Chapter180 – Just a little pressure….
Clarissa’s fingers tightened around the box she held, her knuckles pale with pressure.
“Clarissa…”
Atticus’s voice pulled her out of her daze.
“Atticus?”
“What did Lawrence say to you?”
There was a sharp edge in his voice, and his eyes were quick to land on the box in her hands.
“He gave you that?” he asked, his tone darkening.
Clarissa felt a shift in the air. Instinctively, as Atticus reached for the box, she stuffed it into her bag.
“It’s late. Let’s go, or we’ll miss our flight.”
She turned quickly and walked ahead. But behind her, Atticus’s expression had turned stormy. His eyes narrowed, and the look in them could cut glass.
On the plane, Clarissa, worn out from the day, drifted into sleep soon after takeoff.
Atticus watched her from the seat beside her, his gaze fixed. He reached out, his fingers gently curling a strand of her hair and letting it slide through his hand.
She looked peaceful in sleep. Still. Her soft lips were slightly parted, flushed with a natural rose hue. He could’ve stared at her forever.
When he was certain she was deeply asleep, he reached over, unzipped her bag, and quietly pulled out the box she had hidden. He opened it. The contents sparkled under the cabin lights — elaborate, expensive, and gaudy.
He sneered, “Tacky as hell.”
Every part of him wanted to chuck it straight into the garbage, but logic kept his hand still.
Instead, he closed the box and tucked it back into her bag.
Then he leaned back in his seat and turned toward her again. She wore an eye mask now, her face mostly hidden except for the elegant slope of her nose, her smooth jawline, and the faint curve of her lips. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders and down the side of the seat, soft and touchable.
Atticus exhaled, his expression unreadable. But the darkness in his eyes deepened.
"Clarissa,” he murmured to himself, so quietly it didn’t even qualify as a whisper. “Why can’t you just behave? Why do you keep letting those men near you?”
His fingers drifted toward her face again, tracing the line of her jaw before sliding down to her neck.
Her skin was soft — dangerously so. And her neck was slim, delicate. A single hand could wrap around it with ease.
He rested his hand there lightly, as if testing the shape of it, not squeezing, but feeling the power he held. Just a little pressure, and...
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “But if you ever try to leave me…”
Clarissa seemed to feel a little uncomfortable in her sleep, a soft sound escaping her lips.
Atticus paused… and then, a second later, let go.
But Clarissa had already stirred awake.
Her breathing was shallow, slightly hurried. She instinctively pulled off the eye mask and turned her face toward him. “Atticus? You’re awake?”
He turned to look at her, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed, lazy. “I just wanted to look at you.”
His words made her cheeks flush instantly. She turned her head away, flustered. “Idiot… What’s there to look at? You’ve seen me for years.”
Atticus reached out and gently took her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers. “I’ll never get tired of it… Clarissa.”
“…Mm?”
“What did that man give you? What did he say?” His voice was casual, but his tone held something darker. “You seemed a little… distant.”
He felt her hand twitch slightly, a small tremor that didn’t escape him.
A flicker of coldness crossed his eyes, though Clarissa wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her gaze had drifted toward the airplane window, unfocused.
“He said… red looks good on me.”
“Did he, now…” His voice was still smooth, but there was a sharpness beneath it, like the edge of a knife wrapped in silk.
Clarissa nodded absently, her thoughts elsewhere.
It had been seven years. In that time, she had fully merged with the soul of the original Clarissa — the one from this world. The original’s presence no longer surfaced.
She’d been extraordinary: bold, impulsive, passionate. She didn’t hold back. If she wanted something — or someone — she chased it with everything she had. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing.
If that Clarissa could be described with a color, it would be crimson — bright, burning, impossible to ignore.
But she… she wasn’t like that.
She was cautious. Calculated. Always choosing the safest road, the least risky path — in love, in career, in life. Even now, as the eldest daughter of the Lancaster family, she clung to comfort and strategy like a shield.
Still, Lawrence’s words had stirred something. Is this really who I want to be?
“…Atticus, why do you like me?”
Sometimes, she wondered — if she hadn’t adopted him back then, would he still feel the same? Was it love… or just a confused form of gratitude? A warped dependence dressed up as romance?
Atticus blinked, caught off guard. “Why are you asking me that all of a sudden?”
She turned to face him fully now, eyes searching his.
His expression stiffened slightly under her steady gaze. After a pause, he let out a breath and muttered, “Do you really need a reason to love someone?”
“You don’t?”
Atticus sighed, frustrated. “I could tell you, but I doubt you’d believe me.”
“Try me.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in. Clarissa barely had time to react before he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers.
It was a soft kiss, almost chaste — but filled with something deeper.
Then he leaned his forehead against hers and smiled, voice low and affectionate. “Since the first time I saw you.”
Clarissa blinked, stunned. A moment passed before she understood.
She shoved him lightly, cheeks burning. “Bullshit! You were a kid back then!”
He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “See? I told you. You wouldn’t believe me.”
“…”
Clarissa had no comeback. She turned away again, and looked out the window at the sea of white clouds drifting below.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her close.
“…Clarissa,” he murmured.
She didn’t move, just kept her gaze on the window. Her voice was soft, almost like she was talking to herself. “Atticus… do you know the butterfly effect?”
“Of course,” he replied easily. “Why?”
Because her presence here had changed everything.
She’d flapped her wings — unknowingly, at first — and it had set off ripples. Quiet ones, at first. Then louder. Everything was shifting. She was the butterfly.
Atticus took her hand gently. “Clarissa… your hand is freezing.”
He wrapped her small fingers in his larger palm, as if he could transfer all the warmth of his body into her through that simple touch.
Clarissa looked down at their hands, fingers intertwined, and a wave of warmth bloomed in her chest. She instinctively tightened her grip, leaning into the comfort of his presence.
As long as Atticus was by her side, as long as he could be good and stay with her—then everything she’d done was worth it.
She shifted and leaned into his arms. Their fingers remained tightly clasped.
Seeing her so quiet and well-behaved, Atticus couldn’t help but smile faintly in surprise. Without warning, he pulled her gently into his lap, cupped her face, and kissed her.
Clarissa froze for only a moment before melting into him.
When the kiss ended, she lay nestled against his chest, breath shallow, lips parted, her warm exhalations soft against his skin—sweet and intoxicating.
Atticus’s chest rose slightly as he exhaled a sigh, his arms tightening around her.
“…What is it?” Clarissa asked, puzzled by his sudden sigh.
He rubbed her hand absentmindedly, voice low and filled with mock complaint. “There’s still half a year left. It’s torture.”
Clarissa blinked, and after a second, she realized what he meant. Her cheeks flushed hot.
And then, as if he hadn’t already embarrassed her enough, he added casually, “Next time, stay the hell away from Lawrence. Every time you’re around him, something bad happens.”
Clarissa frowned slightly. “It’s not his fault.”