Chapter137 – Leave it to me
Clarissa, growing more and more graceful by the years, had become an accomplished woman—successful in design, skilled in painting and music. As for work, Clarissa could do it if she wanted to, and changed it if she didn't want to.
He smiled, boyishly pleased. “Clarissa, it’s scorching outside. If you’re trying to cover that with makeup, you’ll have to touch it up every hour.”
Clarissa’s glare could’ve burned a hole through the wall. "If it weren't for you, would I have to do this?"
Atticus held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, yes, I’m guilty as charged. But you don’t have to worry. The neighbors all moved out last month—no one’s going to see.”
“It’s not the same,” Clarissa muttered, crossing her arms. “Mom and Dad Lancaster are coming the day after tomorrow. What if they see?”
Especially Ophelia. She’d been on Clarissa’s case for months, always asking when she’d find a proper boyfriend. Clarissa flushed just thinking about the interrogation she’d face if her mother saw the hickeys.
Anger surged again, and she shoved Atticus hard in the chest. “Just out! Stop bothering me!”
She turned back to the mirror, grabbing the puff and piling on another layer of foundation. But then—
A laugh. Low at first, then louder.
Clarissa froze. She turned slowly and saw Atticus, doubled over, laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. “Are you laughing at me?!”
“Hahaha—God, Clarissa, you’re too funny! I can’t—” He wiped the corners of his eyes and grinned at her. “You’re killing me.”
Clarissa stared at him, speechless.
Before she could retort, Atticus leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
His voice dropped low, tender. “As much as I want the whole world to know you’re mine… I’ll respect your decision.”
He looked her in the eye. “Don’t worry, I have a better solution than this.”
With that, he walked to her closet.
Clarissa gave him a confused look as he rifled through her clothes. He pulled out a white spaghetti-strap dress—the hem was light, airy chiffon, embroidered with pale flowers that fluttered slightly. She’d only worn it once.
He handed it to her gently. “Change first and eat. After that, I’ll take care of your neck.”
Clarissa hesitated. “I’m changing. You—go out.”
He winked. “Okay, okay. I’ll wait.”
By the time Atticus finished setting out breakfast, the soft click of the door caught his attention.
He looked up—and froze.
Clarissa stepped out in the white dress, her hair slightly damp, skin still flushed from her shower. The dress clung delicately to her curves, hiding the marks on her chest—but doing nothing to conceal the ones scattered along her collarbone and up her neck.
Atticus’s gaze darkened. It took everything in him not to pull her back into the room and finish what they’d started.
God, she looked good like this. And honestly? Letting her walk around the world marked up like that didn’t sound so bad.
Clarissa could feel Atticus’s gaze on her—hot, lingering, impossible to ignore.
She shot him a fierce glare. “Stop looking at me! Next time you do this, I… I’ll…”
“What?” Atticus laughed openly, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ll what?”
Clarissa’s anger surged, but she didn’t know what she could threaten him with. Before she could explode, Atticus calmly placed a steaming bowl in front of her.
“Eat up. It’s getting late.”
Left with no comeback, Clarissa could only grit her teeth and lower her head to sip the porridge in silence.
Atticus leaned in casually and reached across her. “Don’t just drink porridge. Try a soup dumpling.”
She didn’t respond, but didn’t refuse either—she picked one up and ate quietly.
Atticus watched her with a faint smile, his voice softening. “Eat more. It’s going to be a long day.”
Clarissa only ate two dumplings and finished her porridge. She remained seated afterward, dazed, quietly watching him eat.
He still looked good while eating—graceful, elegant, effortlessly poised. Over the years, his natural nobility had only deepened, settling around him.
She found herself wondering: Who were Atticus’s real parents?
To raise a man like him—they couldn’t have been ordinary people. And if they ever came looking for him… came to her house one day… what would she do?
Atticus turned to her—and their eyes locked instantly. Clarissa’s heart skipped and quickly looked down.
He chuckled low in his throat. “Heh… Were you checking me out just now, sis?”
His teasing tone made her flush. She turned her head away. “No. I wasn’t!”
Atticus’s smile deepened, wicked and fond. He stood, wiped his hands, and grabbed hers. “Come on. Let’s go back to the room.”
Clarissa blinked. “Why? What for?”
But he was already tugging her along. The door slammed shut behind them, and in an instant she was pressed between the door and his chest, his body boxing her in.
“A man and a woman go back to a room… What do you think we’re doing, sis?”
Her face went pale. She pushed against him. “Stop it. It’s not the time! I’m seriously mad at you.”
Atticus backed off, though his expression was full of innocent grievance. “You’re so cruel today…”
Before she could react, he grabbed her hand again and guided her to the vanity table, gently pushing her down into the seat.
“Atticus, seriously. There’s no time. Mom and Dad will be here in less than an hour.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stood behind her, letting his fingers drift through a strand of her soft hair. He brought it to his lips and kissed it with reverence.
“Clarissa… Leave it to me. I’ll make sure my Clarissa looks radiant.”
In the mirror, she saw his lips brush her hair, the warm light washing over the sharp angles of his face. His deep-set eyes, that perfect bone structure… Her heart started pounding again.
Then Atticus turned to the closet and rummaged for a moment before pulling out a pale silk scarf, soft as cream. A single camellia brooch rested atop it—delicate and vintage.
He set it aside, then retrieved a paint box from where he’d stashed it earlier.
Kneeling before her, he opened it and dipped a fine brush in color. With steady hands, he began painting over the marks on her collarbone. Slowly, a blossom began to take shape—crabapple petals, light and natural, seamlessly hiding what her foundation could not.
“This paint’ll take a bit of effort to remove,” he said softly, eyes focused on his work. “But it’s safe on your skin.”
Clarissa nodded. “It’s fine. Do the neck too.”
But Atticus looked up and smiled. “No need.”
He picked up the silk scarf and wrapped it gently around her throat, the camellia brooch catching the light as he pinned it in place.
In the mirror, the transformation was striking. The scarf framed her collar gracefully, evoking a retro, understated elegance. The flower on her throat wasn’t just a distraction—it was the centerpiece.
Clarissa stared at her reflection, momentarily speechless.
“Just as beautiful as I imagined.” Atticus wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder as he gently nuzzled her hair.
When Clarissa tried to shift, he pressed her back down with a little more pressure, his voice soft but firm. “Don’t move yet. Let me dress you up today, sis.”
“Dress me up?” She raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “You sure you know how?”
Atticus leaned in until his cheek was pressed against hers, their skin barely touching. “Didn’t I tell you I’d take care of you? If I can’t even handle this much, I wouldn’t be Atticus.”