CHAPTER 2

Clara’s hand fumbled across the nightstand, knocking into her phone twice before she managed to silence the alarm that had just woken her up.

The room fell quiet again, but the echo lingered in her skull, sharp and insistent. She lay still for a moment, eyes closed, waiting for the familiar comfort of morning to arrive. But it didn’t.

Her body felt wrong, heavy and disconnected. Like she had slept in someone else’s skin.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, at the faint crack running above the wardrobe she’d been meaning to fix for months.

Her mouth tasted stale. Her head throbbed faintly, not from alcohol because she hadn’t drunk enough for that, but from exhaustion, the kind that sleep didn’t touch.

Something pressed against her ribs. Nyx.

The Siamese cat was sprawled across her chest like a queen claiming territory, cream-colored fur warm against Clara’s black tank top. One blue eye blinked open lazily, assessing her.

“You’re heavy,” Clara murmured, voice rough.

Nyx responded with a pointed flick of her tail and settled more firmly, as if offended by the suggestion.

Clara let out a breath and brought a hand up to rub her face. The movement dislodged something in her memory, and suddenly the dark wasn’t dark anymore. It had lights and music. A mouth which wasn't Mark’s, on hers.

Her fingers stilled against her cheek. Then she sat up too quickly, Nyx protesting with a sharp meow as she slid off and landed at the foot of the bed. Clara swung her legs over the side, feet hitting the cool floor as the previous night rushed back without warning.

The stranger’s dark eyes. Matteo Devereaux. And her stomach tightened.

She pressed her palms to her thighs, grounding herself, and breathing through the rush of sensation that followed his name. It wasn't desire. It was something messier. 

Embarrassment mixed with disbelief. A sharp pulse of something like dread. She glanced at the clock.

Late.

“Of course,” she muttered, pushing herself to her feet.

Nyx hopped down after her, tail high, following her into the small apartment like a shadow. Clara crossed the bedroom, catching sight of herself in the mirror by the wardrobe. She paused despite herself.

Dishevelled didn’t begin to cover it. Her hair was a tangled mess around her shoulders, curls flattened on one side, wild on the other. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. 

She looked like someone who hadn’t slept. Or someone who had slept and dreamed badly.

Clara turned away before she could spiral and padded toward the kitchen. Each step felt heavier than it should have, her body still lagging behind her thoughts. The apartment was quiet in that hollow morning way, the kind that made everything echo.

She’d come home late. She remembered that much clearly. The way her phone had buzzed incessantly in her bag, notifications piling up while she ignored them. 

The silence she’d walked into, broken only by Nyx’s impatient cries from the bedroom.

She’d dropped her bag by the door and leaned against it for a long moment, staring at nothing, replaying the way Matteo’s voice had sounded when he’d spoken her name. It sounded calm, controlled, and unreadable. And disappointed.

Her chest tightened again as she pushed into the kitchen. Chaos greeted her.

Nyx’s food bowl lay tipped on its side, dry food scattered across the counter and floor. A claw mark ran down the edge of the cereal box she’d left out, the cardboard torn open. A small trail of crumbs led away from the crime scene.

Clara stopped short.

“Oh no.”

Nyx sat beside the mess, deliberately licking one paw with innocence. When Clara stared at her, she lifted her head and meowed softly, as if reminding her of something important.

“I forgot,” Clara breathed.

The realisation hit harder than it should have. She always fed Nyx at night. Always. It was part of the routine she clung to, the one stable thing that anchored her life.

Last night, she’d broken it. Guilt curled low in her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, crouching to pick the bowl. 

She poured fresh food in, watching as Nyx immediately abandoned her pose of indifference and dove in, crunching loudly.

Clara smiled faintly despite herself and began cleaning up the mess. She moved automatically, wiping crumbs into her hand, tossing them into the bin. Her mind drifted, unmoored.

She remembered opening her laptop last night at the small dining table, the glow of the screen harsh against the dim apartment. She’d stared at the document, half a proposal, half a mess, for nearly an hour without typing a single word.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the bar again. She felt the weight of Matteo’s presence when he’d stepped closer. Heard the bite in his voice when he’d asked if she’d enjoyed using him.

She’d shut the laptop eventually, frustration winning out over discipline. Crawled into bed with Nyx curled against her legs and waited for sleep that had come in restless fragments.

Now, standing in the wreckage of her kitchen, the fatigue felt bone-deep. Her phone buzzed on the counter. Clara glanced at it, then froze.

Tara.

She hesitated for half a second before answering, pressing the phone to her ear while she leaned against the counter.

“Good morning,” Tara’s voice burst through, bright and breathless. “Or should I say good afternoon? Because do you know what time it is?”

Clara closed her eyes. “I’m awake.”

“Barely,” Tara shot back. “You sound like you fought a war.”

“It was a long night.”

“Oh, I know,” Tara said, and there was a note in her voice that made Clara straighten. “Did you see the internet this morning?”

Clara’s fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “No. Why would I do that before coffee?”

“Well, you should,” Tara replied, undeterred. “Because something is trending and it’s everywhere.”

Clara’s pulse picked up, subtle but insistent. She focused on the mundane sound, the hum of the fridge, Nyx’s crunching, to keep her grounded.

“What kind of something?” she asked carefully.

“A picture,” Tara said. “Very dramatic and also scandalous.”

Clara’s breath caught before she could stop it. For a split second, her mind betrayed her. Matteo’s startled inhale against her mouth. Then logic kicked in.

“That’s hardly rare,” Clara said lightly. “It’s the internet.”

“I know, but this one…” Tara paused. “This one involves a very recognisable man. And a woman no one can identify.”

Clara released a slow breath. Of course. Of course, it wouldn’t be her. She was nobody. She didn’t exist online in any meaningful way.

“Sounds messy,” she said.

“Oh, it is,” Tara agreed gleefully. “People are losing their minds trying to figure out who she is. I mean, the audacity alone…”

The microwave beeped, sharp and shrill, slicing through Tara’s sentence.

Clara winced. “I have to go.”

“Wait, I didn’t even send you…”

“I’m already late,” Clara cut in, reaching for her mug. “Send it later.”

“Clara…”

She ended the call before she could overthink it. The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

She ate quickly, barely tasting her food, showered with movements born of habit rather than intention, dressed without care. Her reflection followed her like an accusation as she pulled on her coat and grabbed her bag.

The elevator ride down was mercifully empty. By the time she reached the office, she was already ten minutes late.

The lobby buzzed with an energy she didn’t expect. People moved with purpose, voices hushed but excited, eyes darting toward the elevators like they were waiting for something, or someone.

Clara frowned as she scanned her badge and stepped inside. She made it to her desk just as Tara appeared beside her, phone already in hand, with bright eyes.

“You would not believe the morning I’m having,” Tara said, dropping into the chair opposite Clara’s desk without invitation.

Clara barely had time to sit. “You look like you’ve had three coffees.”

“And zero sleep,” Tara confirmed. “Have you noticed how insane it is out there today?”

Clara followed her gaze. The HR manager walked past, clipboard clutched to her chest. Their boss’s personal assistant hurried by moments later, heels clicking sharply, whispering into her phone.

Clara leaned back slightly. “What’s going on?”

Tara lowered her voice, leaning in. “Word is, the company signed a contract with a big shot.”

Clara’s stomach dipped. “What kind of big shot?”

“The kind that makes executives sweat,” Tara said. “They’re setting up a meeting today.”

Before Clara could respond, Tara shoved her phone into her hand.

“Here,” she said. “This.”

Immediately Clara glanced down the world narrowed to a single image. The bar. Her hand twisted in dark fabric.

Her breath left her in a rush she couldn’t stop. It was her.

There was no mistaking it. The curve of her jaw. The tilt of her head. Matteo’s profile was unmistakable even in the blur. The room tilted.

“Clara.”

She barely registered her name before another voice cut in.

“Clara, the boss wants to see you. Now.”

She looked up numbly at her colleague, her heart pounding.

“Now?” she echoed.

Her colleague nodded with no explanation.

Clara handed the phone back with fingers that felt foreign and rose on unsteady legs. Her mind scrambled, grasping for something solid.

The project. It had to be about the project.

She followed the corridor toward the boardroom, each step heavier than the last. The door stood open. She stepped inside. And froze.

Matteo Devereaux sat near the table, his posture was relaxed, and his expression unreadable.

His gaze lifted and locked onto hers. And the room disappeared.