All Chapters of Flames of desire. : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Claire's POV“Mr Winters, I am really sorry. I didn't mean to talk to your niece that way. She was just making me angry, and I said things that I should not have said,” I say. I do not want him to think that I am taking advantage of this little affair that we have to show my power. I don't want him to think that I have a new confidence in myself because of him and our little sexual adventures.“Damon,” he says.“Excuse me?” I ask.“My name is Damon, Claire. If we are going to work together, it will be very uncomfortable if you are calling me Mr Winters the whole time. You are the company's lawyer, and I know that you are going to mean a lot for us. I know you are working hard. Is it because of that environmental institute that wants to sue us for polluting the waters?” Damon asks.“Yes, I was working on that file and another one of a man who wants to sue you for unlawful dismissal. You really do not have to worry about anything. I will take care of it. They don't really have a case. Ho

Claire’s POVThe fluorescent lights of Willowcreek’s only decent grocery store hum faintly overhead as I push my cart down the aisle, mentally checking off items from the list in my head. Bread, fruit, milk. It’s been a long day at Whitfield Incorporated, reviewing contracts that feel endless, but I’m proud of how I handled myself. I belong there, no matter how many people might whisper otherwise. I’m reaching for a jar of honey when I hear the sound I least want to heels clicking in a sharp rhythm, followed by that too-sweet, poisoned laugh. Sienna Whitfield! Because fate enjoys cruel timing, she isn’t alone. Mike is with her. For a second, my hand hovers above the honey jar as if it’s the only anchor holding me steady. My chest tightens, my pulse rising. Seeing them together still hurts in ways I hate to admit. Mike, my ex-husband, the man who swore vows to me only to break them when a shinier, prettier prize walked by. Sienna, the woman who never hesitated to steal what wasn’t hers.

Sienna's POVI can’t believe this. I can’t believe what my eyes are showing me. For weeks, I’ve been suspicious. Damon sneaking out late at night, brushing me off when I asked where he was going, acting like I was some silly little girl with too much curiosity. Well, silly little girls don’t hire people to keep an eye on him. Silly little girls don’t track his movements when he thinks he’s too clever to be followed. Tonight, I’ve finally caught him. I stand outside the apartment door of Claire Johnson, yes, pathetic Claire, the ex-wife of Mike Green, the woman who’s been lingering like a bad smell in Willowcreek ever since her divorce. The woman who should have left town slunk away in shame. But no. Not her. She clings, pathetic and desperate. Apparently, she’s clinging to my uncle now.I hear noises from inside. Laughter. A moan. My stomach twists with rage. He didn’t. He couldn’t. My uncle Damon Whitfield, the man who raised me after my father died, the man I trusted, the man who pr

Damon's POVI arrive at Whitfield Incorporated before most of the staff, my black sedan slipping silently into the empty lot. The city is waking slowly, and I let the quiet stretch around me, savouring the moment before the storm inevitably hits. My mind is already running through the possibilities, tracing every path Sienna might take to strike at Claire, every corner she might manipulate, every ally she might try to enlist. I park and step out, the leather of my shoes clicking sharply against the concrete. I don’t glance at the building; I know every line of its facade, every reflective panel of glass, every blind corner where someone might hide. I’ve walked these halls for years. I know its rhythm, its pulse. Today, that pulse feels tense, taut with the promise of conflict.By the time I enter the lobby, the first few employees are trickling in, faces bleary with the remnants of sleep, hands clutching coffee cups like shields. They glance at me with a mixture of awe and wariness. I

Sienna's POVThe door to Damon’s office slams behind me, the sound ricocheting down the hallway like a gunshot. Fired. Damon Whitfield, my own uncle, fires me. The word sears into my pride. Fired. As though I am disposable. As though I haven’t carried this family name with the same weight he does. He sits there behind his polished desk, hiding his weaknesses behind authority, and dares to cast me aside like I am nothing. No. I am not nothing. I am a Whitfield. Whitfields do not bow. My heels click like daggers against the marble floors of Whitfield Enterprises as I march out, past the small-town employees who suddenly find the carpet very interesting. Let them look away. Let them whisper. I am not humiliated, I am furious, and fury, I know, is power. Claire’s face burns in my mind. That simpering little outsider with her doe eyes and soft smile. Damon doesn’t see it, but I do. She’s the reason behind this. She’s sunk her claws into him, twisted his judgment, and made him think he’s un