Chapter189 – I want to marry you
Atticus had come to realize something undeniable—whenever Clarissa was near, his heart settled. A kind of quiet he couldn’t find with anyone else.
He didn’t speak. He simply wrapped his arms around her from behind and held her close, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Clarissa..."
"Hmm?"
"...Nothing." A pause. Then, casually, “Are you working today?”
His words snapped her out of the moment like cold water. “Oh! I almost forgot!”
She jolted upright, practically sprinting back into the bedroom to change.
When she reappeared, Atticus froze.
She was dressed in a fitted professional suit, her long hair still down, trailing over her shoulders in soft waves. The tailored blazer hugged her waist, and the pencil skirt clung to every curve, stopping just above her knees. Her sheer black stockings revealed nothing but hinted at everything, and the click of her heels across the floor sent a pulse straight to his throat.
Atticus’s Adam's apple bobbed as he stared. His pupils darkened, his eyes tinged with the faintest edge of red.
She had no idea.
Clarissa was fastening her earrings, multitasking as she gathered her handbag and documents. “Remember to lock up and make sure someone comes by to clean, okay?”
"I’m not a kid," he said gruffly.
She slipped on her shoes and headed out the door, not noticing the way his gaze clung to her retreating figure like a slow-burning fire.
......
As time passed, Clarissa’s workload increased.
These days, she was out of the house before seven and rarely back before nine. Each night, she was greeted by Atticus’s sulking stare—those eyes of his sharp, wounded, needy.
She could only chuckle, brushing his face like she was comforting an abandoned puppy. “I’ll spend time with you soon, I promise.”
......
That morning, Clarissa was up at six ironing Atticus’s shirt and pants. She stood by the table folding the rest of his clothes, her movements fluid, gentle.
Atticus stepped out of the bedroom, and saw her.
There she was—calm, precise, quietly beautiful. Taking care of him without a word.
She looked like a wife.
His chest tightened.
He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Clarissa…”
She stopped folding and turned to him. “You’re up. You’re supposed to go to Phoenix’s today. I ironed your clothes—go change, breakfast is almost ready.”
But Atticus didn’t reach for the clothes.
He took her hand instead and brought it to his lips.
“You’re too good to me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her skin like a prayer. “I want to marry you. Right now.”
Clarissa blinked, her heart stammering as she stared at his face so close to hers.
Then she pulled her hand away, blushing. “Stop talking nonsense. You’re not even of legal age yet. Go get dressed and come eat.”
She turned on her heel and all but fled toward the kitchen.
When she returned with breakfast, what she saw nearly made her drop the milk.
Atticus was standing by the couch, mid-change. His shirt was off, and he was just starting to tug down his pants.
“Why are you changing out here?!” she squeaked, eyes wide.
Atticus turned slightly, just enough for her to see the hard, defined lines of his torso and abs. His muscles flexed effortlessly, every inch carved and lean—not bulky, but built like a panther: fast, strong, predatory.
And he knew exactly what he was doing.
He said lazily, slipping the belt from his pants. “It’s just the two of us. If my sis wants to look, I’m not shy.”
The pants slid down his hips.
Clarissa nearly spilled the glass in her hand. Her cheeks flared with heat. “W-Who wants to look at you?! Just put on your damn clothes!”
She spun around, her ears glowing red.
Behind her, Atticus chuckled softly, low and smug.
She really was too easy to tease.
If she was this shy over something so small… what would she do in the future?
He turned and slowly began getting dressed. His shirt was a fitted black button-down—casual, but sleek. Once he had it on, he slipped into a dark leather jacket with sharp lines and polished metal buttons that caught the light.
Atticus gave himself a once-over and nodded with quiet satisfaction.
At that moment, Clarissa walked over with a small velvet box in her hands.
Her cheeks were still pink from earlier, and the blush that dusted the tips of her ears made something inside Atticus tighten.
Without saying a word, she opened the box and carefully took out a diamond collar pin. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt as she clipped it to his collar.
The subtle flash of the jewel instantly elevated the black ensemble, adding elegance and just the right amount of light.
Clarissa stood back and gave him a once-over, her eyes softening. “It looks really good,” she murmured, admiring him. “When I saw it, I just knew it would suit you.”
Lately, Clarissa didn’t care much about buying clothes for herself. Instead, she found joy in shopping for Atticus—watching him try different looks. Every time he wore something she picked out, she felt a little flutter of satisfaction.
Atticus glanced down at himself, then back at her. “You’ve got good taste,” he said simply. He took her hand and added with a slight smirk, “From now on, my wardrobe is yours.”
Clarissa lowered her gaze and reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to hide the pink flush climbing her cheeks. She nodded first, then gently reminded him, “Hurry up and eat. You’ll be late.”
After breakfast, just before he left, Clarissa tugged on his sleeve gently and said, “Atticus… try to talk to Phoenix. Don’t fight with her again, okay?”
Atticus looked at her—so earnest, so hopeful—and thought to himself: If only it were that easy. But for her sake, he nodded obediently. “Alright.”
Clarissa exhaled a small breath of relief.
WRAITH.
As soon as Atticus stepped out of the car, he could tell something was off.
He hadn’t exactly needed to work for Phoenix—but she had called Clarissa the night before, and asked her to send him over.
Clarissa, trying to smooth things over, had agreed.
But deep down, Atticus knew—this wasn’t going to end quietly.
He was told Phoenix was waiting for him on the field.
He headed that way, calm and unhurried.
Phoenix was sitting in the open pavilion. Steam curled up from the teacup in front of her, veiling her expression in a soft haze. She didn’t look up when he arrived—didn’t need to. Her voice, low and cool, cut straight through the morning air.
“Wait for an invitation?”
Atticus glanced around. He caught the shared looks from Maximilian and Delilah, both of whom silently mouthed good luck and promptly made themselves scarce.
He approached the pavilion and took a seat across from Phoenix.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Phoenix finally looked up. Her gaze was blazing with cold fury.
Atticus, unfazed, leaned forward and poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle. He sipped it with exaggerated calm. “Not bad. Could’ve used about ten more seconds of steeping, though.”
He set the cup down.
Phoenix slammed her hand on the table. The teacups rattled. One nearly tipped.
“You’re lucky this tea isn’t poison.”
The outburst startled a few people nearby. Maximilian and Delilah, sensing the thunderstorm brewing, scattered and began shooing away the onlookers.
Atticus didn’t flinch. He offered a lazy smile.
“Teacher,” he said smoothly, “you know stress isn’t good for women. Especially if it messes with your cycle. Hard to regulate after that.”
Phoenix’s face darkened instantly. “You arrogant little—!”
“Relax,” he cut in coolly. “If you called me here to curse, we could’ve done it over the phone.”
She ignored the jab and leaned in. Her voice dropped, sharp and deadly. “What the hell is going on between you and Clarissa?”
Atticus finally leaned back, stretching just slightly—like a cat, lean and unbothered.