"Your brother's neurosurgery was a complete success. Your mother is stable," Richard stated flatly, holding the glowing screen right in front of Clara's face. "They are currently receiving the absolute best medical care available in this country. Their lives are entirely secure."
Clara let out a long, shaky exhale. A mountain of crushing anxiety instantly lifted from her chest at the sight of her family breathing peacefully.
"Those men in the black suits," Clara noted, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the screen. "Are they stationed there to protect my family, or are they keeping them hostage?"
Richard tilted his head slightly to the side. The corner of his mouth curved up into a cruel, razor-sharp smirk.
"That depends entirely on how obediently you play your role today, my dear wife."
He smoothly turned off the tablet and slipped it back into his pocket just as it buzzed with an incoming call.
"David, ensure the press conference perimeter is completely sterile," Richard ordered into his earpiece, abruptly turning his back and walking out toward the boutique's private balcony.
The design assistants immediately swarmed Clara again, obsessively smoothing out the impossibly long, crystal-beaded train of her gown.
It was in that exact moment of chaotic movement that a young, trembling junior seamstress knelt down near Clara's ankles. The girl pretended to frantically adjust the delicate lace hemline of the heavy skirt.
"Please forgive me, Madam," the young seamstress whispered. Her voice was so incredibly faint it barely registered over the rustling silk.
Suddenly, Clara felt a sharp, tiny prick against her ankle. She flinched slightly but instantly froze when she saw the sheer, unadulterated terror in the young seamstress's wide eyes.
The girl kept her head bowed low. With a terrifyingly quick, practiced motion, she slipped a tiny, crumpled ball of paper deep into a hidden pocket sewn within the voluminous layers of Clara's underskirt.
The seamstress immediately scrambled backward and blended back into the group of assistants, acting as if nothing had happened at all.
Clara's heart began to race wildly. The air in the boutique suddenly felt freezing cold.
She discreetly cut her eyes toward the balcony. Richard was still intensely focused on his phone call, his broad back turned completely away from her. David was distracted, aggressively scrolling through a schedule on his tablet in the far corner of the room.
No one had seen a thing.
Clara swallowed hard. She had to read that note immediately. Every survival instinct in her body screamed that the paper had come from the exact same anonymous stalker who had texted her the night before. Someone had managed to infiltrate this highly secured, exclusive boutique.
"Excuse me," Clara suddenly spoke up, her voice cutting through the designers' chatter. She fought violently to keep her tone perfectly steady. "This corset is entirely too restrictive. I need to step into the dressing room for a moment just to catch my breath."
The head designer nodded sympathetically. "Of course, Madam. Let me assist you with the"
"That won't be necessary," Clara interrupted sharply. "I just need exactly one minute alone. Please."
Without waiting for permission, Clara grabbed handfuls of the heavy, expensive silk and practically marched toward the VIP dressing room tucked into the corner. She slipped inside and slammed the heavy door, throwing the deadbolt lock.
The dressing room was soundproof, illuminated by warm, golden vanity lights. Clara's breath came in ragged, panicked gasps. Her silk-gloved hands frantically dug into the hidden folds of her underskirt.
Her fingers closed around the tiny, crumpled ball of paper.
It was dirty and heavily creased, a jarring contrast to the millions of dollars worth of fabric surrounding her. With trembling, sweating hands, she forced the tiny note open.
There were only two sentences, hastily scrawled in glaring red ink.
Clara's eyes locked onto the words. The blood instantly stopped flowing through her veins. It felt as though her ribcage had just been violently crushed by a sledgehammer.
Leo's accident was not a random hit-and-run. The vehicle that struck your brother is registered to a ghost shell corporation owned by Apex Technologies. Your husband orchestrated the crash to ensure you had absolutely no choice but to sign his contract.
The crumpled paper slipped from Clara's numb fingers, fluttering silently down to the plush carpet.
All the oxygen was violently sucked from her lungs. Her mouth fell open, but she couldn't formulate a single sound. A sharp, agonizing pain pierced straight through her heart, completely dwarfing the physical restriction of the corset.
Richard.
The man who had generously paid for her brother's life-saving surgery. The man who had seemingly dropped a ten-million-dollar miracle into her lap.
He was the exact same monster who had ordered the hit that nearly slaughtered her only sibling. Richard had maliciously engineered her absolute desperation, only to swoop in and play the billionaire savior.
This wasn't just a cold corporate transaction. This was a flawlessly executed, demonic trap.
Hot, blinding tears of pure, unadulterated rage flooded Clara's eyes. She clenched her hands into fists so tight her knuckles turned bone white beneath the silk gloves.
If Howard Sterling was a greedy parasite trying to steal the throne, Richard Sterling was a full-blown psychopath who casually sacrificed innocent blood just to secure a marriage certificate.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The heavy, authoritative pounding on the dressing room door made Clara violently jump backward.
"Your time to breathe is officially over, Mrs. Sterling," Richard's freezing voice bled right through the thick mahogany wood.
There was the sharp, metallic click of a master key sliding into the lock from the outside.
"Open this door immediately. Or I will break it down."