Chapter287 – I’m… home
“It’s after work hours,” Oriana replied lazily. “I’ve got no clue where Miss Clarissa went.” Her gaze dropped to the untouched dishes. “Damn, it’s hard enough to get a reservation here. You haven’t even taken a bite? What a waste.”
She turned to the waiter without waiting for permission. “Please reheat everything. And bring dessert—one tofu ice cream. Oh, and two orders of tiger prawns.”
The waiter nodded promptly and hurried off.
Mark’s expression darkened. “Who gave you the right to order for me? And who said I was eating with you?”
Oriana adjusted her napkin calmly, glancing around. “So you were supposed to meet someone else?”
“You—” Mark choked on the word.
“You look miserable sitting here alone,” she said bluntly. “Let’s share the table for now. Don’t worry, we’ll split the bill. I won’t take advantage of you.”
The food returned quickly, piping hot.
Starving, Oriana took a sip of soup at once. “Wow—delicious. Totally lives up to the hype.”
She ladled a full bowl and slid it toward Mark. “Here. Have some.”
“You eat,” Mark said coldly, never touching it.
Oriana sighed, eating as she spoke. “Mark, why are you torturing yourself like this? Forced love is never sweet. Her heart isn’t with you. Clinging to her like this will only hurt you.”
“Her heart isn’t with me?” Mark let out a bitter, sarcastic laugh. “You mean it’s with Atticus, right?”
Oriana shrugged, unfazed. “After all these years, you really should see things clearly. You’ve just been lying to yourself.”
Bang!
Mark slammed his palm against the table. The sharp sound echoed through the dining room, drawing startled looks from nearby guests.
Oriana waved awkwardly at them with a forced smile. “It’s nothing, nothing…”
Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice. Mark’s eyes were blazing.
“That damn beast, Atticus—he doesn’t deserve her!”
Oriana stiffened at his expression and whispered urgently, “Are you crazy? What if someone recognizes you?”
“What did that bastard Atticus give you?” Mark pressed. “Why are you helping him? Do you even know what he did to Clarissa?!”
Guilt flickered across Oriana’s eyes—but she steadied herself quickly. “I won’t deny it—Atticus has been generous to us. But Miss Clarissa matters more than anything. And besides, Atticus…”
She hesitated, unsure how to continue. Defending Atticus was never easy.
“…I just hope Miss Clarissa will be happy. In the end, it’s her choice. I stand on her side, not yours or his. I just don’t want to see you humiliated later.”
“And what makes you so sure she’ll choose Atticus?” Mark sneered. “Did Clarissa tell you that herself?”
Oriana answered plainly, “A woman’s intuition.”
Mark gave her a contemptuous glance. “You call yourself a woman?”
That did it.
Oriana slammed her fork down. “What the hell do you mean by that?! If I’m not a woman, then what the fuck are you?!”
Mark ignored her completely. He stood and grabbed his coat.
Oriana jumped up. “Hey! Don’t leave! We said we’d split the bill!”
“I already paid,” he said coldly. “Enjoy your meal. And don’t contact me again.”
He turned and walked away without a second glance.
Oriana stared at his retreating back, trembling with fury. She slammed the table hard.
“Asshole! Bastard! Go to hell!”
......
Clarissa slept until dawn. With too many thoughts on her mind, she woke around seven.
After getting ready, she took the clothes to her regular dry cleaner.
“Miss Clarissa, did you bring another new dress for cleaning today?” the shop owner said cheerfully. “We’ve just introduced a new high-end machine—exclusive to our store—”
“There’s another piece I need cleaned,” Clarissa interrupted gently, handing over Atticus’s jacket. “Please be extremely careful with it.”
The man’s expression turned serious. “Miss Clarissa… this may be difficult.”
“Even your new machine can’t handle it?”
He shook his head. “This is a vintage brand’s final runway piece. There are only a hundred in the world. The stain is coffee, right? If it had been treated within an hour, we could have fixed it completely. But it’s already set. We can only minimize it—there will definitely be traces left.”
Clarissa’s heart sank.
“…Do your best,” she said quietly. “Money isn’t an issue.”
After careful treatment, the stain faded—but it was still visible on close inspection.
Someone as meticulous as Dr. Atticus would definitely notice.
No matter what, she needed to apologize in person.
Holding the coat carefully, Clarissa dialed Atticus’s number as she walked.
......
Atticus had taken a two-hour cold shower the night before. When that didn’t help, he had dumped an entire bag of ice into the bathtub and climbed in.
He had passed out there.
When he finally woke, his head felt like it was splitting open, and his throat burned dry. He had spent the entire night in ice-cold water.
His phone, left in the living room, had been ringing endlessly.
Dragging his heavy body out of the bathroom, he stumbled over and answered it.
“Hello? This is Atticus speaking.”
His voice came out hoarse and raw.
“Dr. Atticus? This is Clarissa. I’ve brought your coat back, and there’s something I’d like to discuss with you in person. Are you home, or at the hospital?”
At the mention of her name, Atticus’s heart slammed violently against his ribs. His bloodshot eyes brightened instantly.
“I’m… home.”
“Oh? You’re at home?”
“Yes. I’ll send you my address. Miss Clarissa, you can come directly.”
Clarissa glanced at the location when it arrived—and froze.
It was directly across from her apartment complex.
So Dr. Atticus had been living so close to her all this time…
Clarissa took the elevator up to his floor, checked the apartment number once more, and was about to press the doorbell—
When her phone pinged.
Password: xxxxx. Come in.
Clarissa froze.
xxxxx… that was her birthday.
What a coincidence.
Her fingers tightened around the garment bag. After a brief hesitation, she entered the code and stepped inside.
Standing in the entryway, she called softly, “Dr. Atticus? Are you home?”
Light footsteps sounded from deeper inside. A moment later, Atticus appeared, walking toward her in loungewear.
“No need to change your shoes,” he said quietly. “Come in.”
In Clarissa’s memory, he was always impeccably dressed—crisp suits, spotless white coats. This was the first time she had ever seen him so casual. Even more surprising, his pajamas were the same brand as hers.
He carried a tray with steaming tea. “Miss Clarissa, would you like some?”
Clarissa sat down on the sofa, watching as he poured the tea, but she didn’t reach for it.
“Dr. Atticus… I’m very sorry.” She opened the dust bag, revealing the stained sleeve. “I damaged your coat. Would three times the market price be enough as compensation? If not, I can try to find a brand-new one—”
She spoke carefully, deliberately avoiding his eyes.
He didn’t answer.
Confused, Clarissa looked up—and her heart skipped.
Atticus was leaning against the sofa, one hand bracing his forehead. His cheeks were flushed an unnatural red, and his lips looked dry and pale.
Something was wrong.
“Dr. Atticus?” she called softly.
He snapped out of it, straightened, and forced a faint smile. “It’s fine. Just a coat. Is this what you came for?”
Clarissa was stunned by how easily he brushed it off.
Atticus stood, took the coat from her hands, and glanced at it casually. “It’s nothing serious. I know someone who can clean it. Don’t worry, Miss Clarissa.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He turned slightly away. “It’s getting late. I’d like to rest.”
Clarissa felt an awkward tightness in her chest and stood up instinctively. “Then… I won’t bother you any longer.”
The door had barely closed behind her when Atticus’s body gave out.
He staggered backward and collapsed onto the sofa, barely catching himself before hitting the floor.
Panting, sweat soaked his clothes. His vision swam as he stared at the ceiling, every ounce of strength drained from his body.
“…Clarissa,” he whispered hoarsely.
.......
Outside in the corridor, Clarissa stood frozen before the closed door, an inexplicable bitterness spreading through her chest.
Something had been wrong with him. She had wanted to ask—but he had been so eager for her to leave.
They were only doctor and patient. She had no right to pry into his private life.
So why did she feel so unsettled? So lost?
She had just gotten into the car and reached for her phone—
And realized it was gone.
It had slipped into the garment bag.
Five minutes later, Clarissa was back at Atticus’s door.
She rang the doorbell several times. “Dr. Atticus!”
No answer.
She called his phone. Still nothing.
Her eyelids twitched uncontrollably. Unease crawled up her spine.
After a brief hesitation, she entered the password.
The door unlocked with a soft beep.
“Dr. Atticus?” she called as she hurried inside.
What she saw made her expression stiffen.
The next second, she rushed forward.
Atticus lay sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed, breathing fast and shallow. His face was burning red with fever.
“Dr. Atticus? Dr. Atticus?” She gently shook him.
He was burning hot.
Her faint, sweet scent drifted into his senses. Atticus drew in a slow breath and struggled to open his eyes. Before him was the face he had longed for day and night.
For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating from the fever.
“Clarissa…?”
“You’re sick,” she said urgently, pressing her hand to his forehead. “Your fever is so high. Have you taken any medicine?”
Reality crashed back into him.
“I haven’t,” he said hoarsely. “There’s a medicine cabinet beside the refrigerator. Everything’s there…”
Clarissa rushed to get water, found the medicine, and returned at once.
“Dr. Atticus, take your medicine.”
For him, it felt like a dream.
She supported him as he swallowed the pills, her body close to his. Her warmth, her scent, her softness—everything about her wrapped around his senses like an intoxicating drug.
He didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to wake up from this.
But once she finished helping him, she gently withdrew.
A subtle disappointment flickered through his chest—
Until he heard her voice again.
“Dr. Atticus, you should sleep in the bedroom. It’s uncomfortable to lie on the sofa like this.”
He took a slow, steadying breath and forced down the fire in his blood.
“…Alright,” he said quietly.
Clarissa slipped an arm around his back to help him up. The moment he moved, Atticus caught her familiar scent, clean and soft. His breath hitched before he could stop himself, his body instinctively leaning closer.
Their bodies pressed dangerously near. Through the thin fabric, Clarissa could feel the heat radiating from him, the solid strength of his muscles beneath her palm.
Her face burned. Forcing herself to stay calm, she focused on guiding him into the bedroom.
She helped him onto the bed, drew the blanket over him, and tucked it carefully around his shoulders. Lowering her voice, she said softly, “Dr. Atticus, get some rest.”
“…Mmm.”
He wanted to keep looking at her—but the next second, he turned his face away and closed his eyes. He heard her footsteps retreat, followed by the gentle click of the door as it softly shut.
A bitter smile curved at Atticus’s lips.