CHAPTER 2

Clarissa

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I finally felt my anger subside, giving way to absolute clarity.

The brutal events of the day still flashed in my head—the crumpled wedding card, the sickening sounds from our bedroom, and my in-law's insults. But as I force a slow, deep breath, the weight of reality begins to crash down on me.

I couldn't just walk away. Divorcing Drake wasn't just a matter of pride. It carried a death sentence.

The bitter truth was that Drake held the cards to my sister's life. He was the one funding my twin sister’s astronomical medical bill, something I couldn't afford.

Two years ago, a catastrophic earthquake took my parents from me in a single night. My twin was the only blood relative I had left in this world—the last piece of my family lineage. If I divorced Drake without a backup plan, his funding would stop, and she would die.

It was that simple.

For five years, I had been the ‘behind the scene’ and literally built algorithms that made his empire billions. But like a fool, I had trusted him. My salary, my bonuses, and the intellectual property rights to my models were all locked in joint marital trusts that required his signature to release. He had systematically stripped me of financial autonomy so that my sister’s life support remained under his thumb.

Even if I swallowed my pride, refused to divorce him, or desperately tried to find a standard accounting job, no ordinary salary could ever afford her treatments. I would be backed into a corner with nowhere to escape.

It was a do-or-die situation. I had to find a weapon, an alternative, or a miracle. I had to find a way out by any means necessary and failure was not an option.

Arriving at the gala tonight, I was dressed specifically to be seen and noticed. It was an exclusive masquerade event, and the elegant black lace mask obscuring the top half of my face provided anonymity. On every invitation card, I could see the list of elite guests who would be there.

It happened every year, and this year, I was fortunate enough to be listed. Billionaires were always at the very top of that list. I hadn't wanted to come at first, completely done with doing all the secret work for Drake while he paraded his new fiancée. I had deliberately chosen to attend it after discovering the wedding card.

After just three months of me partially stepping back, his empire's debt began to rise… the main reason he desperately needed Valentine Gaston—a notoriously reclusive titan who fiercely guarded his privacy, ensuring his face and voice were completely kept out of the public eye.

My eyes swept across the hall, searching patiently for any target. The event was yet to kick off while people settled in. I wore a backless emerald silk dress that clung to every curve Drake claimed was "expired." If I was overused soil, I was currently draped in the finest harvest. I had spent an hour on my makeup, contouring my face until my cheekbones looked sharp enough to draw blood. I didn't look like a grieving wife; I looked like a woman who was about to take everything.

Then, I spotted a man across the hall. It was strange—I couldn’t even recognize him.

He sat at a corner table, surrounded by men half his age who looked terrified to breathe in his direction. Silver-templed and imposing, he carried the kind of rugged, refined energy that made middle age look less like a number and more like a conquest. He didn't just sit in the room; he owned the air inside it. His hair was combed neatly to the back, and his tailored suit looked like it cost more than Drake’s entire fleet of cars. Behind a sleek, dark Venetian mask, his eyes stared at a glass of whiskey, looking bored—looking like a king who had seen every trick in the book.

I was hesitant until I realized I was walking straight toward him.

"Hello, stranger," I said, betraying none of the adrenaline running through my veins.

He looked up with those dark brown eyes. They traveled slowly from the hem of my dress up to my throat, lingering for a second too long before meeting my gaze.

“I'm Ryder and you—” He raised his hand to me.

"Uh, Clary," I accepted his hand shake.

He glanced down at his watch—not just any budget brand, but a Patek Philippe—his posture suddenly stiffening with an impatient aura. “Nice to meet you, Miss Clary. But I’m sorry, the global futures market ends its night session in ten minutes, and I have an eight-figure position to manage before it locks.”

​"If you are planning to buy into Meridian Logistics freight futures right now, don't," I said calmly as he shifted from his seat to walk away.

​He paused, his brows furrowing as a hint of interest lit his eyes. "How do you even know about that trade?"

​I didn't hesitate to respond. “I work as a Quant with six years of experience. I specialize in mathematical models for maritime logistics. I've already run a predictive algorithm on that exact shipping network.”

​I looked straight at him as I continued. "The automated port data releases at 9:00 p.m. My models suggest it will expose a supply-chain bottleneck severe enough to cause a short squeeze. I'd exit that position before the numbers hit.”

Ryder sighed, his eyes narrowing. He stared at his phone, hesitating for a split second as if giving it a second thought. But when his thumbs began swiping across his screen to authorize an order through his brokerage portal, I knew he was finally taking my warnings seriously.

Hardly ten seconds passed after the clock struck 9:00 PM before Ryder's phone lit up with notifications. The Meridian cargo index plummeted exactly as I predicted.

Stunned, he looked up at me with genuine admiration. "Oh, that's genius. Your timing was perfect. You just saved me millions of dollars, Clary.”

"It is my pleasure, sir," I replied.

​A small, intrigued smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You read trade reports at a gala? Most women here are more interested in the floral arrangements or the size of the diamonds on their neighbors' necks."

It finally looked like I had broken his boredom as I didn't respond. He was ready to turn me into a puzzle he had to solve, and I could feel it in the way his gaze dragged along my frame, lingering on the curve of my waist before snapping back to my eyes.

But no matter how confident I appeared on the outside, inside, I was drowning in confusion. I knew all the major billionaires connected to Meridian Logistics, but I had never heard of anyone bearing the name Ryder. Unless he was completely low-key, who exactly was this man? I would just have to figure him out later.

​For now, I needed to focus on my plan.

​I spent the next hour playing a dangerous game. I pretended to drink more than I intended to, making my laughter a little louder and my touches a little more lingering whenever I reached past him for a napkin. I watched the man watch me. He wasn't a fool—he knew I was performing, but he was clearly enjoying the show.

By the time the main event started, I leaned toward him, my breath smelling of champagne. I let my head loll slightly. "I think… I think I’ve had way too many of these," I whispered, swaying in my seat.

He caught my elbow, his grip firm and warm.

"You’ve had plenty. Where are you staying? I’ll have my driver take you to your hotel."

I let out a soft, airy chuckle and looked up at him through my lashes. "What hotel? I didn't book any. I was supposed to go home to a house that isn't mine anymore. I don't think I can make it back tonight. Not on my own."

I leaned into him, letting my weight rest against his shoulder. "I feel safer with you. Is that strange?"

He went silent. I could feel the tension in his arm. He was thinking hard, calculating the risk. Then, he stood up, pulling me with him, "Let’s get you out of here."

He didn't take me to a driver. He led me straight to the private elevator that went to the penthouse suites of the hotel hosting the gala. My heart was racing, but I kept my face relaxed, my eyes half-closed.

When we entered his suite, the luxury was staggering, but I didn't look at the decor. He led me toward the massive marble bathroom and turned on the gold faucets of the tub.

"Take a bath, Clary," he said, his voice gruff.

"Sober up. I’ll have some coffee brought up."

"You're so kind," I teased, my voice thick with fake sleepiness.

I waited until I heard the door click shut. I didn't take a bath to sober up, it was to freshen up. I stripped off the emerald dress, let it fall to the floor, and scrubbed the makeup off my face until my skin glowed. I wanted him to see me the way I am.

I stepped out of the bathroom completely naked.

He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of whiskey in one hand and his phone in the other. He was mid-sentence, talking about a stock closing, when he turned around.

The phone didn't drop, but his voice died in his throat. His eyes swept over me, from my damp hair down to my toes. He didn't look away. He didn't act like a gentleman. He looked at me like a man who hadn't eaten in days.

"I'll call you back," he muttered gruffly into the receiver, his thumb firmly pressing the screen to end the call before tossing his locked phone onto the sofa.

"What are you doing, Clary?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, don't tell me you brought me here so I could sleep peacefully," I said, walking toward him, each step deliberate. "You and I both know you didn't bring me up here to protect my virtue. You’ve been looking at me all night like you wanted to see exactly what was under that silk. So tell me... Do you like the view?"

"A honey trap? That's the game we're playing tonight after your genius prediction?" He set the whiskey glass down on the side table, a dark, predatory smirk spreading inside his mask as he confidently accepted the challenge. "Too bad for whoever sent you, because my security is very strong and I don't give up my secrets easily... you’re going to have to work much harder to break me.”

He added, “Once I'm done with you, you won't be remembering any of their instructions."

"I was never sent to honey trap you," I argued.

"Well, you're quite manipulative," he said, the word sounding like a compliment coming from him. "And even though I know this is intentional, I still find it incredibly interesting."

He didn't wait for me to respond. He took a long, predatory stride, closing the gap between us. His hand shot out, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me flush against his hard, suited body. His other hand went to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair to hold me in place.

Then, he reached up and unbuckled his mask. I reached for mine, letting it slip away.

The moment the black lace fell from his face, I froze. The sharp, rugged jawline and the piercing dark eyes that had been hidden behind that mask belonged to none other than Valentine Gaston—Drake's fiancée's father.

So 'Ryder' was a fake name? Or maybe a nickname...

He wasn't a face I recognized from the media; while Brittany embraced the spotlight, Valentine Gaston fiercely guarded his privacy. I wouldn't have recognized him if I hadn’t found a private investigator’s file in Drake’s office desk last week.

I thought I had only murmured the realization to myself, but his tightening grip around my waist proved otherwise. My quiet whisper—"Valentine Gaston?"—had reached his ears.

“Something wrong, Clary?” Valentine misinterpreted my shock as hesitation. “You’re shaking.”

A sudden panic rushed through me, and my breath caught in my throat. I was currently playing a seductive game with the exact man my husband was begging to save him. For a single, heart-stopping second, I hesitated, completely paralyzed by the realization.

For a moment, fear almost got the best of me. Then I realized something that made it vanish: if Drake was marrying this man’s adoptive daughter to save his skin, then Valentine was the ultimate weapon to make him pay.

Whether through business...or something far more dangerous...I would make sure Valentine Gaston never forgot this day.

“Nothing, just keep going,” I answered and when his hand gripped the back of my neck, I parted my lips.

Then, his mouth began to devour mine, kissing the life out of me. My mouth forgot its function, my mind going completely blank as his tongue invaded mine and as I leaned directly into the heat of his touch. I let out a low moan, my hands clutching his shoulders, my nails digging into the expensive fabric of his jacket.

​It was supposed to be a game, but I was getting too pulled into the pleasure he sent through my body.

​He didn't stop. He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist by instinct. He walked us back toward the massive king-sized bed in the center of the room.

​The moment my back hit the mattress and his heavy weight followed me down, I felt a surge of triumph through the heat of the moment.

As Valentine’s hands moved over my skin, I knew there was no going back anymore.