Chapter93 – Meet William again
Clarissa often turned to him when she struggled with her studies. William, with his razor-sharp intellect and preternatural focus, had already completed the full credit requirements for his major in just one year. Not only that, he’d aced the doctoral entrance exam and was already deep into his second degree.
He was the kind of man who drew eyes no matter where he went—always surrounded, always admired, like a star encircled by gravity-bound moons. A quiet magnetism clung to him, the kind that didn’t need to shout to be seen.
Clarissa had assumed he’d gone home for the day.
So when he appeared beside her car, cool and composed in the twilight, she blinked in surprise.
Without thinking, she nodded and stepped out of the driver’s seat. “Yes, please. I really do need help.”
Behind her, William's lips curved into a soft, almost imperceptible smile.
He crouched slightly to check under the hood, brows furrowed in concentration. “It’s not something I can fix here—without tools. I’ll call someone to tow it. I’ll drive you home first.”
Clarissa didn’t hesitate. “Thank you.”
William walked off to bring his car around, and Clarissa waited by the roadside, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face. The wind caught her perfume—subtle, floral, a scent William had memorized long ago.
He returned in minutes with his sleek black coupe, polished and quiet as a whisper. Everything he had—his car, his apartment, his degree, his reputation—he’d earned.
He held several patents already, built his first app at sixteen, and his net worth was rumored to be well over ten million dollars. But he never spoke of it. He didn’t need to. That kind of power whispered through everything he did.
Unlike Dorian, whose success was split evenly between inheritance and ambition, William had climbed from the ground up.
Inside the car, the air was warm and still. Clarissa sat beside him, leaning slightly against the window, her posture relaxed but her body drained. Her face was paler than usual, and even the makeup she wore couldn’t mask her exhaustion.
William glanced at her, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
“What’s been going on with you lately?” he asked softly.
Clarissa stared out the window, her voice steady, but distant as she spoke. She didn’t tell him everything—just enough. The fire. Clementine. The loss. The ashes still clinging to her memory.
William listened silently. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles whitening.
He wanted to reach out. To pull her into his arms and promise her safety, softness, a future untouched by pain.
But the distance between them.... So, in the end, all he said was, “My condolences.”
Clarissa gave a small, sad smile. “Thanks. I’m… I’m okay. It’s getting better now.”
She didn’t say it out loud, but she was thinking of Atticus.
Still, something about sitting beside William like this—his silent presence, the low hum of the engine, the faint cologne on his collar—felt undeniably intimate.
…...
Back on campus.
Atticus’s burns hadn’t fully healed. His hands and lower legs were still wrapped in white gauze, the bandages visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves and shorts.
People stared. Whispered.
Even the professors were stunned. He was supposed to be shooting a promotional video for the campus soon—how could he do that in this condition?
“What happened to you?” one of the instructors finally asked.
Atticus glanced down at his wrapped hand as if it didn’t matter. “Just a small injury. It won’t affect the schedule.”
There was no heaviness in his tone—only something curiously light.
Confused, his classmates started talking among themselves. Remington, one of the few who had always been close to Atticus, came over with a worried expression.
“Atticus, did something happen at your house? Someone said there was a fire. Did those people come back for revenge?”
A flicker of something dark passed through Atticus’s eyes—gone before it could settle.
He looked at Remington and said smoothly, “You want to know?”
Remington nodded eagerly.
Atticus smirked. “Too bad. I’m not telling you.”
“Ah, come on, you bastard!” Remington groaned.
No matter how many questions followed—whether from friends, teachers, or nosy onlookers—Atticus didn’t say another word.
The shoot was about to begin, and the production set buzzed with movement. Assistants darted around with clipboards, lighting techs barked orders, and camera rigs rolled into place.
Atticus, however, looked completely disinterested.
His gaze lingered on a large promotional poster mounted near the set. It was a glossy shot of Clarissa and William—side by side, gazing into the lens with that too-perfect chemistry. The sight of it made something bitter twist in his chest.
Why him? Why was it William in that photo next to Clarissa and not him?
A few feet away, Helena couldn’t contain her excitement. She had been waiting for this chance—to be this close to Atticus. Adjusting her blouse just enough to show off the swell of her cleavage, she checked her makeup in the reflection of her phone screen, picked up a chilled bottle of mineral water, and walked over slowly, trying to exude casual allure.
“Atticus, you must be tired,” she purred, her voice a practiced blend of softness and flirtation. “Here… have some water?”
He glanced up lazily, eyes sliding over the slight arch in her back and the opened buttons of her shirt.
His gaze, cold and unreadable, flicked to her cleavage and then to her face.
He didn’t move.
Helena shifted awkwardly under the weight of his silence. Just as the discomfort thickened, Atticus spoke, his voice low and faintly amused.
“What are you looking at? Come here.”
Her heart skipped—he wanted her to sit next to him?
But before she could react, Remington jogged over, all smiles, holding a towel and a fresh bottle of cold water. “Here, man! You said you wanted something cold. Drink up.”
Atticus took the bottle without hesitation, unscrewed the cap, and downed a long, slow gulp. Then he tilted his head slightly toward Helena, his expression unimpressed.
“You’re still standing there?” he said flatly. “You’re blocking my view.” Of Clarissa.
Even if William’s face on the poster made his blood boil, he still wanted to see her.
Helena’s face flushed crimson. She stepped back quickly, humiliated, retreating like a scolded schoolgirl. Remington watched her retreat with a low whistle.
“Dude, Helena’s clearly into you,” he said. “She’s hot as hell. Not even a little tempted?”
Atticus didn't even blink. “She’s not even worth one of my sister’s fingers.”
Remington nearly choked. “Okay, sure, Clarissa’s gorgeous, but seriously? You want to date someone who looks like your sister?”
Atticus’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “If you like her that much, why don’t you go after her?”
Remington scratched the back of his neck. “I mean… I do like her. A lot. But she’s not into me.”
He leaned in and hooked an arm around Atticus’s shoulder. “Bro. Help me out?”
Atticus didn’t pull away. He just glanced sideways, a glint of mischief flickering in his eyes. “And how exactly should I help you?”
“You’re Atticus. You’ve got the face, the voice, the presence—girls practically melt around you. Just help me get her contact info. That’s all I need.”
Atticus leaned back, slowly. “I’m not interested.”
“Oh, come on! If I get her, she won’t be hanging around you anymore. Peace and quiet. Win-win. Just think of it as a favor you can cash in later.”
Atticus stared at him for a long second. Remington’s favors were barely worth the breath it took to ask for them.
But then… a thought crossed his mind.
“Fine,” he said at last, eyes dark. “But if I do this, you owe me. You listen to everything I say from now on.”
“Deal!” Remington grinned. “I’m yours. Do your worst.”