Chapter 4

Clara's POV

The next morning, I met my mentor, Mr. Evans.

He invited me to lunch at an exclusive downtown members club to discuss consulting on a new luxury brand account.

The head sommelier recognized me instantly and hurried over with a beaming smile.

"Mrs. Sterling, what an honor! Mr. Sterling reserves a vintage cellar locker here under your name every single year. You currently have forty-seven bottles of rare Burgundy stored at perfect temperature. He told us they are ready whenever you care for a pour."

Mr. Evans chuckled across the table, sighing with admiration. "Julian truly treats you like royalty, Clara. In this town, finding a billionaire that attentive is rarer than finding gold."

I forced a tight smile and said nothing.

After lunch, I excused myself to the restroom and took the elevator down to the private cellars.

The sommelier hadn't exaggerated. Behind a climate-controlled glass display, a locker bore my name in brass lettering. Inside rested forty-seven dusty bottles, each labeled with an anniversary date.

I stood there admiring the vintage labels, but as I turned to leave, my peripheral vision caught the locker directly adjacent to mine.

In the same private bay stood an identical humidor locker.

The brass placard read: Vanessa Shaw & The Twins.

I stepped closer, pressing my palms against the glass.

Row upon row of the exact same vintage reserve, labeled with the exact same acquisition dates as mine.

Even his romantic gestures were purchased in duplicate.

Standing between the two glass lockers, a sharp, bitter laugh escaped my throat.

I shook my head and walked out.

When Julian came home that evening, I was curled up on the sofa. I waited until he kicked off his dress shoes before speaking.

"I need to drive up north in a couple of days to pick up a custom piece of artwork."

"What kind of artwork?" He sat beside me, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "I'll go with you."

"No need, your calendar is overflowing." I shifted subtly to shrug off his heavy arm. "It's a quick turnaround. I'll be back before you notice."

"You haven't recovered from your fainting spell. I don't want you driving alone."

"I'm perfectly fine," I said, softening my tone into a playful, coaxing whisper. "Just let me go by myself. I need some fresh air to clear my head. I've been feeling cooped up lately."

He studied my face for a few seconds before finally conceding.

"Alright. Just drive carefully and call me the second you check into the hotel."

The next morning, I woke up at dawn.

I tore through our walk-in closet, unearthing every single souvenir, token, and memory associated with Julian.

Sixteen handwritten love letters, stored in an engraved rosewood box, totaling over forty thousand words of passionate promises.

I took them out one by one, didn't bother re-reading a single line, and tossed them into the living room fireplace.

Flames licked up the heavy parchment, curling the ink into drifting black cinders.

Next, I gathered all the diamond necklaces, watches, and bracelets he had showered me with over the years into a velvet tote, then called our housekeeper into the parlor.

"Take these," I said. "Sell them at an estate jeweler or keep them for yourself. I don't care."

The poor woman waved her hands in terror, but I shoved the heavy bag into her chest.

All his personalized knickknacks were tossed into cardboard boxes and taped shut.

The only item I kept out was a hand-stitched leather notebook cover he had crafted for me during our first month of dating.

Standing in the center of the living room, watching the glowing embers die out, a hollow numbness settled into my bones.

The front door clicked open.

Julian walked in, mentioning he had forgotten an encrypted flash drive in the study.

His eyes caught the flames in the hearth and the charred fragments of stationery floating in the draft.

"Clara! What are you burning?"

He rushed over, plunging his bare hands into the ash to salvage what he could. Wincing as the heat blistered his skin, he managed to pull out the last four half-burnt envelopes, their edges scorched black.

"You're burning my letters?" He stared at the ruined parchment, then up at me, his eyes wide with hurt and disbelief. "Why?"

"No reason," I leaned against the marble mantel, my voice flat. "They were cluttering up the shelves. Spring cleaning."

"Cluttering up the shelves?" He took a step forward, his voice cracking. "These are my vows to you! You just throw them into a fire?"

"Why shouldn't I?" I met his gaze. "What purpose do they serve anymore?"

He froze, his lips parting, but no words came out. His knuckles turned stark white as he gripped those four scorched letters.

"I... I need to grab my drive," he muttered, turning toward the study. After two paces, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Clara, are you hiding something from me?"

"No," I smiled faintly. "You're overthinking it."

He stared at me for a long moment before disappearing down the corridor.

Ten minutes after he left for the office, my phone chimed.

A GPS pin from Vanessa, along with a text: Want to see what your husband's real family looks like? Get down here.

The pin dropped at the grand ballroom of the St. Regis.

Staring at the screen in silence, I grabbed my trench coat and headed out.

When I arrived, an extravagant corporate gala was in full swing.

It was the launch party for Vanessa's new marketing agency. Julian’s entire social circle was there, along with prominent venture capitalists.

I stood behind the gilded archway of the ballroom entrance, staying hidden in the shadows.

Vanessa was breathtaking in an ivory evening gown, clutching Julian’s arm as they worked the VIP tables, clinking champagne flutes with foreign dignitaries.

Every guest they greeted warmly addressed her as "Mrs. Sterling."

Vanessa smiled graciously, never correcting them.

And Julian never corrected them either.

His parents sat at the head table, each holding one of the twin toddlers. Their faces were creased with genuine, proud smiles—a radiant warmth they had never once shown me during our three years of marriage.

Julian’s mother gently fed a forkful of red velvet cake to the little girl, chuckling as cream smeared across her cheeks, cooing, "My sweet little princess."

Julian’s father hoisted the boy onto his shoulders, prompting peeling giggles from the child.

A complete, beautiful, picture-perfect dynasty.

Standing in the dark entryway, I realized I looked like an absurd ghost.

I was the outsider. I always had been.

Everything he gave me, he gave to Vanessa.

The estates, the diamonds, the vintage reserves, the patient whispers.

And the things he could never give me—his family’s acceptance, a public crown, a legitimate home—Vanessa owned them effortlessly.

All along, I was the dirty secret hiding in plain sight.

The devotion I foolishly thought belonged solely to me was nothing more than a duplicate carbon copy.

Standing in the shadows of the ballroom, watching the family laugh, the last ember of warmth in my chest turned to pure, unadulterated ice.

I turned around and walked out.