dark light flickered in Atticus’s eyes, deep and possessive. Yes, from now on… I’ll be your only one.
But Clarissa didn’t see it. She was too far gone, too exhausted, too broken. All she knew was the warmth of him against her, the feel of his breath on her neck.
She clutched his arm tighter, lips barely moving.
“…Atticus… I’m so tired… I just… want to rest…”
And then her body went limp. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed into his arms.
Atticus caught her instantly, cradling her against his chest.
His jaw clenched as he looked down at her unconscious face. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
Then, without saying a word, he lifted her and strode out of the room—holding her like something fragile, something sacred, something his.
When Clarissa opened her eyes, it was already the following night.
The air in the room was dim and quiet. Her body felt heavy, her limbs weak, but her mind began to stir—images of fire, screams, Clementine’s bloodied lips—flashed behind her eyes.
Atticus had handled everything in the past twenty-four hours, never once complaining. From the hospital arrangements to the death certificate, to the cremation formalities—he did it all silently. Alone.
Clarissa watched him from the hospital bed, the boy who now looked more like a man—stoic, composed, yet undeniably scarred, bandages still wrapped around his arms.
The guilt dug deeper into her chest.
She was the older one. She should have pulled herself together first. She had to pull herself together now.
Outside the crematorium, the night wind swept around them like a soft whisper of death.
Atticus stood quietly in front of Clementine’s body, the faint red glow of the crematory furnace lighting his sharp features. His eyes flickered with something unreadable, something colder than grief.
He didn’t believe Clementine’s death had been accidental.
But he said nothing. Not yet. Not while Clarissa still stood like glass—cracked, barely holding herself together.
His gaze shifted toward her. She looked slightly better, but her soul still seemed untethered. Unsteady.
He’d keep the truth to himself for now.
Stepping over, his voice was soft, respectful. “Sister, it’s ready. Do you want to press it now?”
Clarissa blinked, her thoughts scattered. She nodded absently. “Yes… now.”
She stepped forward, staring at her mother’s pale, peaceful face for the last time. The weight in her chest was suffocating, but she inhaled, forcing herself to stay steady.
Then she reached out and pressed the red button.
A quiet whir sounded as the machine roared to life.
Clarissa’s face turned ghostly pale. The warmth drained from her hands, her legs going numb.
Suddenly, Atticus’s hand slipped into hers, firm and warm. Anchoring her.
She looked up at him, her eyes wet, voice shaking. “…Atticus, thank you.”
“We’re family.”
Clarissa didn’t know why, but her chest clenched.
Later, back at the hotel, exhaustion dragged down her every limb. She’d barely settled into the sofa when her phone rang. It was the Lancaster family.
“Clarissa, how are you? We heard about the fire. Are you okay?” The voice was her stepmother.
“I’m fine, Mom. You don’t need to worry.”
“Why don’t you come back here? Your room is still cleaned regularly. It’s still yours.”
Atticus, sitting across from her, said nothing. His expression was calm, unreadable. But his fingers tapped slowly on the armrest.
She thought of Lyra. Of Dorian. Of all the tangled mess that had once poisoned her life. Nothing good had ever come from that house.
“…I’m sorry, Mom,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to come back to the Lancaster family. Not for now.”
A silence.
Atticus’s tapping stopped.
Later, the Lancasters sent over some things anyway. Clothes. Documents. Even a house—two bedrooms and a cozy living room. Close to school. Convenient.
Clarissa accepted it, mostly for Atticus’s sake. A quiet, private place they could both stay.
After everything was sorted, she returned to school a week later.
No one knew what had happened. Only that she had been gone for nearly half a month. Her roommates swarmed her, concern in their voices.
“Clarissa, what happened? Were you sick?”
She gave them a faint smile and shook her head. “Just… something happened at home. It’s taken care of now.”
They didn’t push her further, sensing her reluctance.
But it was clear she wasn’t herself. Her eyes looked distant. She drifted through classes like a ghost.
After a long, dragging lecture, she left early and made her way toward the parking lot.
She got into her car and turned the key. Nothing.
She frowned, tried again. Still nothing.
“Damn it!” she muttered, slamming the steering wheel.
As she reached for her phone to call for a tow, a voice came from just outside the driver’s window. “Do you need help?”
That voice—low, smooth, almost melodic.
She looked up and saw him. William.
A clean white shirt, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal strong forearms. Slim, tailored trousers. A light trench coat hung open on his shoulders, catching the breeze. He wasn’t wearing a tie. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing just the hint of his collarbone and a sculpted neck.
His face—chiseled, flawless, calm—looked like it had been carved by a sculptor’s most indulgent hand.
He stood like a painting come to life. Effortless. Imposing.
Clarissa stared for a heartbeat too long. Her throat felt dry.
“…William.”
The boy who once felt like a soft breeze and a gentle moonlight—calm, warm—had quietly grown into a man.
William hadn’t followed the conventional path. Instead of applying to Q University, like most of their peers, he’d taken the same entrance exam as Clarissa—choosing not only the same school but the same major as well.