Chapter120 – The stamina…
Her eyes gleamed with disdain. In her mind, Clarissa was just a third-rate stylist with no real background. No way could a woman like her afford a designer dress like that.
The signature in the corner of the sketch read Albert. Rhea had been coveting that gown for weeks.
Her agent, Tessa, chimed in. "Could it be selling her body?"
Clarissa’s eyes narrowed slightly. Nova stepped forward. “Watch what you said....”
But Clarissa gently raised a hand, stopping her. “Nova.”
“But Clarissa—!”
“It’s fine. Go get it.”
Nova froze. “But that dress—”
“I’m not going to wear it anyway,” Clarissa said, voice cool and detached. “Let her.”
She turned and approached Rhea, her presence calm, confident, but with something sharp coiled beneath it.
“Ms. Rhea,” she said with the faintest tilt of her lips, “just to confirm—you want to change your look?”
“Obviously.”
“Fine. But just a reminder—not every woman can carry that dress. If something goes wrong, I’m not responsible.”
Rhea rolled her eyes. “Oh. I must be spectacular in it.”
Clarissa smiled, a slow, unreadable curve of her mouth, and said nothing more. She turned away and began prepping Rhea’s makeup.
Nova, reluctant, carried the dress over and whispered near Clarissa, “I should’ve sent it straight to your place…”
“Just a dress,” Clarissa murmured without looking up.
Still, Nova felt a pang as she watched Rhea slip into the gown.
The fit was close, but not perfect. Rhea had the bust, but her waist lacked Clarissa’s delicate taper.
When the styling was done and Rhea turned to the mirror, she lit up. Her painted lips curled into a triumphant smile.
Tessa clapped delightedly. “Absolutely stunning! This is custom-level gorgeous...”
Rhea smirked, full of herself, and strutted toward the door. As she passed Clarissa, she tossed a contemptuous glance over her shoulder.
“Next time, be smart..”
When the door closed behind her, the room fell silent.
“Clarissa, you’re the eldest daughter of the Lancaster family. Why don’t say that? Let them choke on their words.”
“It’s fine,” Clarissa said quietly, eyes fixed on the empty mirror. “She’s actually done me a favor.”
Nova blinked. “A favor?”
“I’ve been wondering how to deal with that dress. Now I don’t have to.”
“But why do you hate it so much? You’d look a thousand times better in it than she ever could.”
She murmured, “That dress was sent by the Harrington family. Do you think I should wear it?”
“The Harringtons?” She was puzzled. “Shouldn’t you be happy to get a dress from them?”
Clarissa’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Mrs. Kira had always resented her daughter-in-law, Lyra, and adored Clarissa. She often invited her to social events, leaving Lyra in the shadows. Mr. Drake, Dorian’s grandpa, also had a strange fondness for Clarissa.
Clarissa avoided them whenever she could. But the worst part? Dorian. Last month, he'd sent her an invitation to attend his class reunion—as his date. Not his wife, Lyra. Her.
He must be crazy.
He’d said the dress had already been custom ordered. That it was his mother’s choice. As always, he was commanding, arrogant, intolerant of rejection.
So to Clarissa, that dress felt like a collar. She would never wear it, not even if it killed her.
Let Rhea have it.
.....
Clarissa had just stepped out of the office when her phone buzzed. It was a message from Daphne.
“There’s a party tonight. You coming?”
“No…” Clarissa was bone-tired.
“Oh, come on! We haven’t seen each other in ages. I just got back—don’t even know when we’ll meet again.”
Clarissa hesitated. Then: “Send me the address.”
Once she got it, she texted Atticus.
Not coming home for dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.
She didn’t wait for a reply. Slipping into her car, she drove toward the address Daphne had sent.
......
Daphne had a new boyfriend. Younger—by four years. Barely twenty. Still in college. Word was, she'd worked hard to land him.
Tonight, Daphne was dressed to kill—crimson lips, big glamorous curls, a skin-tight black mini dress that hugged every curve. She looked like sin on heels.
Next to her stood a clean-cut boy in a blue-and-white shirt, his features soft, his eyes bright. He looked sweet, fresh, and completely out of place amid the thumping bass and half-drunk fashionistas.
Clarissa took one look at him and, for some reason, Atticus’s face flashed in her mind. Something inside her shifted—tightened.
Daphne shoved a glass of wine into her hand. “Showing up this late? Owe me three drinks!”
Clarissa groaned. “Spare me. I just got off work.”
“One glass at least,” Daphne grinned, already tipsy.
Clarissa took a sip, the alcohol sliding smooth and sharp down her throat.
Daphne grabbed Maddox’s arm and dragged him over. “Clarissa, meet my new man—Maddox.”
“Hi,” he said warmly. “I’m Maddox.”
“Clarissa,” she replied, matching his polite tone.
Daphne had clearly had a few too many. She threw her arm around Clarissa’s shoulders, swaying slightly. “Still single, babe?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re gorgeous and just… wasting it,” Daphne slurred affectionately.
Clarissa gave her a look. “Please don’t drag me into your chaos.”
Daphne giggled. “I know your type. But I’m serious this time!”
“When have you not said that?” Clarissa shot back, merciless.
“And why is this one so young?” she added, arching a brow. “Did he even graduate yet?”
Daphne gave a shameless grin. “He’s twenty. Barely legal—but still legal. Honestly? I’d try younger if the law let me.”
Clarissa groaned. “You’re impossible.”
Daphne leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m telling you—young guys? They’re sweet, obedient, and oh my god—the stamina…”
“They treat you like a goddess in bed. Worship you. It’s unreal. Speaking of—which reminds me—have you ever had sex?”
Clarissa choked and reached for the nearest fruit tray, popping a grape in her mouth to avoid answering.
Daphne cackled. “Don’t tell me—you’re still a virgin!”
Clarissa nearly spat the grape out. She seriously considered knocking Daphne unconscious and tossing her out a window.
......
Clarissa had something on her mind, and drank more than usual. And drinking.
Her cheeks turned a delicate pink. Her lashes lowered. The room blurred around the edges.
Daphne noticed a few men lingering nearby, eyes roving where they shouldn’t. “Hey! Get the fuck out of here!” she snapped, shoving herself between Clarissa and the leering group.
Maddox handed her a glass of water. She drank half, then glanced back at Clarissa with a frown.
“I’m sending Maddox to take you home.”
“No need,” Clarissa murmured, her voice a little slurred. “I’ll be fine. You two go ahead.”
Daphne still looked unsure. “Okay… then I’ll have someone from the staff keep an eye on you.”
“Fine.”
Daphne pulled a waiter aside, murmured instructions, then headed out with Maddox.
Clarissa leaned against the bar, fingers fumbling for her phone. She pressed a button and raised it to her ear.
“Atticus…” she said, voice warm and lazy with drink. “Come pick me up. I’m at… wait. I’ll send the location. Take a cab. My car’s still in the parking garage—you’ll need to drive it back.”
There was a pause. She didn’t give him time to respond before she hung up. She closed her eyes for a moment, her fingers curling softly around the edge of the bar.
The night had taken a turn.
The alcohol was starting to hit her. Clarissa’s head felt light, her steps a little wobbly. She needed fresh air—something cool to bring her back down to earth. Clutching her bag, she made her way outside.
"Clarissa! So it is you." A voice stopped her dead in her tracks.
Familiar. But laced with cold anger. A tall figure blocked her path. Dorian.
This woman had rejected his invitation, given away the exclusive designer dress he sent her—to a third-rate celebrity, no less—and now she was here, drinking herself into a stupor?