All Chapters of Dealing with Mr fucking right.: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Clara’s POVWho could that be?My heart jumped into my throat. It was almost midnight and Cameron’s penthouse had top-tier security, no one was supposed to get up to this floor without being announced or cleared.The knock came again. Louder and more aggressive.Cameron tensed above me, his body still warm and protective. He started to push himself up from the couch.“No,” I whispered urgently, grabbing his arm with both hands. “Cam, please don’t. Don’t open it.”He looked down at me, his eyes steady even though I could see the anger already simmering beneath the surface. “It’s okay, baby. I’ll handle it. Just stay here.”“No, Cam…” I sat up quickly, still clutching his hand, my voice shaky with fear. “What if it’s him? What if it’s Joe? Please don’t open the door. We don’t know who it is. Let’s just… let’s just ignore it. Please.”Another knock, this one was heavy and furious, like someone was using the side of their fist instead of their knuckles. The sound echoed through the pentho

Clara’s POVMorning light filtered softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Cameron’s penthouse, painting the room in warm golds and soft oranges. I stood by the window in one of Cameron’s oversized shirts, the fabric brushing against my bare thighs and the phone pressed to my ear as I watched the city wake up below.Emma’s voice was already blazing on the other end.“He did WHAT?!” she practically shouted. “That drunk piece of shit showed up at Cameron’s door at midnight? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”I let out a shaky laugh, still replaying the scene in my head. “Yeah. He was totally wasted, Em. Screaming, banging on the door, calling me every name in the book. He tried to punch Cameron and ended up face-planting on the floor like an idiot. Security had to drag him out while he kept yelling ‘You ruined me, you bitch! You’ll fucking pay!’”Emma made a sound that was half growl, half scream. “I wish I had been there. I swear to God, I would’ve punched that smug face so

Clara’s POVI stood by the tall window in Cameron’s penthouse, still wearing nothing but his oversized shirt, the morning light warm on my skin. My phone was pressed to my ear as I spoke to my friend.“Hi Dash. Good morning.”Dash’s voice came through cheerful and familiar. “Morning, Clara! It's been a long time. What’s up, girl?”I took a deep breath. “I’m good. Hey, remember the pictures of Joe that you took of him kissing another lady? The one you showed me last year? Please can I have them?”There was a short pause. “Yeah… I still have them. Why? You okay?”“I’m fine,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I just need them. Can you send them now?”“Sure, love. Sending them over right now.”The photos arrived a few seconds later. I opened them. There they were, clear, undeniable shots of Joe in a dimly lit club, his stupid lips locked with a blonde woman who was definitely not me. The date stamp was from fourteen months ago.Gosh, how did I endure this bullshit for so long?My bl

Joe’s POVThe house was a fucking graveyard. It was way too quiet. What the hell?I stood in the middle of what used to be my living room, I had a glass of whiskey in my hand, and I looked around at the emptiness. Most of the furniture—my furniture, the shit I’d dropped serious money on, was gone. Sold off to feed the goddamn lawyers who were still bleeding me dry and couldn’t even build a decent case.The expensive leather sofa Clara used to hate? Missing. The crystal decanters I kept on the sideboard? Auctioned last week. Even the white flowers she used to obsess over on the hall table had been replaced by dust and silence.Everything I had built was disappearing piece by piece.It was like the universe was against me.Damn it.I took a long swallow of whiskey, the burn doing nothing to dull the rage boiling in my gut.That bitch. After everything I gave her. The cars, the trips, the lifestyle most women would kill for. And she leaves me to go spread her legs for some basketball coa

Clara's POV The waiting room smelled like lavender and old books.I sat in a cream-colored armchair that was too soft, the kind of chair that seemed designed to swallow you whole if you stayed in it too long. My hands were folded in my lap, my bag was tucked under my feet, and I had almost walked out three times in the last seven minutes.The first time was when I pulled into the parking lot. I sat in my car for five minutes with the engine off, staring at the brass plaque beside the door that read Dr. Patricia Sean, Clinical Psychologist, and told myself I didn't need this. I was fine. I had left Joe. I had a job. I had Cameron. I was fine.The second time was when I walked through the front door. The receptionist smiled at me and asked if I wanted water or tea, and I said no thank you, and then I sat down and immediately wanted to stand up again and walk back out.The third time was when I heard a door open somewhere down the hallway and footsteps approaching, and every instinct I