Chapter182 – Just promise me
"Atticus?" she said, startled.
“Mmhmm…”
His low voice was rough—almost strained—with something she couldn’t name.
She tried to turn and look at him, concerned, but before she could speak, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her.
This wasn’t like before.
There was no softness in it. This was heat and tension and hunger, like he was trying to consume her.
“Nn—” she whimpered against his mouth, her body trembling.
Clarissa reached out, instinctively trying to push him away, but his hand caught hers, twisting her wrist gently behind her back, pinning her in place.
She froze.
Only when she was on the verge of losing breath did Atticus finally let her go.
She inhaled sharply, but the next thing she knew, he had swept her into his arms and laid her back onto the piano.
A low, dissonant chord echoed from the keys under their weight.
Clarissa’s heart skipped.
Then his body leaned over hers.
"Atticus, wait—!" Her voice shook.
She pushed at his chest, but he didn’t move. He kissed her again, rougher this time, his breath unsteady, his lips feverish.
And then she felt his hand trail down, lifting the hem of her skirt.
Clarissa whimpered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “It hurts…”
Her soft cry finally snapped Atticus out of it.
He looked down and saw her tear-streaked face twisted in pain. Her lips, once rosy and full, were now bruised and bloodied from his kiss. His heart clenched violently in his chest. Panic. Guilt.
In the next instant, he pulled her into his arms, hastily smoothing down her clothes.
“I’m sorry…” he murmured hoarsely.
Clarissa looked up at him, confused. “What happened to you?”
“I…” Atticus faltered. He’d always prided himself on his control—his ability to suppress his emotions, to lie without blinking, to keep his heartbeat calm no matter the circumstance. But just now, because of her, he lost it.
He held her tightly and said nothing.
Clarissa’s own anger, sparked by his uncharacteristically rough behavior, began to melt away. Looking at him now—this beautiful, broken man who was shaken and remorseful—how could she stay mad? Her heart softened immediately.
After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and gently ran her fingers through his hair, then wrapped her arms around his neck.
“What happened?” she asked softly. “Can you tell me?”
Her voice—gentle, warm, unguarded—tightened something in his chest. He was used to Clarissa offering him stability, not sympathy. But this... this made him feel guilt. Real, wrenching guilt. A feeling he had never truly understood until now.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the emotions swirling in his chest, and tightened his grip on her.
“Clarissa… no matter what happens, don’t leave me. Please.”
Clarissa blinked. “Did Phoenix say something to you? Are you afraid I’ll make you move out again?”
Atticus looked away, lips tight. After a long pause, he gave the smallest nod. “Promise me. No matter what happens… don’t leave me.”
Clarissa chuckled softly. “What’s gotten into you? You’re never this sentimental.”
“Just promise me.”
She looked at him for a long second. It was the first time she truly realized—Atticus had his own insecurities when it came to love.
Without another word, she took his hand and interlaced their fingers—deliberately, gently, like a vow. “You silly man. Where else would I go, if not by your side?”
A slow breath of relief escaped him. He rested his forehead against hers.
Clarissa smiled up at him. “What were you so worked up about, anyway?”
“You were playing something earlier,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “What was it?”
“Oh,” Clarissa shifted slightly. “It’s not finished yet.”
She reached for the sheet music and handed it to him. Scribbles, crossed-out notes, little circles drawn in pencil—it was clearly still in the rough stage.
“Does it sound okay?” she asked.
“It’s beautiful,” he said without hesitation. “The best I’ve ever heard.”
Clarissa laughed. “Now you’re just flattering me.”
“I’m serious. You’re far better than you think you are.”
Atticus looked at her with a complex expression. He thought back to something Lawrence once said—that red suited her. That she was hiding herself too much.
And he was right. Clarissa had been dressing plainly, speaking softly, working behind the scenes. As if she was deliberately dimming her own light.
He couldn’t help but say, “Clarissa, why do you always hide behind the scenes? You’re incredibly talented. You should let people see that.”
Her fingers froze over the keys. “Why are you suddenly saying this?”
“Just curious. Madam Ophelia told me… you weren’t always like this.”
Clarissa lowered her gaze, staring at the music. “I’ve grown up.”
Atticus leaned in. “Clarissa… is that what you really believe?”
“What else would it be?” She looked up again, meeting his eyes.
Atticus held her gaze, unblinking. Clarissa’s breath caught. She looked away first.
“Atticus, there are some things I can’t explain. I have my reasons for doing things this way. It’s better for everyone.”
“Everyone?” he echoed. “You mean Dorian and Lyra, too?”
She hesitated, then frowned. “You’re always at odds with Dorian. That’s not good for you.”
Atticus looked at Clarissa, his gaze lingering.
He still didn’t quite understand what she was afraid of.
Was it Dorian and Lyra? It didn’t seem like it.
But he knew if he pressed further, she’d just shut down or brush him off. So instead of asking more, he simply pulled her into his arms from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“He’s the one who always starts things with me. Let’s not talk about him anymore. It ruins the mood.”
Clarissa agreed with a small nod.
“But it’s a shame,” Atticus added, lowering his voice to a soft whisper against her ear. “This music you wrote—so beautiful—and no audience to hear it.”
Then he smiled, sly and slow.
“But maybe that’s a good thing. I’ll be your first audience… and your last. From now on, you only sing for me. Deal?”
His voice had completely lost the youthful edge it once held. It was deeper now, smooth and magnetic. Clarissa’s heart skipped a beat. Her cheeks flushed instantly, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze.
Still, she nodded shyly. “Mm-hmm…”
A spark flickered in Atticus’s eyes, his heart melting at her soft response. He gently tightened his arms around her, their fingers lacing together.
They held each other in quiet affection.
......
Meanwhile, at the Whitmore estate…
As soon as Lawrence stepped through the door, the butler approached to take his coat.
He glanced around and asked, “How’s my father?”
“Not great, sir. Madam’s with him now.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Lawrence’s face. He nodded. “I’ll see him after I wash up.”
Later, Lawrence made his way into his father’s room.
Malachi Whitmore, fifty years old but looking decades older, lay frail on the bed. His hair was almost entirely gray, and tubes crisscrossed his body. He looked closer to seventy than fifty.
Veronica sat at the bedside, gently feeding him medicine.
When Malachi noticed Lawrence enter, he waved a weak hand. “Go on, Veronica. I want to speak to him alone.”
Veronica’s eyes darkened for a split second, but she stood up and left the room without a word.
Lawrence moved to the bedside. “You wanted to talk?”
Malachi looked out the window, then back at him with tired eyes. “My time is almost up…”
Lawrence’s expression shifted. “No, don’t say that. We’ll find Callum, and once we do—”
“Callum?” Malachi chuckled bitterly. “He won’t forgive me. And honestly, I don’t blame him. You don’t need to concern yourself with that anymore.”
“Then at least tell me who Callum really is.”
Malachi didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured weakly toward the bedside table. “There’s something I want you to see.”
Lawrence opened the drawer and pulled out a letter, a file, and a small velvet box.