Clara's POV
I had never been afraid of losing.
Not people, not power, not my place in the world because I didn't lose.
I reorganized. I recalculated. I advanced.
But the moment I stepped out of Emma Lawson's therapist's office, heels striking against the polished hallway floor, I understood something unsettling….
This time, I could lose.
The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped in, pulse steady, expression neutral, my favorite mask. Anyone passing would have believed I was the picture of control. Habit, really. I'd perfected it long ago.
But the silence behind my ribs was not calm. It was pressure, tight, coiled, prowling.
I replayed her face in my mind.
Emma Lawson.
She was softer than I expected. That was the first thing. After the way Damian had grieved her, quietly, painfully, I imagined someone sharper, luminous enough to justify devastation.
But she was… simple.
Not in a small way. In a terrifying one.
Because where sharpness cuts, gentleness lingers.
