Hospitals had always unsettled Clariss Moonveil.
Not because of sickness or grief — she'd long since learned to detach herself from both — but because of what they represented.
Stillness. Fragility. The thin, wavering line between life and loss.
She had returned the next morning once more to visit her cousin Hannah, bringing a thermos of tea, a quiet smile, and a bag of carefully packed meals — courtesy of her aunt and mother, who insisted she deliver them. The baby had been sleeping, Hannah glowing with exhaustion and joy. They'd shared a few soft words, a few tears, and then Clariss had slipped away, promising to return soon.
Now, standing in the quiet corridor of St. Merrow's Hospital, she found herself face to face with that stillness once more.
Beyond the small glass panel of Room 417's door, Damian Sinclair sat slumped in an armchair beside a hospital bed, his body angled protectively toward the sleeping woman beneath the white sheets.
Amara Castellanos.
Clariss's lips curved — not quite into a smile, not quite into anything kind. Just a quiet acknowledgment of the scene before her.
Damian's head rested near Amara's hand, his usually crisp demeanour softened by exhaustion. His coat was still draped over the chair, damp from the earlier downpour. He looked like someone who hadn't slept in days.
And Amara… she looked fragile, ghost-pale against the sterile white light.
Clariss stood there for a long moment, watching through the glass. Then, slowly, she tilted her head — the corners of her lips lifting just slightly. The picture before her was so tragically perfect it almost begged to be immortalized.
She lifted her phone.
A soft click.
A faint flash reflected off the glass.
The image froze on her screen: Damian Sinclair — the man known for his icy detachment — asleep beside the girl everyone once dismissed as nothing special.
Clariss lowered her phone, her gaze sharp as she replayed the earlier events in her mind.
Two nights ago, she had come to the hospital for a far more intimate reason. Her cousin—and best friend—Hannah had just given birth to her first child, a baby girl. Clariss had been there through it all: the long hours, the quiet encouragement, the moment Hannah's hand gripped hers as the baby's first cry filled the room.
Later, as they sat together in the quiet aftermath, Hannah looked at her with teary eyes and whispered, "Don't leave yet. I need your calm energy before I start crying again."
So Clariss stayed.
By early morning, Hannah's husband had arrived—his suitcase still in hand, his eyes misty with relief. The moment he stepped into the room, Clariss felt the shift: the quiet weight she'd been carrying for her cousin lifted just enough. Hannah was no longer alone. And so, with a soft smile and one last glance at the sleeping baby, Clariss finally had a reason to go home.
But as she left the maternity wing, stepping into the main lobby to order a car, a sudden voice tore through the quiet.
"Help! Somebody, please!"
Clariss turned sharply — instinct, not emotion.
The automatic doors of the emergency entrance burst open. Nurses rushed forward with a stretcher. And at the centre of the chaos was Damian.
He burst through the doors, drenched in sweat—his shirt clinging to his back, droplets trailing from his hair like rain. Panic was etched deep into his face, raw and unfiltered, as he cradled the woman in his arms with the desperate care of someone holding shattered glass.
She looked weightless, limp, as if fear alone was keeping her tethered to him.
Clariss hadn't recognized her at first. But when a nurse brushed the wet hair from the girl's face, recognition struck like a cold jolt.
Amara Castellanos.
She was in Damian Sinclair's arms, while he shouted for help like a man whose heart was breaking.
The entire scene had been chaos and tenderness wrapped together — the sort of moment Clariss instinctively understood was volatile.
Because perception, she knew, was everything.
And this — Damian's desperation, the way he clung to Amara — was the kind of perception that could ruin people if framed the right way.
She had stood still as the nurses swept them away, her expression perfectly unreadable. Then, while no one was watching, she had taken out her phone and pressed the shutter.
One photo. Two.
Enough to tell a story — not the truth, but something far more useful.
By the time the ER doors closed behind them, Clariss already knew exactly what to do.
Now, hours later, she looked again at the photo. Damian's expression — unguarded, raw — spoke volumes.
But it wasn't enough.
Clariss slipped her phone into her pocket, walking slowly down the corridor. Her heels clicked softly against the tile — steady, deliberate, like the ticking of a clock.
She knew Kael. Knew his pride, his temper, his inability to see beyond what he believed.
He was predictable — and people like him were easy to manipulate.
And Amara?
She was the girl Kael had once quietly protected — the one he cared for more than he dared admit. But pride had its grip on him, and instead of acknowledging what he felt, he kept her at arm's length, letting silence do the discarding he couldn't bring himself to do aloud. Clariss had watched it all unfold — the rejection, the silence, the way Amara had quietly disappeared from the spotlight.
But now, here she was again. Fragile. Centred in Damian's arms.
And Clariss couldn't allow that.
She didn't just want to stir gossip.
She wanted people to turn on Amara.
To question her intentions.
To whisper behind her back.
To make Kael see her not as someone worth protecting — but as someone manipulative, desperate, beneath him.
No — timing mattered. The right whisper at the right moment could do far more damage than an explosion of truth.
She unlocked her phone again and scrolled through her contacts until she found the name she wanted.
"Rina — Navarro Corporation's PR."
A faint smirk played across her lips. Rina was an opportunist, the kind of employee who thrived on gossip disguised as "insider knowledge." Clariss didn't need to tell her what to say — she would do that naturally. Twist things. Spread them.
This time, Clariss added a note.
She attached the photo — Damian in the ER, holding Amara protectively, drenched in panic.
Then she added a second photo — edited. The lighting softened, the angle adjusted, Amara's face turned just enough to suggest closeness. Intimacy. A moment stolen in the chaos.
Clariss:
"Can you enhance the second one? Make it look like they were… involved. I want ambiguity. Suggestion. You know how to make it whisper scandal."
Rina's reply came quickly.
Rina:
"Already done. It looks like she's clinging to him. Like he didn't mind. I'll let it leak quietly — just enough to spark questions."
Clariss:
"Perfect. Let the story be this: Amara seduced Damian after Kael rejected her. Make it sound like she's desperate. Reckless. That she used the hospital drama to get close."
Rina:
"Consider it done. By morning, they'll be asking if she faked the collapse just to get his attention."
Clariss locked her phone and slipped it back into her coat. The plan was already in motion.
Or so she thought.
What Clariss didn't know — what she couldn't have known — was that the moment Rina hit "send," her message never made it past the firewall.
Damian's people had been watching. Monitoring. Waiting.
The photo never reached the press. The whispers never began. Every trace of the image was scrubbed before it could breathe.
And Rina?
Well.
At 2:17 a.m., in a dimly lit parking garage beneath Navarro's downtown offices, Rina Navarro stepped into her car, humming to herself, pleased with her handiwork.
She didn't notice the shadow that moved behind her.
Didn't hear the soft click of a car door opening behind her own.
Didn't see the man in the passenger seat until it was too late.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, voice smooth as glass.
Rina froze. Her phone buzzed once in her purse — a message from Clariss, unread.
The man smiled.
"Mr. Sinclair sends his regards."
The car door slammed shut.
And then the garage was silent again.