Chapter 4 - Aftermath in the Private QuartersThe private wing of the Cross estate was a place few were ever permitted to enter. It was quiet, lined with dark wood and soft wool carpets, far removed from the cold marble and glittering crystal of the public rooms. Damian led Clara into his personal study, a warm room filled with the scent of old books, leather, and cedarwood.
The moment the heavy oak doors shut out the rest of the world, the adrenaline that had kept Clara standing completely evaporated. Her knees buckled.
Before she could hit the floor, Damian’s strong arms caught her. He lifted her effortlessly, ignoring the blue paint that was now smearing across his chest and shoulders, and carried her over to a large, plush leather sofa near the roaring fireplace. He set her down gently, immediately kneeling in front of her.
"I'm sorry," Clara whispered, her voice cracking as the first tear finally broke through, carving a clean path through the blue paint on her cheek. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Cross. Your suit... your party... your engagement... I ruined everything."
Damian looked up at her, his expression softening into a warmth Clara had never seen before. He reached up, his thumb gently catching the tear before it could fall. "Clara, look at me," he commanded softly.
She lifted her eyes, her vision blurred.
"You didn't ruin anything," Damian said, each word deliberate and heavy with truth. "Priscilla showed the world exactly who she is tonight, and for that, I owe you a debt I can never fully repay. She would have destroyed my life, and the lives of anyone who worked for me, if I had been foolish enough to marry her. You didn't do this. She did."
At that moment, Dorothy entered the room, carrying a stack of thick, fluffy white towels, a warm fleece robe, and a mug of hot tea. Her eyes softened as she saw the billionaire kneeling before the maid.
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"Come here, sweetheart," Dorothy said, gently pulling Clara up from the couch. "Let's get you into the bathroom. We need to get this paint out of your hair before it sets, or we'll have to cut those beautiful locks off."
As Clara allowed herself to be led away, she turned her head back to look at Damian. He was still kneeling by the couch, his hands covered in blue, watching her with an intensity that made her chest ache with a strange, terrifying hope.
