The weekend arrived faster than Clara expected, and with it came Lila's relentless insistence that she "get out of the apartment and live a little." Clara had protested, of course, suggesting a quiet café or maybe a movie night at home, but Lila wouldn't hear it.
That was how Clara found herself walking into an upscale club on Saturday night, the air buzzing with music and perfume. The bass thrummed through the floor, vibrating in her chest as lights danced across polished tiles and glittering glasses. Laughter echoed from every corner, drowning out her hesitation.
"Remind me again why we're here?" Clara raised her voice over the pulsing beat, already wishing she'd worn something less attention-grabbing.
"Because it's the weekend, and you need this," Lila shot back with a grin, tugging her toward the bar like a woman on a mission. "A little music, a drink or two—you'll thank me later."
Clara adjusted the strap of her purse, sighing. Clubs had never been her idea of fun; too loud, too crowded, too artificial. Still, she let herself be pulled along, resigning to Lila's energy.
The club was alive with flashing lights and pulsing music, but Clara and Lila had claimed a quieter corner booth, their cocktails glowing under the neon.
"Look at them," Lila said, tilting her chin toward the dance floor, where couples were pressed close, laughing and stealing kisses between beats. "Everywhere you turn, someone's already paired off. And yet here we are—single, fabulous, and apparently invisible."
Clara chuckled, stirring her drink with the thin straw. "Invisible? Please. You just rejected a guy five minutes ago."
Lila rolled her eyes dramatically. "He smelled like bad decisions and cheap cologne. I have standards."
"And you think that's why we're still single?" Clara teased, raising a brow. "Maybe it's because we scare them off with our independence."
Lila gasped playfully, leaning closer. "Or maybe it's because you keep pretending you're not interested in anyone. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Clara flushed, laughing softly as she shook her head. "I'm serious. I'm not looking for anything. Besides, relationships are… messy."
"Messy, sure," Lila countered, sipping her drink, "but sometimes worth it."
Before Clara could answer, her phone buzzed across the table. The screen lit up with her mother's name.
"Ugh, I should take this," she said, sliding out of the booth.
Lila waved her hand with a grin. "Go on. I'll order us another round. And don't take too long—I'm not third-wheeling couples all night."
Clara smiled faintly and headed toward the hall, the music fading into a muffled thrum as she pressed the phone to her ear.
"Hi, Mom," she said, her voice softening as she listened. The call dragged for a few minutes—small reminders, gentle nagging, the usual warmth wrapped in concern. Clara answered patiently, promising she was fine and that she hadn't skipped any meals.
When the call finally ended, she exhaled, sliding the phone into her bag.
That's when she froze.
Just a few steps away, Damien stood with a striking woman, her perfectly styled hair gleaming under the dim light. Clara instinctively lingered by the corner as the woman reached for his arm, her voice low but pleading.
"…Don't mistake politeness for interest. I don't mix business with personal life," Damien said sharply, cutting the woman off mid-sentence. His tone was cold, firm, leaving no room for negotiation.
The woman's face crumpled before she turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving Damien standing alone in the hallway, his expression unreadable.
Clara froze, startled. She hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but the words sank into her mind, tinged with the same sharp authority he carried at work. She took a step back, realizing she might have been noticed.
And she had.
Damien's eyes flicked toward her, cold and assessing. "Miss Hayes," he said, voice neutral, "standing there like a guilty little mouse?"
Clara's stomach flipped. She waved her hands quickly. "I-I wasn't— I… I won't tell anyone."
Damien slipped his hands into his pockets, his gaze steady and unreadable. "Tell anyone what?"
Clara's throat tightened. She swallowed, but the words refused to come out. Silence hung between them.
His lips curled into the faintest smirk, a flicker of amusement softening his otherwise cold demeanor. Then, to her surprise, a low, almost playful laugh escaped him. "You seem unusually defensive. Are you worried people will think you're interested in me?"
Clara wrinkled her nose, giving him a look somewhere between annoyance and disbelief. "No. That's not what I meant at all!" she snapped, heat rising in her tone.
"Really?" Damien tilted his head, studying her as if testing her reaction. "Then I misunderstood. That's all."
Clara let out a sharp breath, forcing herself to move past him. "You took it completely the wrong way. And for the record," she added, throwing a glance over her shoulder, "I came here to enjoy the weekend with my friend—not to watch you reject people like it's some sort of sport."
Damien watched her retreating back, her shoulders stiff with irritation. For a moment, surprise flickered across his face at the sharpness in her tone. Then, slowly, his lips tugged upward into a smirk.
"What's got you so angry?" Lila asked when Clara returned, her brows arched with curiosity.
Clara shook her head, refusing to answer. Some things were better left unsaid.
So the two of them let it go, blending back into the crowd and spending the rest of the weekend in each other's company.
By the next morning, Clara dragged herself to work, a little tired from the weekend but ready to slip back into her routine.
In the coffee room, Clara focused on the simple task of fixing her drink—pouring, stirring, anything to keep her mind blank. She was so caught up in adjusting the sugar packet and tapping her spoon against the cup that at first she barely noticed the quiet voices drifting from the corner.
"…I heard Damein Cross is divorced," one woman said, her tone hushed but eager.
Clara's hand stilled over her cup, though she kept her eyes down, pretending to concentrate on the steam curling upward.
A quiet chuckle followed. "Cold as ice, that one. But he hides it behind money and power. People say he hasn't been the same since."
"Yeah, they were married for about five years, but never had kids. His ex-wife's a lawyer, isn't she? I heard the divorce was tough on him… maybe that's why he always seems so closed off."
Clara's hand paused mid-stir. The words lingered, curling around her thoughts. Five years. No children. A lawyer ex-wife.
She gave a small shake of her head, forcing the spoon to clink against her mug as if the noise alone could drown out the gossip. Why should she care? Office chatter had a way of twisting people into stories, and Damien Cross—cold, sharp, infuriating Damien—was the kind of man people loved to speculate about.
Clara blew on her coffee, keeping her face carefully neutral. She wasn't about to add her own curiosity to the pile.
"Get a grip," she muttered under her breath, lifting her mug and walking out with her chin slightly higher than usual.