CLARA'S POV The leather portfolio lay open on the mahogany shelf, its silver zipper glinting in the pale moonlight that cut through the penthouse windows. For six months, those pages had dictated the exact perimeter of my life. Every clause had been a wall; every signature, a debt. Now, it was just dead weight. Ares didn't move immediately. He stood beside me, his thumb still resting against the small indentation just beneath my jawline, right where my pulse was finally beginning to slow its frantic rhythm. The heat of his skin was a stark contrast to the chill that usually radiated from him in the boardroom. "The timeline is gone, Clara," he murmured, his deep voice carrying that new, unshielded weight. "Which means the exit strategy is gone too." "I know," I whispered. I didn't pull away. Instead, I reached up, my fingers brushing against the cuff of his charcoal shirt, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart through the fabric. "We don't need a strategy anymore."
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