The walk back to the apartment was a blur of gray concrete and muffled city noise. Clara didn't even realize it had started to drizzle until the moisture began to mix with the salt of her tears, turning her face into a cold, stinging mask of grief. Every step felt like she was pulling her feet out of quicksand. By the time she reached the door of the cramped two-bedroom unit she shared with Mia, she was gasping, her lungs burning with the effort of holding back a scream that had been building since she left the penthouse.
She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so violently they sounded like wind chimes against the metal lock. When the door finally swung open, the warmth of the apartment hit her, smelling of stale coffee and Mia's expensive hairspray—the smells of home, a home that felt like the only thing left in a world that had just been razed to the ground.
Mia was on the sofa, a laptop balanced on her knees and a half-eaten bagel in her hand. She looked up with a casual grin that died the second she saw Clara.
"Clara? Hey, I thought you were with the Prince of Pers—" Mia stopped, the laptop sliding to the floor with a thud as she scrambled to her feet. "Clara! Oh my god, what happened? Are you hurt? Did you get into an accident?"
The dam finally broke. Clara collapsed into Mia's arms, her knees giving out before she could even reach the rug. She sobbed with a raw, guttural intensity that shook her entire frame, a sound so hollow and pained it made Mia's blood run cold.
"He… he…" Clara couldn't even finish the sentence. She just clutched Mia's oversized sweatshirt, burying her face into her friend's shoulder as she wailed.
Mia didn't push. She simply sat on the floor, pulling Clara's head into her lap, stroking her hair and whispering soft, jagged comforts as Clara's tears soaked through her clothes. It took nearly twenty minutes for the sobs to subside into hitching, ragged breaths.
Slowly, in broken fragments, the story came out. And then, the words—the poison Julian had spat at her. Fat. Ugly. A charity case. A burden.
As Clara spoke, she felt Mia's body go from soft and comforting to rigid, vibrating steel. By the time Clara mentioned Julian's "needs" and his "image," Mia's eyes weren't just angry; they were predatory.
"He said what?" Mia whispered, her voice dangerously low.
"He said… he tried to accept me," Clara choked out, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "He said he stayed out of gratitude because I'm 'too kind.' He told me he found 'the one'"
Mia didn't say anything at first. She stood up slowly, her movements calculated and terrifyingly calm. She walked over to the kitchen counter, grabbed a heavy glass candle, and for a second, Clara thought she was going to throw it. Instead, Mia slammed her hand down on the counter, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"That son of a bitch," Mia hissed, turning around. Her face was flushed with a righteous, protective fury. "That absolute, bottom-feeding, talentless hack! He used you, Clara! He used your money, your time, your emotional labor to build his pathetic little ego, and now that he thinks he's 'ascended,' he thinks he can toss you out like yesterday's trash?"
Mia reached for her denim jacket, her eyes flashing. "Where is he? Is he still at the penthouse? Don't answer that, of course he is, probably celebrating with that skeletal tramp. I'm going over there. I am going to tear that man apart limb from limb. I'll rip the hair out of Sasha's head and make Julian eat his own engagement ring. I swear to God, Clara, I will burn his world down!"
"Mia, no! Stop!" Clara scrambled up, grabbing Mia's arm before she could reach the door. "Please, just stay. Don't go there."
"Why not?" Mia roared, turning back with tears of rage in her own eyes. "He destroyed you! He called you those names! How can you just let him sit there and breathe the same air as us?"
"Because you can't force someone to love you, Mia!" Clara cried, her voice breaking. "I begged him. I literally crawled on the floor and told him I'd change everything about myself—my body, my face, my soul—just to stay. And he looked at me with disgust. If I send you there to fight him, it just makes me look more desperate. It makes me look like the 'dramatic disaster' he says I am."
Clara took a deep breath, leaning against the wall for support. "I always felt it, Mia. Deep down. I saw the way his eyes lingered on other women at parties. I saw the way he'd look at my plate when I took a second helping of dinner. I thought I was being paranoid. I thought it was just my own insecurity talking. Turns out, I was right all along. He was never mine. He was just waiting for a better offer."
Mia looked at her friend, her heart breaking for the girl who had always been too good for a world this cruel. Her gaze drifted to the dining table, where a stack of elegant, cream-colored wedding invitations sat, tied with a gold ribbon.
With a snarl, Mia walked over to the table. She grabbed the stack and, with one violent motion, ripped the top five invitations in half, the thick cardstock shrieking as it tore. She threw the pieces into the trash can with a vengeance.
"Fine," Mia said, her voice dropping to a sharp, icy edge as she turned back to Clara. "You won't let me go over there and catch a felony charge today? Fine. You're letting him go easily? Okay. That's your choice, and I'll respect it."
She stepped forward, taking Clara's hands in hers, her grip firm and unwavering.
"But listen to me, Clara. You might be letting him go, but I am not. He thinks he's a big shot? He thinks he's 'ascended'? He has no idea who he just messed with. You were his backbone, his bank account, and his conscience. Without you, he's nothing but a hollow suit."
Mia's eyes narrowed, a dark, calculating smirk touching her lips. "He wants to see what life is like without a 'burden' like you? I'm going to make sure he gets exactly what he asked for. I'm going to ensure he loses everything—his reputation, his contracts, his pride. I will ruin him, Clara. Slowly, painfully, and completely. He won't even see it coming."
Clara looked at her friend, feeling a tiny, flickering spark of warmth in the center of her frozen chest. She didn't want revenge—not yet.
"Now," Mia said, pulling Clara toward the bathroom. "You are going to take a hot shower. I am going to make you tea. And tomorrow? Tomorrow we figure out how to remind the world—and that coward—exactly who the hell Clara is."