The HR meeting ended without applause, without comfort, and without warmth.
The air inside the conference room felt heavy, saturated with unspoken judgment and thinly veiled tension. The long table that once hosted routine discussions now felt like a courtroom bench. Every movement sounded louder than it should—the scrape of a chair, the rustle of papers, and the click of a pen being set down.
Amara sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap, shoulders straight despite the storm swirling inside her chest.
"Thank you for cooperating," the HR manager said in a professional, clipped tone. "We'll conclude the review here."
No one smiled.
The words workplace conduct still echoed unpleasantly in the room.
Clariss was the first to move.
She stood up so abruptly that her chair toppled backward with a sharp clang, the sound slicing through the uneasy silence like glass breaking. Several people flinched.
Clariss didn't bother to apologize.
She didn't even glance back.
Her face—once serene, admired, and flawless—was twisted with something ugly and unrestrained. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that they trembled, her chest rising and falling too fast.
She climbed onto her chair for a brief second as if trying to rise above everyone else—above the humiliation, above the accusations, above the whispers she could already imagine spreading like wildfire.
Then she stormed out.
Her heels struck the floor with violent precision, echoing down the hallway like gunshots. The glass walls of the HR office reflected her distorted expression as she passed—rage, disbelief, wounded pride all colliding in a single moment.
People stared.
No one dared to stop her.
"She's—" someone whispered.
"Is that really Clariss?" another murmured.
"She looks… possessed."
Clariss didn't hear them.
Or maybe she did—but she didn't care.
She reached her office, yanked the door open, stepped inside, and slammed it shut with such force that the glass panels rattled violently. A few employees gasped. Others instinctively ducked as if something might shatter.
Inside the office, Clariss finally exploded.
She let out a scream—raw, unfiltered, ripping itself from deep inside her chest.
"AMARA!"
Her arm swept across her desk with brutal force.
Everything flew.
Documents scattered like wounded birds. A glass paperweight smashed against the wall, shards raining down onto the pristine carpet. Her pen holder tipped over, pens rolling uselessly across the floor. A framed photo shattered, glass exploding outward.
"DAMN YOU!" she screamed, her voice cracking.
She grabbed another stack of folders and hurled them toward the door.
"And you—" she snarled, breath ragged, "—Damian!"
Her carefully styled hair had fallen loose, strands clinging to her damp cheeks. The elegant image she had cultivated for years—the poised, graceful goddess of the department—was gone.
Outside her office, employees stood frozen.
No one spoke.
Some stared in open shock. Others exchanged uneasy glances.
That woman—the one men admired, women envied, executives praised—was unravelling.
"She's lost it," someone whispered.
"I've never seen her act like that…"
"She was always so perfect…"
Minutes passed.
Clariss paced her office like a caged animal, breathing hard, fists clenching and unclenching. Her heels crunched over broken glass as if she didn't feel the danger beneath her feet.
Then—
The door opened again.
Clariss whipped around, fury blazing in her eyes.
Damian stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him.
The contrast was stark.
Where Clariss was chaos, Damian was calm.
His gaze swept the room briefly—not with shock, not with concern, but with detached acknowledgment. Papers littered the floor. Broken glass glittered beneath the fluorescent lights. A chair lay overturned like a fallen soldier.
He didn't comment.
He didn't react.
His eyes returned to Clariss.
Cold.
Distant.
Unmoved.
That look—more than any insult—made Clariss' blood boil.
Men were never supposed to look at her like that.
Men admired her. Desired her. Lowered their voices when they spoke to her. Women either idolized her or despised her from afar.
She had been told since she was young that she was the complete package. Beautiful. Intelligent. Elegant. Untouchable.
And now this man—
This man looked at her as if she were insignificant.
"What are you doing here?" Clariss snapped, her voice sharp and brittle. "Get out."
Damian didn't answer immediately.
The silence stretched.
"Did you hear me?" she demanded. "I said get out!"
He finally spoke.
"If you touch Amara again," Damian said evenly, "you will regret it."
The words were quiet.
Controlled.
And terrifying.
Clariss laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound that trembled at the edges. "You barged into my office just to threaten me?"
Damian's gaze darkened.
If you were anyone else, he thought, you wouldn't be standing.
His mind flashed briefly to the past—to people who had crossed lines they shouldn't have. People who had learned, painfully, what happened when they hurt the person he cared about.
But Clariss wasn't just anyone.
Her family held influence. Not enough to challenge his—but enough to cause ripples. Her mother had recently become acquainted with his own mother at a social gathering. And Amara—Amara noticed things. She was sensitive. Observant.
If she learned that he handled Clariss the same way he had handled others—
She would look at him differently.
He couldn't afford that.
Not now.
Not when trust was just beginning to bloom.
"This is your only warning," Damian continued, his voice steady. "Stay away from her."
Clariss's nails dug into her palms. "You think you can scare me?"
Damian turned away.
He didn't wait for her response.
He didn't care.
The door closed behind him with quiet finality.
Clariss stared at it.
Then she screamed.
A sound of pure rage tore from her throat as she kicked the overturned chair across the room. Her chest tightened painfully, humiliation crashing into anger like a tidal wave.
"How dare he!" she sobbed.
Moments later, the door opened again.
Clariss spun around—
And froze.
Kael stood in the doorway.
His eyes swept the room once.
The mess.
The shattered glass.
Clariss's dishevelled appearance.
His expression tightened—not with concern, not with anger—but with disappointment.
He didn't say a word.
He simply shook his head.
Then he turned and walked away.
"Kael—wait!" Clariss cried, panic slicing through her fury. She rushed after him, slipping slightly on scattered papers. "It's not what you think! Please—let me explain!"
He didn't stop.
Didn't turn.
Didn't look back.
The sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway.
Clariss stood there, stunned.
The silence that followed crushed her more than any accusation ever could.
Her knees buckled.
She collapsed onto the floor, broken glass biting into her skin, but she didn't feel it. Tears spilled freely now, soaking into the carpet beneath her.
"Amara…" she whispered hoarsely.
Her expression twisted—not with sorrow, but venom.
"This is your fault."
Her fingers curled into fists.
"I won't lose," she muttered. "I won't let you take everything from me."
Her tears fell harder.
"I'll destroy you," she vowed through clenched teeth. "No matter what it takes."
And somewhere else in the building—
Amara sat quietly at her desk, unaware that Clariss's envy had crossed into something far more dangerous.
The goddess had fallen.
And what rose in her place was a storm.