Ch 8

"Don’t touch me, Clara! Look at you! I can’t even get aroused looking at you anymore. What do you expect me to do, make love to a wall?!"

Julian shoved Clara’s arms away with ruthless force, sending her tumbling onto the edge of the plush king-sized bed. The deep crimson lace nightgown she had bought with the last remnants of her courage now felt like a humiliation, a cruel joke directed at her changing body.

Without giving his weeping wife a single glance, Julian snatched his car keys from the vanity table, pulled his jacket over his shoulder, and strode out of their bedroom. The heavy thud of the front door slamming shut, followed by the aggressive roar of an accelerating sports car engine, signaled his departure—leaving Clara stranded in an suffocating void.

Inside his car, Julian gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. Months of pent-up boredom and frustration made the thought of staying under the same roof with Clara insufferable. He craved thrill, freedom, and the intoxicating desire that had long evaporated from his marriage.

His destination was clear: an exclusive VIP lounge downtown.

The heavy, pulsing bass of the music vibrated through Julian's chest as he stepped into the dimly lit club. Yet, it wasn't the top-shelf liquor or the crowd on the dance floor that caught his eye. It was a woman in a fitted black dress sitting at the corner of the bar, sipping a cocktail.

Vivian—his first love from college, who had recently been appointed as his new personal secretary at the office.

"You're late, Julian," Vivian teased with a slow, captivating smile as he took the stool beside her.

"I needed an escape," Julian muttered, his voice heavy with restraint as his eyes locked onto her painted lips. Within minutes, his remaining moral boundaries dissolved into thin air. He pulled Vivian by the waist, drawing her close, and poured his frustration into a feverish kiss that was met with zero resistance.

The next afternoon brought no warmth to Clara’s hollow chest. With swollen eyes and a heavy heart, she chose to swallow her pride. She convinced herself that perhaps she had been too demanding, and that an olive branch might soften her husband's cold demeanor.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she packed Julian’s favorite lunchbox, dressed in a modest blouse, and drove to his corporate headquarters.

The executive floor was unnaturally quiet when she arrived. Clara walked toward Julian's office, passing the empty secretary desk. She turned the brass doorknob without knocking, hoping to surprise him with a gentle peace offering.

Instead, her world shattered beyond repair.

Right there, on the grand mahogany desk, Julian had his new secretary straddling his lap. Their clothes were half-disheveled, locked in a passionate embrace that Julian hadn't offered Clara in years. The secretary's soft giggle and Julian's low groan sliced through Clara's chest like a jagged blade.

The lunchbox slipped from Clara’s numb hands, crashing loudly onto the floor.

Julian froze, snapping his head toward the entrance. His face paled as he saw his wife standing in the doorway, trembling, tears streaming silently down her pale cheeks.

Unable to utter a single word, Clara turned and ran. She blocked out Julian's muffled shouts behind her, sprinting through the carpeted hallway and bursting out of the glass doors into the bustling city street. Her vision was blurred by a torrent of tears. The rush of the afternoon wind and the sharp blare of car horns faded into a dull ring in her ears.

Screeeech!

The deafening shriek of burning rubber cut Clara’s frantic steps short right in the middle of the pedestrian crossing. A sleek black luxury sedan halted mere inches from her body.

Overcome by shock and exhaustion, Clara’s knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold asphalt.

The rear door of the sedan opened. A tall, imposing man in a tailor-made charcoal suit stepped out. His heavy, measured footsteps approached Clara as she sat helpless on the street.

The man knelt before her. His long, cool fingers gently took hold of her chin, wiping a stray tear from her cheek before tilting her face upward to force her to meet his gaze.

"Are you crying for that useless man, Clara?" his deep voice echoed, laced with a dangerous, dark possessiveness.

Clara gasped, staring into the dark, piercing eyes that felt instantly familiar from a long-forgotten past.

"D-Damon...?" Clara breathed in disbelief.

Damon offered a faint, icy smirk—one that sent a shiver down her spine, yet burned with an undeniable, consuming devotion.

"You said yes all those years ago, Clara," Damon whispered close to her ear. "That means you belong to me. And I will never let you cry for another man again."