Chapter112 – Forge a psychiatric report
He was just one step away now. What she looked like in bed. What her body looked like when she wasn’t covered up.
His fingers brushed the paper, gently tracing her face in a drawing, almost reverent in his touch. His eyes were full of fire, of hunger, of possession.
"Clarissa," he whispered, "I can’t wait to complete my next piece... a piece only I’ll ever get to appreciate."
With that, he pulled out a fresh, unopened sketchbook. Sat down at the desk.
Slender fingers grasped the pen, and he began to draw.
Two hours passed.
Finally, he leaned back, lips curling in satisfaction. He bent forward, pressing a slow, delicate kiss to the image.
.......
The next morning, Clarissa arrived at the office, only to be greeted by a storm.
"Clarissa!" her boss barked, face twisted with barely contained fury. "How could you make such a mistake?"
He paced the length of his glass-paneled office. The damage had already been done. Millions lost—overnight.
Clarissa stood straight, calm. "I'm sorry. I take full responsibility. I’ll cover the loss."
The boss pressed his fingers to his temple, exhaling. Clarissa was professional, competent, and carried herself with rare grace. Maybe something serious had happened.
"Just… make up for the loss," he muttered. "We’ll move on. How many days off do you need?"
"A half-month vacation."
"A half—" He shot up from his chair, nearly knocking it over. "Two weeks? Clarissa, you disappearing for that long will put the whole schedule on hold."
She nodded. "Wesley can take over. He’s just as capable."
"If you dump all that on him, he’ll want to kill you."
She smiled faintly,. "Maybe. But I really need time off. If it’s too much trouble... I can just resign."
"Absolutely not!" He looked horrified. "If you quit, the Lancasters will think I bullied you into it."
Clarissa left the office and headed toward the staff room.
The moment she stepped inside, her coworkers rushed her like a gust of wind.
"Clarissa! Finally, you’re back!"
"Is everything okay? What happened?"
"I’m fine. And I’m sorry about yesterday. You all had to handle a mess I caused."
"Eat well tonight. I’m footing the bill."
Cheers erupted around the room. As the noise died down, Clarissa pulled Nova aside and pressed a designer handbag into her hands.
"Clarissa... what’s this?"
"You took the heat yesterday. I owe you. Please take it."
Nova opened the bag and blinked. “This is way too expensive—”
Clarissa gently pushed her hands back. "Don’t refuse. Think of it as… a thank you from me."
“Clarissa… thank you.”
Clarissa patted her shoulder with genuine warmth, then turned and left the office.
But just as she disappeared down the hall, a sharp voice sliced through the air like a knife.
"We gets scolded and clean up the mess. And now you forgive her just because of a free meal?”
Nova turned. The voice belonged to Ivy—a newly hired stylist. Most of the men in the office had already fallen over themselves trying to impress her.
Nova narrowed her eyes. “Then don’t come. No one’s forcing you.”
Ivy scoffed. "You can all follow her around like loyal puppies. But I’m not interested in playing lackey."
She snatched her documents and strutted out, heels clicking defiantly.
A beat later, Wesley’s smooth, commanding voice echoed through the room. "Alright, show’s over. Get back to work. And I’ll be setting up a dinner vote later."
Wesley—tall, half-Italian, half-British—had that kind of refined, aristocratic presence that made heads turn without effort. Like Clarissa, he was one of the company's leading stylists.
As soon as he spoke, the room relaxed again.
......
Clarissa stepped out of the building and saw Atticus waiting by the car.
He leaned against the door, one hand lazily dangling from the open window, watching the clouds roll by. He looked devil-may-care—charming and dangerous.
Once, Atticus had been a quiet, brooding boy who rarely smiled. Getting a grin out of him had been as hard as pulling teeth.
Now, he smiled with ease—especially at her.
He had changed. She couldn’t help the strange swell in her chest when she looked at him now.
He was taller. Stronger. Smarter. A man. She felt pride—like she had helped raise him into the storm.
But she hadn’t expected that storm to turn around and want her. Clarissa stood frozen for a moment, staring at him.
Atticus noticed and turned his head, his smile blooming instantly.
He hopped out of the car and jogged toward her. “Clarissa, did you get the time off?”
“Mm...” She didn’t bother correcting him for using her nameagain instead of calling her "sister."
“Great,” he beamed. “we go to the hospital.”
She nodded.
Atticus fell into step beside her, quiet and obedient, like an overgrown dog who only wagged his tail for one person.
Clarissa took Atticus to the most renowned hospital in the city.
She kept glancing at him with concern. “Atticus, it’s alright. I’ll be waiting for you right outside, okay?”
He turned to her, his voice soft but insistent. “Sister, don’t leave.”
Her chest tightened. “I won’t.”
Watching him walk into the psychiatric wing alone, Clarissa sat down in the corridor, her heart anxious and uneasy.
Inside the office, however, the atmosphere was anything but clinical.
Ronan, the psychiatrist, slammed a file shut the moment he saw Atticus walk in alone. “Are you fu*cking kidding me? You dragged me out in the middle of the goddamn night for this?”
“My next appointment is in two years. Do you know how hard it is to get into my schedule?”
He went off for another ten minutes, cursing like a sailor.
Atticus sat down leisurely, poured himself a cup of coffee from the office pot, took a sip, and immediately frowned.
“Your taste is still garbage—coffee included,” he said blandly, setting the mug aside. “And your taste in women? Equally tragic.”
Ronan’s face twitched with suppressed rage. If Atticus didn’t have something on him, he would’ve punched that annoyingly pretty face until it bled.
“Cut the crap,” he snapped. “What do you want?”
Atticus leaned back in the chair, legs crossed, his gaze dark and unreadable. Then, calmly and clearly, he laid out what he needed.
As the request settled in Ronan’s ears, the man burst out laughing.
“Are you serious? Hahaha... Atticus, you sick bastard! Faking mental illness just to get closer to your sister?”
He wiped tears from his eyes, choking on his own laughter. “And you think she’ll fall for this act?”
Atticus remained still, his expression unchanged. But his eyes... his eyes turned ice cold.
“If you laugh one more time,” he said quietly, “you won’t get what I promised you.”
The laughter died instantly."Forge a psychiatric report. This wipes our old debt clean.”
“I’m fine with that,” Atticus said smoothly. “Once I get what I want, we’re even. And I might even toss a few perks your way.”
Ronan narrowed his eyes. “So... you haven’t slept with her yet?”
Atticus’s face froze. Cold.
Ronan whistled, then sighed. “You poor bastard.. Alright, alright—how about this? I’ll hook you up with something discreet. Totally undetectable. Not even the best lab will find traces.”
Atticus looked at him with disdain. “What kind of trash do you think I am? I’m not going to drug her.”
“It’s not that kind of drug,” Ronan said quickly, then leaned in and whispered something.....
Atticus’s brows lifted slightly. “That... might work.”
“I’ve used it myself. Trust me...” Ronan smirked. “I’ll throw in a few tips. Women like Clarissa? You unravel them, slowly... until they fall into your arms willingly.”
Atticus gave him a look. “I don’t need your sleazy playbook.”
“Oh please,” Ronan grinned. “You’re not as experienced as I am. You’ve waited this long for her... don’t tell me you’re not tempted to take a little shortcut.”
Atticus didn’t respond. But something flickered in his eyes.