Chapter97 – Meet Lawrence again
After dealing with the last-minute crisis at work, Clarissa still had about an hour to make it to the Harrington estate.
But the moment she returned to the office, she was met with a startled cry.
"Oh no, what happened here?"
Clarissa approached and saw the cause: her dress. The one she’d set aside for the wedding—simple, understated, elegant black—was now ruined. It was soaked in red ink, the sharp chemical smell lingering in the air. Worse still, the fabric had been slashed and cut to shreds.
All the other dresses were untouched. Just this one.
“Who would do something like this?” someone gasped.
The assistant standing nearby turned pale. “Clarissa, I swear, it wasn’t me. When I left it, everything was fine…”
Clarissa gently placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, her voice calm. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about it. Just throw it out and clean up the space.”
“But Clarissa, what are you going to wear tonight—?”
“Try this one!” someone suddenly offered, holding out another dress. “It’s a new piece from this season. No one’s worn it yet.”
Clarissa glanced at it. The dress was a dreamy shade of lavender, a high-end, hand-stitched custom gown. The bodice was delicately beaded, its neckline secured with a soft collar and draped in gossamer tulle. Tiny diamond accents and embroidered floral details shimmered under the lights.
They’d planned to photograph it for their next campaign, but hadn’t yet found the right model.
“This one?” Clarissa asked, hesitating. “Isn’t it a bit… too flashy?”
“It’s perfect,” someone chimed in.
“Definitely better than the one you picked. Come on, Clarissa, it’s your ex-fiancé’s wedding—don’t you want to walk in and shut the whole place down?”
Another voice joined in, “Let us help you. There’s still forty minutes—we’ll make it work!”
Before she could protest, the group whisked Clarissa away into the dressing room, full of energy like they were attending the wedding themselves.
When she finally emerged, the room went silent. Every eye was on her.
Clarissa hesitated. “What? Is it too much?”
Someone whispered, “God… I’m convinced it was tailored for you. ”
“Clarissa, you could walk a red carpet in this.”
“She could wear a garbage bag and still look like a runway model.”
Clarissa laughed, half-embarrassed, half-grateful. “Alright, alright. I’m running late. I really have to go.”
She grabbed her clutch and heels, then turned back. “Oh—don’t forget to pull the security footage for me.”
“Already on it!”
With that, Clarissa hurried out, the dress flowing like smoke behind her.
But even with their best efforts, she was still thirty minutes late. Traffic was brutal at this hour, and Ophelia had already called seven or eight times.
The moment she stepped out of the car, she lifted her skirt and quickened her pace in her heels, heading toward the Harrington estate.
She didn’t know if she’d been walking too fast or if someone had brushed past her, but suddenly her ankle turned—and she stumbled.
Just as she was about to fall, a strong arm caught her.
“Careful,” said a smooth, familiar voice.
Clarissa looked up—and her eyes met his. Lawrence.
With his signature silver-rimmed glasses and a composed, elegant expression, he looked every inch the gentleman. One lens caught the sunlight, obscuring half his gaze, but the other eye was soft—smiling.
He let go of her arm as soon as she was steady again, ever polite.
Clarissa exhaled and gave him a faint smile. “Thank you, Professor Lawrence.”
It wasn’t strange to see him here. The Whitmore and Harrington families were both part of the Eight Great Houses.
“It’s no trouble,” Lawrence replied. “The walkway here is cobbled. Not ideal for heels.”
She murmured. “Did you just arrive?”
“Yeah, had a few things to take care of. And you?”
Clarissa gave a wry smile. “Same. It’s been a day. One thing after another.”
As if on cue, her phone rang again. Ophelia.
“Excuse me, I have to take this.” She stepped away, turning slightly. “Mom, I’m here. Just at the gate—I’ll come in now.”
Before she could hang up, she heard her mother’s voice not through the phone, but from just a few feet away.
“Clarissa!”
Clarissa turned, spotting Ophelia hurrying toward her.
“You’re finally here! I was getting worried something happened to you.”
“So that’s why you were calling so much,” said Lawrence behind her.
Clarissa glanced back, amused. “My mom worries too much. Sorry you had to witness that.”
“No need to apologize. Honestly, I envy you,” Lawrence said softly. “It must be nice… to have someone care that deeply.”
Ophelia turned and finally noticed him. “And you are—?”
“Hello, Auntie. I’m Lawrence. Lawrence Whitmore.”
Recognition lit up Ophelia’s face. “Oh! The Lawrence Whitmore? From the Whitmore family?”
She looked him up and down. “How old are you, Mr. Lawrence?”
“Twenty-seven, ma’am. Please—just call me Lawrence.”
“Three years older than our Clarissa! Do you have a fiancée? A girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“What do you think of Clarissa?”
“Mom!” Clarissa interrupted, eyes wide.
Lawrence, unfazed, looked at her. His gaze lingered. Warm. Intent.
Clarissa’s heart skipped. She quickly looked away.
Ophelia noticed—and her smile widened.
Well, well… it looked like something might be blooming after all.
More guests were filtering into the banquet hall, and Lawrence politely excused himself with a soft smile.
Ophelia, meanwhile, couldn’t help noticing how many people’s gazes lingered on Clarissa—warm, admiring, appreciative. Her daughter… still so graceful. Still so perfect.
She gently pulled Clarissa aside and lowered her voice. “Clarissa, tell me the truth—what do you think of that Mr. Lawrence?”
“Mom!” Clarissa gave her a helpless look. “Can we not do this right now? You were so blunt earlier, it was kind of embarrassing.”
Ophelia, despite being in her fifties, still had the heart of a girl—sweet, dramatic, a little naïve. She teared up easily, too, thanks to years of being spoiled by Nathaniel like a porcelain doll.
“I’m just thinking about what’s best for you! You’re already twenty-four. It’s time to think seriously about finding someone. Or…” She paused, her voice softer. “Are you still not over Dorian?”
Clarissa sighed, exasperated. “That’s impossible, Mom. Please don’t start imagining things.”
Ophelia brightened immediately. “Good! Then tell me what you think of Lawrence.”
Lawrence Whitmore. The only son of the powerful Whitmore family. Accomplished, intelligent, handsome—his future practically gilded. In Ophelia’s eyes, he was the dream son-in-law.
Clarissa hesitated before answering. “He was my professor back in university. He’s… a good man. Very respectful. He always looked out for me.”
“Ah-ha! So you do like him. Why don’t you give it a chance?” Ophelia’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Mom, you’ve got to stop trying to marry me off. You’re making me crazy,” Clarissa said, exasperated but affectionate. Ophelia’s matchmaking streak had only gotten stronger lately, and Clarissa had no more energy to argue.
As they mingled through the reception, several young nobles approached Clarissa, each asking—some shyly, some boldly—for a dance.
She turned them all down.
Clarissa hadn’t come tonight to be the center of attention. She had wanted to keep things subtle, effortless. But the ruined dress had forced her hand—and now, draped in lavender silk and diamonds, she might as well have walked out of a fairy tale.
Who had ruined her dress? Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Ophelia’s voice.
“Dorian, Lyra—congratulations!”
Clarissa’s gaze followed her mother’s.
There they were—the newlyweds. Dorian, tall and striking in a custom black suit. And Lyra, glowing in white lace, smiling as she clung to his arm. They looked perfect together.