CHAPTER 4

Clara stayed frozen long after Matteo Devereaux walked out of her office.

The door closed softly behind him, but the room still felt crowded, as if his presence had seeped into the walls and refused to leave. 

She stood beside her desk, one hand braced against the edge, the other hanging uselessly at her side. Her heart was still racing, though she wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t threatened her.

Behind her, Tara let out a breath she’d clearly been holding. She leaned against the desk, eyes glowing in a way that made Clara’s stomach twist.

“Okay,” Tara murmured, dragging out the word. “I get why they say he’s intimidating.”

But Clara didn’t respond.

Tara laughed lightly, pushing herself upright. “I mean, did you see him? That jawline alone should be illegal.”

Clara blinked, her mind struggling to catch up with the normalcy of the comment. She turned slowly, watching Tara smooth her blouse as she’d just survived a near-miss with something dangerous and exciting.

“You looked like you were about to faint,” Tara added, teasing. “Relax. He’s just a client.”

‘Just a client.’

Clara swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. “You should get back to your office.”

Tara tilted her head. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” The word came out sharper than intended.

Tara raised her hands in surrender, laughing again. 

“Alright, boss lady. I’ll let you breathe.” She paused at the door, glancing back once more. “Still though… if he ever needs a backup PR, tell him I’m available.”

The door closed behind her. Silence rushed in.

Clara exhaled slowly and sank into her chair. The moment her weight hit the seat, her composure cracked just enough for her shoulders to sag. She dragged a hand down her face, her fingers pressing into her temples.

‘What have I done?’

Her phone buzzed on the desk like it had been waiting.

She stared at it for a long moment before picking it up.

The photo filled the screen instantly. Her stomach dropped all over again.

The kiss looked different in stillness. More intimate and damning. Matteo’s face was unmistakable, his expression caught somewhere between shock and fury. 

Her body was pressed into him with a desperation she barely recognised. She zoomed in, heart pounding. 

‘Thank God.’ She muttered. 

Her face was still hidden. But that wouldn’t last forever.

Clara sat up straighter, her professional instincts clawing their way through the fog. Panic wouldn’t save her. Denial wouldn’t either. She needed control.

Her thumb hovered over the screen as an idea formed slowly, cautiously, then sharpened into something solid.

Options. She listed them quickly

Option one: Admit she was the woman in the photo.

She imagined the headlines. Matteo’s name tied to hers in a way she could never undo.

Her jaw tightened. No.

Option two: Claim a private relationship. She almost laughed. Everyone in her life was aware of Mark. Three years didn’t disappear overnight, not without questions.

Option three: Control the narrative without giving herself up. The public didn't need her. They needed a story. 

Her fingers paused above her phone. Her lips parted slightly as the solution locked into place. A decoy.

The tension in her chest loosened for the first time all day. A breath escaped her, shaky but relieved. She set the phone down and immediately opened her laptop, fingers moving with renewed purpose.

If they wanted a woman, she’d give them one.

She pulled up casting databases, social profiles, and modelling portfolios. Her eyes scanned ruthlessly, not for beauty, but resemblance. Height. Build. Skin tone. Hair length. That dark bob mattered more than anything.

An hour passed. Then two. She narrowed the list down carefully, comparing images side by side. Anyone too distinctive was eliminated. Anyone too well-known was crossed off.

By the time she leaned back, her neck aching, she had four viable options. Now she needed Matteo.

Clara checked the time and sent a meeting request. Thirty minutes later, a notification popped up.

Meeting postponed. New time to be confirmed.

Her jaw tightened. She waited. Refined the file and sent another request. This time, a confirmation came.

2:30 PM.

Her eyes flickered briefly with relief, then vanished when another alert followed.

Rescheduled. 4:00 PM.

Clara stared at the screen, irritation creeping under her skin.

By the time she gathered her things and headed to the Devereaux franchise building, her patience was hanging by a thread. She arrived early, a portfolio clutched against her chest, her posture straight and professional.

Matteo’s secretary didn’t even look up when Clara announced herself.

“He’s in a meeting,” the woman said, fingers flying across her keyboard. “You’ll have to wait.”

Clara glanced at the clock on the wall. 3:58 PM.

“I have a confirmed appointment.”

The secretary offered a tight smile. “He’s unavailable.”

Clara took a seat anyway. Minutes stretched into an hour. Then two.

The executive floor emptied slowly, footsteps fading. Clara shifted in her chair, exhaustion seeping into her bones. Her head throbbed faintly, the earlier adrenaline finally wearing off.

This isn’t an accident, she thought bitterly. Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it. Her eyes burned. Just for a moment, she let them close.

Just a moment. A gentle tap on her shoulder jolted her awake. She blinked, disoriented, the world snapping back into focus. 

A man stood before her, Matteo’s personal assistant, judging by the badge clipped to his shirt.

“Ms Reynolds,” he said quietly. “Mr Devereaux won’t be able to meet today.”

Clara straightened instantly, her face red with embarrassment. She checked her watch. 7:03 PM.

“You’re telling me this now?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “The meeting has been moved to tomorrow.”

Her fingers tightened around her portfolio. For a split second, she considered arguing, demanding respect, demanding accountability, but she swallowed it down. Anger wouldn’t help.

“Of course,” she said evenly, standing. “Tomorrow.”

The assistant nodded and walked away.

Clara exhaled through her nose and headed for the elevator, irritation buzzing under her skin like static. By the time she reached the underground car park, the space was mostly empty, the echo of her heels sharp against the concrete.

That’s when she heard it. Low sirens. She slowed, frowning.

An ambulance was parked near the far end, its back doors open. Harsh white light spilt onto the floor. Men in dark suits stood around it, their posture rigid, alert. 

Bodyguards. 

Clara’s steps faltered. Curiosity tugged at her despite herself. She angled her head slightly, trying to see past the bodies. Someone was being guided toward the ambulance, shielded carefully, and urgently.

Her heart skipped. Before she could make out a face, a large hand lifted in her direction.

“Ma’am,” a bodyguard barked, stepping into her path. “You need to leave.”

Clara stopped short, her pulse thudding. “What’s going on?”

His expression remained impassive. “This area is restricted.”

She craned her neck instinctively, trying to glimpse the person being loaded inside.

“Please,” she said, her voice tight with something she didn’t quite understand. “Is everything…”

“Leave. Now.”

The command snapped through the air.

Clara froze for a beat, then slowly backed away, unease curling deep in her stomach. As she turned toward her car, the ambulance doors slammed shut behind her. The sirens roared to life.

And as the vehicle pulled away, a single thought lodged itself in her chest, heavy, unsettling, and impossible to shake.

Something was very wrong.