The rain fell in a soft drizzle, casting a silvery mist over the city skyline. Clara stood at the penthouse balcony of Alexander's high-rise, her hands clutching the railing as the wind tugged at the hem of her coat. Below, the city buzzed with life, unaware of the storm brewing inside her heart.
She shouldn't have come here.
She told herself that a hundred times already. After the fake engagement announcement, she thought things would remain professional—calculated. But now, standing in Alexander's space, alone with him after the gala, she felt the walls between them thinning.
Behind her, the sliding glass door clicked softly shut. Footsteps padded across the tiled floor.
"You're cold," Alexander said, draping a thick cashmere shawl around her shoulders. "You could've stayed in the lounge. There's wine. A fireplace. Comfort."
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His jaw was tight, his posture casual but guarded. Always composed, always controlled—yet she had seen him snap a man's arm with a single twist just weeks ago to protect her.
"I needed air," Clara murmured, gripping the shawl closer. "Too many whispers. Too many stares. I hate pretending."
Alexander's brows rose slightly. "You've been doing quite well at it."
"That doesn't mean I enjoy it." She turned to face him fully, the city lights casting gold across her face. "This fake engagement was supposed to buy us space. Silence the gossip. Shift the power balance. Not… complicate everything."
His gaze flickered. "And yet… here we are. Complicated."
A beat of silence passed. The tension between them was palpable. It wasn't just about strategy anymore. Not just revenge or reputation. It was the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching. The way her pulse quickened when his hand brushed hers. The way his silence said more than most men's declarations.
Clara took a careful step forward. "You've been different since the gala."
"So have you."
She nodded slowly. "That kiss... on the red carpet. I thought it was for show."
Alexander didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved closer, his presence towering yet gentle. "You didn't pull away."
"I couldn't." Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "Not because of the cameras. But because… I didn't want to."
The confession hung heavy in the air.
Alexander inhaled deeply, his hand brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. "Clara, I didn't agree to this engagement just to help your image. I did it to protect you. But now... I find myself wanting more than protection."
She swallowed hard. "More?"
His thumb trailed lightly along her jawline, and his voice dropped lower. "I want the lies to become real. Even if only for a moment."
Her heart stuttered.
She should stop him. She should walk away, remind herself of Damien, of betrayal, of why she returned. But when Alexander's lips brushed hers—tentative, warm, and achingly real—her resistance shattered.
The kiss deepened.
It wasn't the desperate kind of kiss meant to claim or conquer. It was searching. Testing. A language they hadn't yet spoken but had always felt.
Clara's hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. Her mind screamed warnings, but her body betrayed her. The warmth, the safety, the longing—it was too much. Too consuming.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, Clara's forehead rested against his chest.
"That shouldn't have happened," she whispered, eyes shut.
"I know," Alexander replied. But he didn't move away.
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. "I can't afford to feel. Not now. Not while Damien's watching. Not while Rhea's still out there."
"I know," he repeated, his jaw tense. "But feelings don't wait for permission."
Another pause. A dangerous one.
Clara stepped back, creating space. "We can't do this. Not yet."
"Understood," Alexander said, his voice calm but his eyes burning.
But as she turned away, she felt his gaze linger. And the truth hit her like a freight train: the kiss may have been a mistake, but it changed everything.
The Next Morning
The headlines were merciless.
"Clara Dalton and Alexander Thorne: Real or Just for Show?""Damien Westwood Seen Leaving Nightclub Alone—Sources Say He's 'Unsettled.'""Rhea Sinclair Spotted with PR Crisis Manager—Damage Control Underway?"
Clara scrolled through the news on her phone, sitting in the backseat of her chauffeured car, her heart a storm of contradictions. One moment, she was reliving the kiss. The next, she was cataloging everything she had to lose.
She arrived at the Westwood Group tower just after noon. Her appearance at Damien's office was intentional. The rumors needed fuel. And Damien needed to feel the shift in power.
She walked into the boardroom, head held high, every inch the confident heiress reborn.
Damien looked up, startled.
"You're late," he said, eyes narrowed.
"Fashionably," Clara replied, settling into the chair across from him. "Besides, I'm not your wife, remember?"
His jaw twitched.
The board members exchanged glances, sensing tension.
Clara opened her portfolio with a click. "Shall we begin?"
Throughout the meeting, Damien barely looked at her. But she felt his gaze burning into her every time she spoke with composure. She could sense his confusion, his anger—and beneath that, something more volatile. Jealousy.
When the meeting adjourned, Damien stood quickly, motioning for her to follow him.
Inside his office, the door slammed shut.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
Clara raised a brow. "Business? You know, the thing you always said I wasn't capable of handling?"
"This isn't about business. You and Alexander? You expect anyone to believe that's real?"
"Why not?" she asked innocently. "We get along. He respects me. He doesn't cheat."
Damien's fists clenched. "You're doing this to provoke me."
She stepped closer, cool and composed. "You had your chance, Damien. You threw it away—for Rhea. For your ego. I've moved on."
"You think I'll let you flaunt this circus in front of the media?" His voice grew louder.
"You don't own me anymore."
"Clara—"
"I faked a smile for years," she interrupted, her voice sharp now. "Faked being the good wife while you paraded around with my best friend. But now? Now the only thing I'm faking is this smile." She leaned in, lips curling. "And even that's optional."
Damien stared at her like he didn't recognize the woman before him.
Good.
Let him feel the weight of what he lost.
Later That Night
Alexander sat at his desk, reviewing contract papers when his phone buzzed.
Clara:Meet me. Private rooftop. 9 p.m.
His heart skipped.
When he arrived, the rooftop was empty at first. Then Clara stepped out from behind a wall, her silhouette framed by twinkling fairy lights and the open sky.
"You're making a habit of dramatic entrances," he said with a half-smile.
"I needed air. Again."
"You seem to need that a lot lately."
Clara gave a soft laugh. "It's the only time I can think clearly."
He waited.
Then she turned to him, her eyes unreadable. "I came to say thank you."
"For what?"
"For not pushing me. For respecting my boundaries. For… making me feel safe."
Alexander said nothing, but the intensity in his gaze spoke volumes.
"I can't promise anything," she continued. "But I also can't pretend that kiss didn't mean something."
"It meant everything," he replied simply.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"So am I."
Silence again. Then Clara stepped closer, brushing her fingers against his hand.
"You once told me feelings don't wait for permission," she said softly.
"They don't."
"Then maybe…" she looked up at him, heart pounding, "we stop pretending."
He didn't hesitate this time.
He kissed her again.
No cameras. No performance. Just two broken people finding something real in the ruins of betrayal.
Across the City
Rhea slammed her wine glass down, shards scattering across the hardwood floor.
"Another headline," she hissed, scrolling through Clara and Alexander's rooftop photos.
Damien leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "It's not real."
"You're sure?"
"She's playing us. Both of us."
Rhea glared at him. "Then why do you look like you're losing her?"
He didn't respond.
Rhea's voice lowered, more dangerous. "If you won't act… I will."