The air was thick with expensive perfume, the sound of clinking champagne glasses, and the low murmur of conversations tinged with veiled politics and hidden agendas.
Clara stepped out of the sleek black Maybach, the hem of her navy satin gown sweeping across the red carpet like liquid silk. Her diamond-studded heels caught the light as camera flashes erupted around her. No one recognized her—not yet—but they would remember her after tonight.
She wasn't here as Clara Westwood, the ex-wife of Damien Lancaster or the girl everyone used to pity. Tonight, she was Clarissa Blackwood—the rumored heiress with an unknown origin, whispered about in elite circles for weeks, the woman who had captured the attention of Alexander Maddox.
Her chin lifted with a regal grace that hadn't come naturally—it had been forged through betrayal, heartbreak, and a relentless will to rise. This gala was not just a social event; it was a battlefield.
And her target was already here.
Senator Peter Halvorsen.
He stood across the ballroom, laughing beside the chairman of the Goldleaf Banking Group. A man in his mid-fifties, Halvorsen still carried himself like the rising political star he once was, his tailored tux a little too tight around the waist, but his ego intact. Clara's lips curled inward in a bitter smile. Years ago, he had humiliated her mother publicly, accusing her of forging charity accounts to cover up stolen donations. The scandal destroyed her career and health.
But Clara had discovered the truth last month: Halvorsen had been the one embezzling from the Hope Foundation all along. Her mother had been his scapegoat.
And tonight, Clara had the leverage to bring him to his knees.
"Are you nervous?" Alexander's deep voice sliced through her thoughts.
He appeared beside her like a phantom from a dream, dressed in a classic black suit with a midnight blue pocket square that matched her gown. His presence drew attention, and the whispers increased.
"Not at all," she replied coolly, not breaking eye contact with the senator. "I've waited too long for this."
Alexander tilted his head slightly. "Is that why you insisted I bring you as my guest?"
She turned to him, eyes gleaming with a mix of gratitude and calculation. "I needed an official reason to be here. And you were... convenient."
He chuckled. "You're lucky I like dangerous women."
Clara didn't smile. Her focus was razor-sharp tonight. "Let's get inside."
The ballroom of the Crestview Grand was a glittering spectacle of wealth and political influence. Influencers, business tycoons, media moguls, and top-level politicians mingled in curated elegance.
Clara moved like a queen through it all, shaking hands, exchanging air kisses, weaving her way closer to Halvorsen with each step. She noticed how the cameras were beginning to catch her, how her name—the fake one—was being passed from ear to ear.
Clarissa Blackwood.
Who was she?
Alexander was playing along flawlessly, keeping the mystery alive, protecting her from unnecessary attention, yet letting just enough slip to make her intriguing.
At last, the opportunity came.
Halvorsen was momentarily alone, sipping from a glass of whiskey near the bar. Clara walked up and placed her hand on the counter beside him.
"Scotch. Neat," she said.
Halvorsen turned to glance at her—and did a double-take. "Well, I don't believe we've met."
Clara smiled, slow and deliberate. "You're right, Senator. But I've been looking forward to this meeting for a long time."
He extended his hand, amused and curious. "Peter Halvorsen. And you are?"
"Clarissa Blackwood."
His brows lifted. "Ah, the mysterious heiress. I've heard whispers. Maddox's newest secret weapon?"
Clara chuckled lightly. "Something like that. Though I prefer to think of myself as my own weapon."
Halvorsen's grin widened, clearly intrigued. "What can I do for you, Miss Blackwood?"
Clara leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Actually, it's what I can do for you... or to you."
That caught him off guard. His eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"
"I have something that belongs to you," she said, pulling a thin, gold-embossed envelope from her clutch. "Or rather, something you tried to bury."
He took the envelope slowly. "What is this?"
"Proof," she said. "Of the embezzlement from the Hope Foundation fifteen years ago. The ghost accounts. The fake vendor receipts. Your signatures."
Halvorsen paled slightly. "That's ancient history."
"Not to the authorities. And certainly not to the media," Clara replied, her voice like a blade sheathed in silk.
"You have no idea what you're dealing with."
"Oh, but I do," Clara replied. "My mother's name was Laura Westwood."
Halvorsen froze.
"That's right," she continued, her voice quiet but dangerous. "You destroyed her life. Ruined her reputation. She died with your lies still staining her name. But I'm here to clean it up."
He began to speak, but Clara cut him off.
"Relax," she said. "I didn't come here to make a scene. At least, not unless you force me to."
"What do you want?"
Her eyes glittered. "I want access. I want an introduction to the Minister of Commerce. I want a seat at the donor table for the Green Infrastructure Project. And I want a public statement from you—on record—apologizing to Laura Westwood for the 'false allegations made years ago due to inaccurate records.' You'll phrase it like a clerical error. But the world will know."
Halvorsen's jaw tightened. "You're blackmailing me."
"No," Clara said, stepping back. "I'm offering you a chance to clean up one mistake before the others come crashing down."
She gave him a cold smile. "You should take it."
Later that night, Clara stood on the terrace alone, the cool wind tugging gently at her hair. She closed her eyes, trying to calm the rage that still churned in her chest.
It wasn't enough. Not yet. But it was a start.
Alexander joined her quietly.
"So… how did it go?" he asked.
"He folded," she replied. "He'll make the statement. I'll be in the room with the Minister next week. The rest will follow."
Alexander studied her profile for a moment. "You're becoming more dangerous by the day."
She looked at him. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's a warning," he said with a half-smile. "Don't lose yourself to the darkness."
Clara exhaled deeply. "I don't plan to."
But even as she said it, she wondered. Revenge felt powerful—but also hollow. Her mother deserved justice, but what came next? Would it ever feel like enough?
As she turned back toward the glittering ballroom, a familiar face caught her attention.
Damien.
He stood near the far end, talking to a group of men, clearly unaware of her gaze. But something in his posture—tense, anxious—made her narrow her eyes.
Was he already hearing whispers?
Clara smiled faintly.
Good.
Let him wonder who the woman in the blue gown was. Let him regret everything.
Because this was only the beginning.