Ch 4

"Do not play games with me, Clara! It is me—Julian, your husband!"

Julian stepped forward, his hand trembling as he reached out to grasp Clarissa’s fingers. But before their skin could even brush, two broad-shouldered bodyguards in sharp black suits stepped in his path, forming an unyielding wall before her.

"Keep your distance, Mr. Vance," the guard warned, his voice deep and absolute.

Julian froze, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes, red-rimmed with longing, peered past the guards, locking onto the woman standing before him. He could not be mistaken. Every contour of her face, the shape of her lips, even the way she held herself—belonged to Clara, the wife he had abandoned to burn alive three years ago. Yet everything felt different. Those eyes no longer held the soft warmth and devotion that used to greet him every time he came home. Now they were hard as cut crystal, cold as ice at the North Pole.

"Clarissa Blackwood," she repeated calmly, smoothing the cuff of her black silk gloves. She looked at Julian as if he were merely a trivial interruption amid this lavish gala. "I have just arrived from London to oversee the acquisition of several assets here. If you wish to discuss business with Blackwood Capital, please have your secretary book an appointment with mine during working hours."

"Please, Clara... do not do this to me," he whispered, his voice cracking with raw, chest-wrenching despair. The arrogance and dominance that defined him crumbled to dust before her. "I know I made a fatal mistake that night. I know I destroyed you. But you are alive... God knows how deeply I have regretted every single second of these past three years..."

Clarissa let out a soft laugh—delicate, yet sharp as a stinging lash. With slender fingers, she swirled the stem of the drink a passing waiter had handed her.

"A fatal mistake? Regret?" She lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes directly with a fearless confidence she had never possessed before. "My dear Mr. Vance, you are being far too dramatic. If this 'Clara' you speak of has truly passed away, should you not be praying for her peace rather than harassing a foreign guest at such a formal event?"

"Julian!"

Maya finally forced her way through the crowd of whispering, onlookers. She grabbed Julian’s arm, her face pale with panic as she stared up at Clarissa close-up. The existence of a woman who looked so identical to Julian’s late wife was her worst nightmare come to life.

"Julian, let’s go. Everyone is watching us," Maya pleaded, her voice shaking, eyes darting nervously around the room. "She is not Clara! Clara died three years ago! The doctors and the police confirmed it themselves!"

Clarissa glanced at Maya, a faint, mocking smirk curling her crimson lips. "That is very wise advice from the lady beside you, Mr. Vance. You would do well to listen to her—just as you always did in the past."

The words struck Julian like a crushing blow to the chest. That subtle sting was too precise, too sharp to come from a stranger. His heart hammered violently; he was now absolutely certain—the woman standing before him was his wife, risen from the dead.

"You remember..." he breathed, tears of three years of suppressed remorse finally spilling down his cheeks. "You remember everything, Clara... you are doing this to punish me..."

"My name is Clarissa," she cut in coldly, without the slightest hesitation. "And I do not waste time plotting revenge against someone who does not even register on my radar of importance. Now, excuse me—I have a scheduled meeting with the banking board in the VIP lounge."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned with effortless grace. The rich maroon lining of her black gown swished elegantly as she walked away. Her steps were steady, precise, and resolute—proving she remained entirely unmoved by the heartbreak of the man who had once been her entire world.

Julian made to chase after her, but his feet felt glued to the cold marble floor. Her guards stood firm, blocking his path until she vanished through the heavy mahogany doors of the VIP room.

Once the doors clicked shut behind her, Clarissa leaned briefly against the cool wood. She closed her eyes, steadying her quickened breath. Her right hand clenched tightly, nails digging sharply into her palm.

Seeing Julian broken, weeping and begging before her brought no cheap sense of triumph—but it gave her absolute certainty: the love she had once held for him was truly dead. The stench of gasoline and the searing agony of that burning night had scorched every last trace of it away.

"Are you quite well, Madam Clarissa?" her assistant asked, waiting for her inside.

Clarissa opened her eyes again; the fleeting flicker of emotion vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, composed calm.

"I am perfectly fine," she replied evenly. She walked over to the conference table and settled into the head chair. "What is the status of the acquisition documents for the Vance Group?"

"Everything is fully prepared, Madam. Tomorrow morning, our legal team will formally deliver the hostile takeover notice to Mr. Vance’s offices."

Clarissa smiled—cold, sharp, and utterly victorious. "Excellent. Let Julian Vance spend tonight chasing the ghost of his 'lost wife'—for tomorrow morning, he will be far too busy watching the collapse of the proud business empire he built with his own hands."