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CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
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2025-10-17 00:55:00CLARISSA.
The morning after Devan's arrest was filled with a silence that screamed absence. The house felt cold, the corridors seemed longer than I remembered, and every echo of my footsteps was swallowed by the weight pressing down my chest. I hadn't slept a wink all night, and every time I tried to close my eyes, all I could see was the headlines flashing in the dark.
Devan Owen Arrested — Fraud, Embezzlement, Murder.
The last word kept looping in my head like a siren. Murder?
Devan wasn't capable of that. He wasn't even capable of any of the charges brought against him. He owned a flourishing tech firm and was among the top young millionaires in the country, though he lived a very modest life that got me wondering most times. Why would he think of embezzling funds, and from a company I presided over, of all the people and companies in the world? Whatever his flaws were, whatev
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BRUCE.The challenge came softly, too softly..“If you want freedom, you’ll have to earn it,” the cloaked figure said, his voice low, steady, and unbothered. “No weapons, no tricks. Just a fight.”The words hung in the air, almost absurd in the calm of the room, and for minutes, none of us said a word.My chest rose and fell in shallow, measured breaths, each one heavier than the last. The air in the room was cold, damp, laced with the metallic sting of rust and old blood. My wrists were raw where the cuffs had bitten into my skin and my whole body was battered. Something still burnt within me, beneath all of that, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of tagging me a weakling.I didn’t wait to think. I lunged.The first strike was wild, a blur of muscle and fury, but my jab met nothing but air.The cloaked figure moved like smoke, taking a quick sidestep and a twist. I heard a brutal crack next as he had my arm wrenched behind my back, slamming me to the ground. Pain flared
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CLARISSA.I stood for some minutes before I ran after her, stopping her just before she got into the elevator. “Isabella!” I called out, my voice slicing through the cold air.She froze, turning to face me.“Can you say what you said again?” I asked. She repeated herself, her words cutting through the composure I was struggling so hard to maintain since the boardroom erupted. She revealed that Bruce hadn’t disappeared, and that he was taken. And that sent chills down my spine.For a long time, I simply stared at Isabella, waiting for her to laugh, to twist the knife further the way she always did. But her face didn’t move. There was no smirk, no taunting glint in her eyes. Just quiet certainty, and beneath it, something that looked like fear.My pulse began to thunder, though my voice came out cold and even. “You’re lying.”“I wish I were,” Isabella said softly.My hands curled into fists. Isabella must really have taken me for a joke. “You think you can walk in here, throw around yo
Divorced: Ex-wife Heiress Strikes Back CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED AND NINETEEN
CLARISSA.The boardroom had always been my fortress. Its clean lines, glass walls, and quiet hum of central air had once symbolized control. It was a place where my word carried weight, where my father’s legacy felt like something I could still hold together. But this morning, the room was suffocating. The walls seemed to pulse with the tension of the people seated around me, every whispered exchange like the hiss of leaking air from a pipe.I sat at the head of the long, gleaming table posture perfect, my eyes fixed on the screen in front of me. Slides flashed—profit margins, shareholder reactions, market projections but none of it mattered. My body was here but my mind wasn’t.I couldn’t stop replaying the last time I had seen Devan through the cold glass at the prison. His eyes—tired, searching, but still clinging to something like faith in me. It haunted me. Bruce’s disappearance on the other hand pressed harder with every passing hour. He was powerful, yes, but not untouchable. A
Divorced: Ex-wife Heiress Strikes Back CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN
BRUCE.I had lost count of the days or weeks maybe, that I had spent here. The damp air clung to my lungs, heavy with rust, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood — my blood. My wrists were torn raw beneath the cuffs that chained me to the iron chair, each movement scraping flesh against steel. Every breath I took sounded too loud, bouncing off the concrete walls of the small, windowless room. There was no clock, and there was no single source of light. The only thing I heard that tethered me to reality was the slow drip of water echoing somewhere behind me, marking time in astonishing irregularity. I had stopped shouting after the first few hours. Yelling only wasted my strength and I never wasted what I could use later. Still, the silence pressed down like a weight, suffocating in its patience. It wasn’t fear that kept me quiet now. It was calculation.Someone wanted me alive, I knew that for sure. The bruises on my ribs, the precision of my restraints, and the untouched food
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CLARISSA.The prison always smelled the same — of bleach and rust, a sterile mix that clung to my clothes long after I left. I moved through the metal detectors with practiced calm, though my pulse betrayed my composure. The guard at the end of the corridor nodded, unlocking the door to the visitation room.Inside, the light was pale, flickering, and buzzing overhead like an anxious thought that wouldn’t fade.And then I saw him.He sat behind the glass, his shoulders slightly slumped, his hands folded on the table. His eyes lifted slowly, and for a moment, neither of us moved. The world outside—the reporters, the verdict, the whispers of Bruce’s disappearance, all of it dissolved into the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.When I finally crossed the room and sat down, the chair scraped loudly against the floor, breaking the silence.“Clarissa,” Devan said first, his voice rough from days of incarc
Divorced: Ex-wife Heiress Strikes Back CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN
CLARISSAThe city blurred past my eyes all through the suffocating ride back home, but I saw none of it. My father’s grip on my arm was firm, a silent command for obedience disguised as protection. The cameras and some press members had followed us all the way from the courthouse steps with their flashes, shouts, the chaos of the verdict and scandal but once the doors of the black sedan closed, silence fell like a blade.He spared no glance at me for once, not even when I trembled nor when my breath came out in ragged bursts. It was when I tried to speak—to ask him why—did he cut me off with a sharp, “Not here.”I went mute and waited. The drive stretched endlessly and by the time the gates of the Montclair estate loomed ahead, my pulse had become a furious drumbeat against my skin.When the car finally crawled to a stop, my father stepped out first. He didn’t open my door; he expected me to follow. And I did — only because I wanted to face him.The moment the heavy front doors closed
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