Chapter196 – My fiancée, Clarissa
Clarissa took the bowl and sipped, then pushed it back toward Phoenix. “You should drink some too.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You’re a woman too,” Clarissa pressed, swapping it out for a bowl of wine. “Here, at least have some of this.”
Phoenix paused, meeting Clarissa’s eyes. Only with her did she ever feel like just a normal girl—a friend to laugh with, instead of the fearsome “Phoenix” everyone else bowed to. Her chest tightened strangely, and she smiled as she picked up the bowl. “Alright. I’ll drink.”
Later, when Clarissa got up to head back to her room, Phoenix caught her hand. “Stay with me tonight.”
She winked. “We can talk until we fall asleep.”
Clarissa hesitated, then nodded. It had been a while since they’d spent time together.
Phoenix’s face lit up as she tugged her inside.
That night, they curled up in bed with a movie playing. Phoenix slid a plate of peeled nuts toward her. “Eat. I shelled them all.”
Watching Clarissa nibble, Phoenix’s expression softened.
On her third bite, Clarissa suddenly remembered something. “Oh—about that incident earlier. Have you found anything out?”
“A little,” Phoenix said. “I’ll tell you when I’ve got the full picture.”
“Is it serious?”
“Nothing major. Just stay cautious—and don’t let Delilah out of your sight.”
“Alright, I understand.”
By the time the credits rolled, it was already ten. Phoenix leaned back, watching her thoughtfully. A spark flickered in her eyes. “Clarissa… how about I teach you some self-defense? Might come in handy if things ever go south.”
Clarissa nodded without hesitation. “Okay.”
Satisfied, Phoenix pulled the blanket over her shoulders. “Good. Now go to sleep.”
Clarissa smiled faintly and closed her eyes.
......
Meanwhile, back at the Harrington estate, Lyra returned utterly drained. She’d been forced to start at the very bottom of the Harrington Group, and Kira had deliberately assigned her a supervisor who seemed hell-bent on making her life miserable. By the time she finally got off work, she could barely stand.
She pushed open the door to her room. Empty. Not a single trace of him.
He still hadn’t come back.
Ever since that last trip, things between them hadn’t improved. If anything, they’d gotten worse.
A servant passed in the hallway. Lyra didn’t even turn her head, but she could feel the sneer in the woman’s eyes, the mocking glance that stabbed at her like a needle.
Her chest tightened. Without a word, she hurried into her room and slammed the door shut. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, powerless, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.
......
At a dimly lit karaoke bar across town, Tristan eyed Dorian, who was silently downing drink after drink.
“What the hell are you doing, man? You’ve been here for days, drinking like a ghost. No girls, no games, nothing. Just sitting here killing bottles. What’s the damn point?”
Dorian emptied his glass, stone-faced, and didn’t answer. Tristan sighed—he’d gotten used to this.
This was all Dorian had been doing lately: showing up, drinking alone, and shutting everyone out.
“Don’t tell me you fought with your wife again,” Tristan pressed. “Dorian, back then you were so desperate to marry Lyra you were ready to let Drake break your legs rather than keep the engagement with Clarissa. Now you’ve finally got her, and in just a few months you’re in separate rooms, fighting nonstop. What the fuck happened?”
Dorian’s hand froze mid-motion. His gaze snapped to Tristan, cold and venomous. “Shut. Up.”
The chill in his eyes made Tristan flinch. “Jesus, why are you pissed at me? I’m just trying to help. You can’t keep living like this.”
The glass hit the table with a crack. Without another word, Dorian shoved back his chair and stormed off.
Tristan blinked. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Bathroom,” Dorian muttered, not looking back.
But his steps faltered. The alcohol was catching up, blurring his vision, pounding in his chest. He staggered—and collided hard with someone.
“Ouch!”
The woman gasped, glaring at him. “Watch where you’re going!”
Dorian blinked through the haze, then grabbed her hand.
“Clarissa…”
His voice broke. “Clarissa, listen. I didn’t mean it. It was Atticus—he framed me…”
The woman froze, startled, then recoiled at his grip. He looked drunk, unhinged, muttering nonsense. She shoved him away in alarm. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
But the push only sent Dorian stumbling back a few steps. Something snapped in his expression—dark, feral. In the next breath, he lunged, slamming her against the wall.
“Run? Why? Didn’t you love me so much? What’s that kid Atticus got that I don’t?”
Her face drained of color. “I don’t even know you! Let me go! Somebody help—there’s a psycho here!”
Her shoulder screamed with pain under his grip, and terror ripped through her chest. Her cries only seemed to set him off further. His eyes darkened, and before she could react, his mouth crashed against hers in a bruising kiss.
Tears blurred her vision. She tried to fight, but his weight crushed her.
Tristan had hesitated only a moment before following. The scene that greeted him in the hallway froze his blood.
“Dorian!” he shouted, ripping him off the woman. “What the fuck are you doing? Let her go!”
The girl’s mouth was bleeding, her face streaked with tears.
Tristan’s head pounded. He stammered, scrambling for damage control. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He’s drunk—he didn’t mean it. Please, it was a mistake. Here—take my card. Consider it compensation, alright?”
Before he could finish, her hand cracked across his face.
“Bastard! You’re both disgusting! I’m calling the cops!”
She bolted, tears streaming, fury in every step.
“Shit,” Tristan cursed under his breath, panic flooding him. If she really called the police, this was going to blow up. Cameras lined the hallway; evidence was everywhere. Even if Dorian walked away clean, the old man would never forgive this.
Without thinking, Tristan ran after her. “Miss! Please, wait! Just let me explain!”
But she was running blind, terrified, and he couldn’t close the distance. Then, in a horrifying instant, she misstepped.
Her scream cut through the air. “Ahhh!”
She tumbled headlong down the stairs, crashing to the landing below.
“Fuck!” Tristan’s heart seized. He lunged, too late. Blood pooled at her temple, her body limp and crumpled.
He scrambled down, lifting her gently. She was unconscious, her face pale as wax. He brushed back her hair to staunch the bleeding—and froze.
Her face. God, she was beautiful. Fragile, delicate… and the resemblance to Clarissa was striking. No wonder Dorian had mistaken her.
But this wasn’t the time for questions. His chest tightened, panic taking over. He scooped her up without hesitation and sprinted for the nearest hospital.
Tonight would be a long, merciless night.
.....
Two months later, Clarissa finally had her work back on track. The company was bringing in steady income, and for the first time in a while, she had the space to breathe—enough to go and visit Atticus.
She’d been to the police station before, but this was her first time in the morgue.
The air inside was every bit as frigid as she’d imagined. Outside, it was blazing—over thirty degrees—but the moment she pushed open the heavy door, a blast of cold hit her skin, and goosebumps prickled along her arms.
Clarissa stepped carefully down the sterile hallway, then spotted Atticus at the sink.
“Atticus!” Her face lit up, and she hurried forward—only to stop short, her expression freezing mid-step.
On the steel table beside him lay a grotesque sight: the bloated body of a woman, stomach split open, lungs exposed, her features unrecognizable. The raw horror of it churned Clarissa’s stomach.
Before the nausea could overwhelm her, a pair of familiar hands wrapped around her. The sharp scent of disinfectant mingled with Atticus’s own clean, distinct scent.
“If you’re scared, don’t look.” His voice was steady, almost gentle.
He guided her toward the small resting area. Clarissa’s face was pale, her stomach rolling.
Atticus, reading her thoughts, only smiled faintly. He poured her a glass of water and set it in her hands. “It’s hot outside. Drink this first.”
The cool liquid steadied her, settling the uneasy churn in her gut.
“Are you… getting used to it here?” she asked softly, worry edging her voice.
Phoenix had once explained to her how demanding the forensic field was. The youngest examiner in the city was usually around thirty; the years of medical training, examinations, and apprenticeships made it nearly impossible for anyone younger. Yet Atticus had done it effortlessly, becoming the youngest examiner ever.
But Atticus didn’t look burdened in the least. He didn’t look tired. If anything, his eyes glimmered with something close to excitement.
“It’s good,” he said simply. “I actually enjoy it here.”
“Enjoy it?” Clarissa blinked at him.
He gave a small laugh. “I mean the learning. Once the autopsy report is finished, my work is basically done, and I get to dive into criminal psychology firsthand. It’s fascinating—and useful for what I want to do.”
Clarissa was reminded then of his dual major in medicine and psychology. She still didn’t fully understand why he’d chosen psychology, but she never pressed him. Whatever path he chose, she would support it.
“I’m glad you’re adjusting,” she murmured. “That puts me at ease.”
Atticus had already stripped off the blue scrubs he’d been wearing, now dressed in a crisp white lab coat. He glanced at her. “I need to deliver this report. After that, let’s go grab dinner.”
“Okay.” She nodded and stayed put, waiting obediently.
It didn’t take long for him to finish the report, but as he left the office, several colleagues stopped him—men and women both—pulling him into easy conversation.
Clarissa waited… and waited. Finally, curiosity tugged her out into the hall.
There he was, chatting casually, even smiling.
Something inside her eased. The sight of him blending in, talking with colleagues like any other young professional, softened the sharp edges of her earlier worry. Maybe she had been overthinking. He was doing fine.
Then someone noticed her. A voice called out Atticus’s name.
He turned, and the moment he saw Clarissa standing there, something flickered in his eyes. Without hesitation, he crossed the room, caught her hand, and pulled her gently to his side.
“This is…” He paused, then said clearly, “My fiancée, Clarissa.”
A ripple of surprise passed over the faces around them. Everyone here knew of Clarissa, of course. But few had expected her to be the fiancée. The age gap was too obvious, the dynamic unusual enough to stir whispers.
Atticus didn’t so much as flinch under their stares. Still holding Clarissa’s hand, he turned on his heel and led her away.
Clarissa followed in a daze, staring at his back as he tugged her along with quiet certainty.
By the time they reached the parking lot, she finally blinked herself back to awareness.
Waiting there was Atticus’s newest indulgence: a sleek black Lamborghini, the polished machine perfectly mirroring the man himself—sharp, striking, impossible to ignore.