The city never slept after the gala.
By the time Clara reached her penthouse that night, the streets below were a river of headlights, and her phone hadn't stopped vibrating. News outlets were still spinning the fallout—videos of Damien Kingsley's stony face, headlines about "Fraud Allegations," and grainy shots of her emerald silk gown under crystal chandeliers.
But for Clara, the victory tasted sharper than champagne.
Damien had been cornered in public. His name was smeared across the business channels. And for the first time in years, she felt like she was the one dictating the next move.
That illusion shattered at 12:03 a.m.
The Shadow
She had refused Alexander's offer to stay. He'd been firm about the risks—borderline bossy—but Clara had wanted silence, space, the luxury of processing her win without someone hovering.
Now, standing barefoot on the polished marble floor with a glass of wine in hand, she noticed it: a shadow moving across the balcony.
She froze. Her penthouse was on the 25th floor. The only balcony access was through her own living room. No one could get up here without clearance, not without her knowing.
The shadow stopped, lingering in the glass's reflection.
She set her wine down carefully. She didn't reach for her phone yet—some animal part of her brain telling her that sudden movement might trigger whatever was out there.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp taps.
Not at the door.At the glass.
Breaking Point
The sound barely faded before the balcony door exploded inward. The glass shattered in a spray of jagged shards, catching the city lights as they scattered across the floor. Clara stumbled back, shielding her face.
A man stepped through. Tall. Broad shoulders. Mask over his face. No hesitation in his movements—this wasn't a burglar, this was a mission.
The steel blade in his right hand gleamed.
Her stomach dropped, but her mind stayed icy clear: Damien. This was how he sent messages. Not calls. Not texts. Reminders.
The man lunged.
Two Seconds from the Knife
She moved, instincts jerking her toward the hallway, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist. The grip was crushing, hot through her skin. The blade tilted, rising toward her throat—
The front door slammed open.
Alexander
It happened in a blur. Alexander's voice—low, furious—barked her name before he crossed the room in a sprint. He didn't slow when he hit the intruder.
They crashed into the coffee table, splintering wood. The knife skidded across the floor, ringing against the marble. Clara's breath caught as she pressed herself to the wall.
Alexander wasn't the clean, composed man from boardrooms now. His tie was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the muscles in his arms straining as he pinned the attacker. His movements were precise but brutal—efficient in a way that said this wasn't his first fight.
The man landed a punch to Alexander's ribs, forcing a grunt from him, but Alexander only tightened his grip, twisting the intruder's arm until there was an audible crack.
"Clara—call security!" he ordered, not looking at her.
She ran for her phone.
Recognition
While the call connected, her mind flicked through years of memories, searching the masked man's build, his voice when he grunted under Alexander's weight.
She'd seen him before. Driving Damien's Bentley at private events. Standing just behind him at discreet meetings. Always silent. Always watching.
The driver who never met her eyes.
Security & Threats
Security arrived in under four minutes. By then, Alexander had the man pinned against the floor, his knee on his back, breathing hard but steady.
When they yanked the mask off, the driver's eyes met hers, flat and unrepentant.
"Recognize him?" one guard asked.
She didn't answer. Her silence was answer enough.
Alexander's voice was ice. "Make sure the police get his statement—and make sure Damien's name is in it."
The driver laughed, a short, ugly sound. "You think this stops him?"
Alexander leaned down until his mouth was close to the man's ear, his voice dropping so low Clara barely caught it. "Tell your boss—if he sends someone again, I won't stop at defense."
Police Interrogation
The police came, notebooks and body cameras clicking on. Clara gave her statement, hands still trembling slightly despite her efforts to appear composed. Alexander stood beside her the entire time, speaking only when she hesitated.
The driver, of course, said nothing. No motive, no employer. Just silence and that same faint smirk, like he knew Damien would handle everything before morning.
When they finally hauled him out in cuffs, Alexander locked the door behind them, then turned to her.
"You should have let me stay."
"I didn't think he'd move this fast."
"He's scared," Alexander said. "That makes him reckless. And dangerous."
The Argument
She poured herself another glass of wine, needing the motion to ground herself. "You make it sound like I'm helpless."
"You are not helpless," he said sharply. "But you are a target. And I can't help if I'm not here."
"Help?" she echoed. "Or control?"
His jaw tightened. "Those aren't the same thing."
"Aren't they?" she shot back.
The air between them went electric—anger, fear, and something else woven through it. His eyes searched hers, but she didn't drop her gaze.
Finally, he stepped closer. "I'm not Damien. And I'm not asking you to give up control. I'm telling you that you don't have to fight this alone."
Her voice softened, but the steel stayed. "I know. But I also can't let anyone think I need saving."
Quiet Moments
Later, after Alexander showered to wash the blood from his hands, they sat in the living room. He on one end of the sofa, she on the other, the city spread out beyond the windows like scattered jewels.
"You're not going to stay away, are you?" she asked.
"No."
She didn't argue.
Clara's Countermove
When he finally fell asleep in the guest room, Clara moved silently to her study. She pulled out her laptop, opening an encrypted channel to one of her newer contacts—a cybersecurity specialist with a grudge against Damien.
The message she typed was simple:
Find everything on the driver. Family, debts, offshore connections. And trace who paid him tonight. I want proof.
If Damien thought sending a knife into her home would scare her, he was about to learn she didn't just play defense.
The Balcony
Before sleeping, she stepped back out onto the balcony. The night wind was sharp, carrying the distant hum of traffic. She imagined Damien somewhere out there, watching the news, convinced she was rattled.
She smiled, slow and dangerous.
Let him come.