CHAPTER 6

Clarissa

"Ready, Mrs. Gaston?" Valentine’s voice rolled low under the shouting press.

The limo door slid open. Cold air hit my cheeks, smelling like wet pavement and cheap perfume.

Cameras fired. White light strobed against my retinas, turning the night into blinding flashes.

Photographers pressed against the black velvet ropes. Lenses pointed like loaded guns, taking in every inch of my body. I dug my teeth into my lower lip, trying to mask the tremble in my frame.

There was no need to flinch. This was what I wanted—to make them stare until their eyes bled.

Valentine stepped onto the carpet first. Tailored suit hugging those massive shoulders. Silver hair immaculate. Jaw set like iron. He turned back, extending one broad hand into the door frame.

I reached out, resting my palm on his arm. The solid muscle under Italian wool felt like a pillar.

"Let's burn this place down," I whispered.

Four guards stepped in, shoving reporters back to clear a straight path. We climbed the stone steps, taking our sweet time. Seven long years of being pushed around. Seven years of Drake calling me useless, broken, barren. Every single humiliation squeezed down into this exact footstep.

The door swung open. The chaotic noise of the street snapped off, swapped for soft harp music and snobbish chatter.

The hall was ridiculous. White roses wrapped around every pillar. Crystal chandeliers dropped warm light over hundreds of high-society parasites. Champagne flutes clunked together. Fake laughs bounced off high ceilings.

Then the speaker crackled, and a voice boomed through the hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the parents of the bride, Mr. Valentine and Mrs. Clarissa Gaston!"

At the front table, four heads turned at the same time.

Drake. Brittany. Beatrice. Brenda.

They expected a solitary billionaire walking in to fix their mess. They expected the man holding their entire bank account in his palm.

Instead, they got us.

Valentine walked with that calm, heavy confidence. Tucked tight against his side, my fingers anchored over his forearm, was me.

Spine straight. Shoulders back. The diamond necklace Valentine locked around my neck caught the overhead lights, throwing bright glimmers across the floor.

Drake’s face went ghost white. His jaw sagged open. The champagne glass in his hand tilted, sloshing amber liquid over the rim and soaking into his sleeve. He didn't even feel it.

Brittany’s eyes turned into wide saucers. She stumbled back a step, her heel catching her dress hem, bumping hard into her mother.

Beatrice, who spent years telling me I was a cursed blight on her family, clutched her throat. Her chest heaved like she forgot how oxygen worked. Brenda looked like she was about to throw up right on her expensive shoes.

Silence dropped over the room, and soon voices began to spill out.

"Isn't that... wait, is that Clarissa Hudson? Drake’s ex-wife?"

"Clarissa?"

"Why is she on Mr. Gaston's arm?"

"Did he just say... Mrs. Gaston?"

Gasps traveled through the crowd like falling dominoes.

"The discarded wife Drake dumped just walked back in as his new mother-in-law. The barren girl now holds the keys to the biggest empire in the city," someone murmured very close to us.

Drake’s knuckles turned white around his glass.

His chest heaved in quick, shallow pulls. He stared at my hand on Valentine's arm before slowly taking in the way Valentine shifted his frame, placing his body between me and the crowd.

Look at me, Drake. I sank my nails into Valentine's sleeve. Look at what you threw away. Look who owns you now.

I didn't need to say those words out loud; it was pretty clear.

Valentine leaned down. His jaw brushed my temple. His warm breath hit my skin, sending a subtle shudder down my spine.

"They look like they saw a ghost, my sweet."

"They did," I said, my voice steady. "The ghost of the woman they tried to ruin."

Valentine let out a low, dark laugh. He guided me through the frozen crowd, acting like the room was totally empty. Every single step toward their table was a calculated hit.

When we reached the front area, Brittany stammered forward. Her lips wobbled under heavy red lipstick. "D…Dad? What... what is this? Why is she—"

"Show some respect to your mother, Brittany," Valentine cut in. His tone wasn't loud, but it sliced through the room like a blade.

Brittany froze. Her face turned a splotchy, burning red as humiliation crept up her cheeks. Beatrice grabbed her daughter's arm, yanking her back before she could say another word.

The party resumed. People pretended to dance, but their eyes stayed glued to us. They sipped wine, whispering behind their hands.

An hour in, the room got suffocating. The smell of crushed flowers and sweat turned my stomach.

"I need air," I whispered, sliding my fingers off Valentine's arm.

His eyebrows pulled together. His eyes swept over my face, checking for pale skin. "Do you want me to come?"

"No. Just the balcony. Two minutes."

He nodded once, his broad palm resting on my waist for a beat before letting go. "Don't go far."

I weaved past clusters of gossiping executives, heading toward the glass doors leading to the VIP terrace. The cool night air hit my face, burning off the heavy heat of the hall. I leaned against the stone railing, taking a slow breath to settle the churning in my gut.

A hurried footstep crunched on the terrace floor behind me.

I didn't need to look to know who it was.

Before I could move, a hand shot out, clamping around my wrist in a crushing grip. The smell of liquor and a familiar cologne hit the back of my throat.

Drake yanked me around. His face was twisted, eyes bloodshot, veins popping along his neck in a mess of rage and panic.

"What the hell is this, Clarissa?" he snarled, his fingers digging into my skin until it hurt. "What kind of sick, twisted game are you playing?"