Chapter124 – As you wish
She didn’t know what to do with these feelings. But Clarissa couldn't accept him immediately.
Atticus felt her hesitation and softened his tone further, lowering his head to her ear. His voice was deep, low, and gentle—velvet-draped steel.
“I never wanted my love to be a burden to you. If it makes you unhappy, then I won’t touch you… not until you want me to. "
"But can you try—just once—to see me not as a boy, not as your little shadow… but as a man? And let your heart open to me… even if it’s only a crack.”
He could wait. For her, he’d wait a lifetime.
But rejection? That was something he’d never accept. She was his.
From where Clarissa couldn’t see, a flicker of darkness passed through Atticus’s eyes—brief, smoldering—and was gone just as quickly, buried beneath that warm, patient smile.
His voice was deeper now, smoother—dangerously magnetic. Each word was like silk against skin, brushing her soul, wrapping around her heartbeat.
Clarissa could feel him—his warmth, his scent, his breath on her neck.
Her heart thudded uncontrollably.
“Atticus…” she breathed.
“Hm?” he murmured, the sound brushing her skin.
Clarissa reached out and pushed against his chest, breaking the embrace—barely. Her fingertips lingered on the firm muscle beneath his shirt. She immediately pulled her hand back as if it had burned her.
Atticus glanced down at her hand, then met her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I…” she hesitated, swallowing hard. “I’m confused. I don’t know how to feel.”
She took a shaky breath, forcing the words out.
“For now… let’s just leave things like this. I can’t throw myself into this overnight. I’m not ready.”
Atticus smiled, then slowly reached for her hand, brought it to his lips, and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.
His lips were warm. Soft. Reverent.
“As you wish.”
Clarissa looked down at his impossibly handsome face, so close, so devastatingly perfect it made her breath hitch. She jerked her hand away, her skin tingling from the touch, her cheeks flushed.
......
Meanwhile, in the hospital ward, Lyra sat frozen in place, her face pale, her body trembling.
She stared at Dorian with wide, glassy eyes and gritted her teeth. “Dorian, what the hell is going on?”
Dorian tensed. That look in her eyes cut straight through him. He dragged in a breath, voice tight. “It’s a misunderstanding. Don’t overthink it.”
“A misunderstanding?” Lyra’s voice rose, brittle. “Then why did that man say what he said? Why would he accuse you of harassing someone else’s woman if it wasn’t true?”
Dorian’s expression darkened. “He said Clarissa was his woman?”
Clarissa? With that kid?
“Lyra, just let today go. Don’t tell Grandpa, don’t tell my mother. It’s not worth the fuss.”
Lyra’s eyes stung. His words slammed into her like ice water. She clenched her fists, blinking furiously. “So you’re worried they’ll be upset? Or just try to protect Clarissa?”
“That’s not what I meant. I got hit. Should I broadcast it to the world and lose even more face?”
Lyra's voice broke. “And I got slapped by Clarissa! In front of everyone! What about my face, Dorian? Do you regret marrying me?!”
“You hit someone while they were apologizing in my hospital ward! Couldn’t you just act like my wife for once? You do nothing but cry. Can’t you just—just once—do something that makes me feel proud of you?”
His words hit like a slap.
Lyra’s face went completely still.
She stared at him, stunned, eyes wide, lips parting in disbelief. And then the tears came—hot and silent, spilling down her cheeks.
Her hands were shaking. She bit her lip so hard it turned white.
Dorian’s anger cooled just slightly as he saw her crumble. He opened his mouth to say something—but she cut him off.
“You regret it. You hate me because I’m not Clarissa. You think she’s prettier, smarter, better than me. You want her as your wife, don’t you?”
“Stop it. It’s not like that—don’t twist it.”
“Dorian, you bastard,” she cried. “I don’t want to see you again!”
She turned on her heel and ran out of the ward, ignoring his shouts behind her.
“Lyra! Lyra! Fuck!”
Dorian cursed under his breath, then barked at the bodyguard outside. “What are you standing around for? Bring her back!”
There were reporters outside. If they caught photos of Lyra in tears, it would be a public relations disaster.
He couldn’t afford another scandal.
Dorian took a deep breath, tamping down his irritation, then shouted toward the hallway, “Someone, get in here!”
Moments later, his personal assistant entered.
“Yes, Mr. Dorian. What do you need?”
Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “The boy next to Clarissa. I want his entire background—everything. Get me his details.”
“Right away.”
......
Later that night, Atticus sat at his desk, opening his laptop with a click.
Then, the camera beside him blinked to life, projecting a sharp blue light. One by one, heads appeared on the screen—each face lit except for his, which was silhouetted in black, marked by a stark white X.
A: “X! You’re finally back. You’ve been MIA for three months!”
S: “Typical of him.”
H: “You calling us out means something big’s happening.”
A slow smirk curled on Atticus’ lips. He slid on his voice modulator and said, “I’ve had a recent run-in with the Harrington family. Dorian’s sniffing around—I’m sure he’s already digging into me. Don’t screw this up.”
T: “Wait, the Harrington family?”
A: “You’ve got guts messing with them.”
H: “Pfft. The Harringtons? Overhyped.”
S: “You wouldn’t say this for no reason, X. You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
Atticus’ smirk deepened, dark and slow. “The Harringtons are fat sheep—ripe for the taking. Tell me… do you think the eight families are due for a reshuffle?”
The chat fell silent. Of course. It was X. And his appetite was always insatiable.
As the meeting ended, Atticus unplugged the interface, slipped the camera into his drawer, and closed the laptop. Just like that, it was an ordinary computer again.
He stood, crossed to the closet, and pulled out fresh clothes before heading to the bathroom.
Meanwhile, cold water cascaded over Clarissa’s head, sliding through her long hair in glistening streams.
Yet despite the icy temperature, her cheeks still burned.
Her thoughts kept circling back to one moment—Atticus leaning close in the living room earlier, his lips brushing her hand, that teasing, wicked smile that felt too gentle.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm the wild rhythm of her heart.
After a long, ten-minute rinse, she reached for the bath towel, wrapping it around her chest. Her dripping hair clung to her skin, sending tiny shivers down her back.
She reached for the hair dryer—only to find it missing.
Did I leave it on the bedside table? she wondered. Still wrapped in the towel, she stepped out of the bathroom to search.
But after looking around for several minutes, it was nowhere to be found.
Just then, the door creaked open.
“Sis, your hair dryer’s here,” came a familiar voice. “Mine’s busted, so I borrowed yours.”
Clarissa looked up—and Atticus stood in the doorway, dryer in hand.
Panic bloomed in her chest as she remembered what she was (or wasn’t) wearing.
“Just… put it on the dressing table,” she said, voice tight.
Atticus paused, then his lips curled into that same sly, unreadable smile. “I’m not allowed in your room without permission, remember? You’ll have to come get it.”
Clarissa clenched her jaw. “Atticus, stop fooling around.”
“I’m not fooling around. What are you so nervous about? I’m not going to bite… unless…” He leaned against the doorframe. “You want something to happen between us?”
“No!” she snapped, cutting him off.