Chapter154 – Are you insane?
Back in Clarissa’s room, a sense of quiet emptiness lingered. Still unsettled and restless, she decided to take a bath, hoping to calm her swirling thoughts.
The warm water soothed her nerves, but as soon as she changed into her pajamas, there was a knock at the door.
“Sis, it’s me.”
Clarissa’s breath caught. “Atticus?”
Her heart skipped. She rushed to open the door.
And there he was—standing with a tray in his hands, the rich, mouthwatering scent of hot beef noodles drifting toward her.
Her eyes widened. “Atticus, you…”
He gave her a lazy smile, his tone casual but warm. “You didn’t eat much at dinner. I made these for you—something simple before bed.”
Inside, Clarissa sat cross-legged on the bed while Atticus placed the smaller bowl in front of her. The fragrance of the noodles made her stomach growl again.
Still, she didn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, she looked up at him, brows gently furrowed. “How did you even manage this?”
“I borrowed the kitchen from David,” Atticus replied easily. “Whipped something up. Do you like the smell?”
Clarissa blinked at him, both touched and slightly concerned. “That’s so rude... What if they take it the wrong way?”
Atticus reached over and took her hand gently in his. His voice dropped, low and reassuring. “But my Clarissa went to bed hungry. I can’t let that happen.”
Her heart clenched.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and smiled softly. “Then let’s eat.”
Clarissa took a bite—and was instantly hooked.
The noodles were soft, perfectly chewy, soaked in a fragrant, spicy broth. She devoured half the bowl before she even realized how fast she was eating. Her whole body felt warmer, comforted, finally grounded.
She tilted her head, gaze falling on Atticus across from her. She couldn't help remembering the first time they met—he had been shorter than her, still a boy, with cold eyes full of pride.
But now… he had grown. And how beautifully he had grown.
He deserved someone radiant, someone who matched him in youth and energy, not a woman like her—simple, bored.
Maybe it was time to draw a line and end this dangerous ambiguity. But how could she say the words?
She was still caught in the struggle when Atticus looked up and met her gaze. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the whole room went still.
He smiled, slow and soft. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Clarissa’s chest tightened. She dropped her gaze and turned her head quickly. “Nothing. I’m full.”
Without a word, Atticus reached out and finished the rest of her noodles, then polished off his own bowl.
Clarissa watched him in silence, her face heating.
Clarissa couldn’t sit still any longer. “I’m going to wash up. Go back to sleep after you finish eating,” she muttered quickly, avoiding his gaze.
Before Atticus could even answer, she turned and practically fled into the bathroom.
By the time she stepped back out—hair damp, skin flushed from the hot water—Atticus was gone. The bowls were cleared, the tray removed, everything spotless like he’d never been there.
She stared at the closed door for a moment, then sighed quietly, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.
Clarissa crawled into bed, tugged the quilt up to her chest, and closed her eyes.
But sleep refused to come.
Every time her eyes shut, his face flashed behind her lids—his steady gaze, the quiet smile, the way he had brought her noodles in the dead of night.
And then, like a thorn under the skin, the image shifted—Atticus and Yuriko Nomiya walking side by side, her tiny figure beside him, shy and sweet, the kind of girl who would match him better in every way.
"Clarissa, Clarissa," she murmured to herself bitterly, "you know it’s impossible between you two."
But even knowing that—the fleeting touches, the quiet glances, the lingering warmth of his hands brushing against hers.
Her cheeks grew hot as the reel of moments played again in her head.
Just then, her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She picked it up and saw a message from Dorian.
> "Clarissa, I have something to tell you."
Her frown deepened.
> "It’s not convenient," she replied coldly.
On the other end, Dorian stared at the message with darkened eyes. He glanced toward Lyra, sleeping soundly beside him. Without a word, he grabbed his shirt and slipped out of bed.
Clarissa’s phone buzzed again.
> "I’m outside your room. Can I come in?"
Her fingers flew across the screen.
> "No! Are you insane? Go back!"
She stared at the message and felt her heart pounding.
What the hell was he doing?
Shouldn't he be wrapped around Lyra right now—his loving wife?
Dorian read her sharp rejection, and his jaw tightened. His thoughts spiraled darkly. Was she pushing him away because of Atticus? Had she really gone that far with that arrogant bastard?
Then another message arrived—and with it, a picture.
Clarissa's stomach dropped. She tapped the image open, and the blood drained from her face.
It was a photo—grainy, but unmistakable. Her body pinned beneath Atticus, lips locked in a desperate, breathless kiss inside a car. The night Dorian had been injured.
Her breath caught, rage and embarrassment crashing together inside her chest.
The phone rang, she picked it up and answered.
“Clarissa,” Dorian said smoothly. “Or should I say good evening?”
“You fucking bastard,” she spat, trembling with fury. “What do you want?”
“Are you sure you want to have this conversation on the phone?” he asked, mockingly calm.
“I’m not meeting you,” she hissed. “You’re a married man, Dorian. Get a grip on your damn reality. I’m not doing this with you.”
She deliberately emphasized married.
Dorian’s voice turned cold. “Don’t worry about Lyra and me. That’s not your business. What I am wondering, though… is whether you're pushing me away because you're sleeping with that little prick. Is that it, Clarissa?”
“What the hell are you even saying?” she snapped, her voice rising.
“Then come out here and tell me to my face,” he challenged. “Or maybe you’d prefer your parents get these pictures."
"Or Phoenix—how do you think she’ll take it? That tomboy would probably hunt him down and rip his head off..”
“Enough!” Clarissa shouted. “Shut the fuck up, Dorian!”
She shot out of bed, heart pounding, rage burning behind her eyes.
She grabbed a coat, flung it around her shoulders, and stormed to the door.
Outside the door, Dorian stood tall in a black button-down and matching suit pants, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the lean muscle of his forearms. The moonlight slanted across his face, highlighting the tension carved into his jawline.
His eyes swept over Clarissa—her skin glowing, her collarbone bare, no visible marks on her neck. She looked vibrant, untouched. And that made him breathe easier.
“The hallway isn’t soundproof,” he said lowly. “Let’s talk on the balcony.”
He turned without waiting for a response.
Clarissa hesitated, biting back the anger bubbling in her chest, but followed anyway.
They stepped out onto the far end of the castle’s balcony. Blue roses bloomed along the stone rail, their petals glowing under the pale wash of moonlight. It should’ve been romantic. Beautiful, even.
But all Clarissa felt was resentment—and the overwhelming urge to get this over with.
She didn’t waste time. “Name your price. What do you want to delete the pictures?”
Dorian’s eyes narrowed, catching the sharp glint in hers. “You really care that much about Atticus?”
“Who I care about is none of your business.”
He took a step closer, his voice dark. “Clarissa, blame me, curse me, demand whatever you want. I’ll pay the price. But don’t destroy your life over him. He’s not—he’s not who you think.”