Ch 3

"Seize every share of Vance Investment released on the secondary market tonight. Do not leave even one percent for Julian."

The voice of Clarissa—the new identity she had chosen after rising from the ashes of her suffering three years prior—rang out crisp and commanding like a bell’s clear chime within her opulent private office atop a London skyscraper. She wore a deep maroon evening gown that clung to her figure with perfection, radiating an elegant, untouchable coldness. Three years had passed; the woman who once wept trapped inside a burning car had transformed into the Managing Director of Blackwood Capital—the most feared international investment consortium in Europe.

"All transactions have been finalized, Madam Clarissa," replied her personal assistant, a sharp young man in a tailored suit standing respectfully beside her desk. "Per your orders, we now hold nearly thirty percent of the core subsidiary shares under the Vance Group. Mr. Julian Vance is currently scrambling in a panic to secure new investors to cover severe capital leaks caused by targeted internal sabotage."

Clarissa curled her lips into a faint smile—beautiful, yet utterly devoid of warmth in her hawk-sharp eyes. She swirled the crystal glass of red wine between her slender fingers.

"Julian has always fancied himself the master player on this board," she murmured softly to herself. "He has no idea the board itself has changed hands."

Three years was no short span to heal wounds—both those etched into her flesh and those buried deep in her soul. With Dr. Aris’s far-reaching connections and relentless dedication to reclaiming and sharpening her professional brilliance and business instincts, the gentle, patient, yielding Clara Vance had died completely. All that remained was Clarissa: a calculating woman who lived by numbers, power, and unflinching strategy alone.

Her phone vibrated atop the marble desk, displaying an official electronic invitation to the Global Business Gala—the most prestigious annual business gathering in her hometown, attended by the industry’s most powerful tycoons—including Julian Vance.

"Shall we confirm your attendance for tomorrow evening, Madam?" the assistant asked.

"Without question," Clarissa replied firmly, dismissing any lingering doubt. "It is time for the phoenix to return to its old hunting grounds. I want to witness Julian’s reaction when he sees the 'ghost' from his past standing tall right before his eyes."

The following night, the Grand Ballroom shimmered with the sparkle of crystal chandeliers and hummed with the soft flow of classical music. Elite business figures gathered in their finest formal wear, exchanging practiced, hollow smiles and business cards.

In a quiet corner, Julian Vance stood alone, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He remained devastatingly handsome, yet an air of profound darkness clung to him. His once resolute face was etched with permanent lines of exhaustion. In the three years since that catastrophic night, Julian had never been the same again. Guilt gnawed at his soul every waking hour, shattering any peace he might have found. Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by the image of the burning car and the echo of Clara’s desperate screams.

Maya stood beside him in a lavish gown and reached out to touch his arm gently. "Julian, smile just a little. Your business partners are watching. Set aside the company’s troubles for one evening."

Julian pulled his arm away sharply, cold and dismissive, rejecting her touch entirely. "I am here to work, Maya. Not to amuse myself."

Julian’s frigid treatment of Maya was no secret to anyone. Though Maya tried desperately to fill the void Clara left behind, Julian had built an impenetrable wall between them. His greatest regret was choosing her that fateful night—a choice that had cost him his beloved wife and the child they were waiting for.

Suddenly, a ripple of hushed murmurs from the grand entrance drew the attention of everyone in the hall. The intricately carved mahogany doors swung wide open, and the sharp, rhythmic click of high heels cut through the soft music and chatter.

"Who is that woman?"

"Extraordinary... isn’t she the new head of Blackwood Capital?"

"Look at her presence—so commanding, so powerful."

Julian turned his head toward the entrance, annoyed by the sudden commotion. But the moment his eyes locked onto the figure stepping into the light, the whiskey glass slipped from his numb fingers and shattered into countless shards against the marble floor.

CRASH!

The sound rang out sharply, yet Julian paid it no mind. The blood in his veins seemed to freeze completely. His face blanched deathly pale, and his breath caught painfully in his throat.

There she stood—clad in an elegant black evening gown that sculpted her silhouette perfectly. Her long hair fell in sleek, polished waves; her lips were painted a striking, vivid crimson. That face—those defined jawlines, those almond-shaped eyes—was the very image that had haunted his nightmares and fueled his deepest remorse for three long years.

"Clara...?" Julian breathed, his voice trembling and barely audible.

Ignoring the curious stares of the guests and Maya’s frantic cries calling his name, Julian strode forward—nearly running—forcing his way through the crowd. His heart hammered so violently it ached in his chest; a wild, long-buried hope surged back to life. His wife was alive! His Clara had not died that night!

"Clara!" Julian called out hoarsely, stopping abruptly just two steps before her. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, filled with disbelief and overwhelming, aching longing. "It is... it is truly you? You are alive?"

Clarissa came to a halt. She turned slowly to face Julian, watching him as he stood there unraveled before her. There was no shock on her beautiful face. No panic, no explosive rage—only a terrifying blankness: cold, distant, and utterly lethal.

She raised one eyebrow with flawless grace, looking Julian over from head to toe as if he were nothing more than a trivial insect blocking her path.

"I beg your pardon, Sir?" Clarissa’s voice was low, calm, and stripped of every trace of the warmth Julian had once cherished. "You appear to have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Clarissa Blackwood—and I do not know who you are."