The heavy click of the solid mahogany, steel-reinforced door echoed like a judge's final death sentence.
The massive door slowly swung shut, completely isolating them from the chaotic outside world. Gone were the blinding flashes of the paparazzi's cameras. Gone was the deafening, hypocritical applause of the corporate elite.
Inside this soundproof, sprawling space, there was nothing but a suffocating, lethal silence.
Clara stood rigidly in the grand foyer of the sixty-fourth-floor Sterling penthouse. The vintage silk wedding gown, weighing over twenty pounds, felt exactly like a medieval torture device. Hidden deep beneath the crushing boning of her corset, Arthur Sterling's crumpled red note burned against her bare skin like a glowing ember.
Richard orchestrated Leo's accident.
That horrific, paralyzing sentence played on a vicious, agonizing loop inside Clara's mind. It was actively destroying every microscopic shred of her sanity. The devastatingly handsome man who had just sworn holy vows to her on live television was the exact same monster who had spilled her little brother's innocent blood onto the asphalt.
Richard Sterling completely ignored her, walking right past her into the sprawling living room.
The fiercely protective posture he had projected in front of his uncle evaporated into thin air. He aggressively loosened his silk tie and carelessly tossed his bespoke suit jacket onto a massive, black leather sofa.
The penthouse radiated an aura just as freezing and unfeeling as its owner. It was a sterile, monochromatic fortress of black marble, dark steel, and gray velvet. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying, panoramic view of the glittering metropolis, effectively locking them inside the highest, most expensive golden cage in the entire city.
Richard walked over to a backlit crystal minibar and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy tumbler.
"The master suite is located at the absolute end of the right hallway," Richard's baritone voice sliced through the silence, sharp and utterly devoid of emotion. "Your quarters are located on the left. Directly opposite."
Clara stared at his broad, imposing back. Her hands clenched tightly into fists at her sides, crushing the expensive silk of her skirt.
I have to control myself. I cannot afford to explode right now.
"We need to establish absolute, non-negotiable boundaries immediately, Clara," Richard continued.
He turned around, piercing her with his dark, exhausted, yet terrifyingly intimidating eagle eyes.
"Rule number one: You are strictly forbidden from crossing the threshold of my bedroom without my explicit, written permission."
Richard took a slow step closer. The sharp, intoxicating scent of expensive whiskey blended with his masculine cedarwood cologne, heavily suppressing the oxygen around Clara.
"Rule number two," he hissed dangerously. "Do not ever touch my personal property. Ever. Anything inside this residence that does not explicitly belong to you is entirely off-limits. That absolutely includes my private study, which is located directly next to your bedroom."
Clara tilted her chin up, recklessly challenging his pitch-black stare. "What about the unrestricted access to the Apex Technologies archives you legally promised me? That was the foundation of our contract."
"The primary, encrypted terminal is secured inside my study," Richard replied coldly. "I will personally grant you access tomorrow morning, under the direct supervision of my elite IT security team. Tonight, do not even think about touching the handle of that door. Do we have a crystal-clear understanding?"
Clara didn't answer. She just swallowed the bitter bile burning her throat.
She abruptly turned toward the left hallway. She desperately needed to get inside her room and destroy the red note before Richard noticed the unnatural lump hiding beneath her gown. Knowing Arthur, the old phantom could have easily planted a microscopic listening device inside the paper.
But Clara's frantic escape was instantly halted. The impossibly long, crystal-beaded train of her gown violently snagged on the sharp corner of a heavy marble console table.
She let out a harsh, frustrated breath. She desperately twisted her arms backward, trying to reach the hidden zipper running down her spine. But her hands simply couldn't reach it. The vintage corset was specifically designed to be laced and unlaced by two assistants.
"Stop thrashing around, or you are going to rip a hundred-thousand-dollar dress," Richard snapped.
The heavy, rhythmic sound of his leather shoes approaching from behind made Clara instantly freeze.
Richard's large, calloused fingers brushed against her bare, exposed nape.
Clara's skin violently erupted in goosebumps. His touch felt exactly like the lethal venom of a king cobra slowly seeping straight into her pores. This man could effortlessly snap her neck with one hand and throw her off the sixty-fourth-floor balcony, and absolutely no one in the world would ever know.
"I... I can take it off myself," Clara's voice trembled slightly, betraying her absolute terror.
"Be quiet," Richard whispered, his lips hovering mere inches from her ear.
He slowly, methodically unzipped the back of the heavy gown. A rush of freezing air swept over Clara's bare spine. The agonizingly tight inner clasps of the corset finally began to loosen.
Clara's heart hammered wildly against her ribs. If the corset opened even a fraction of an inch too far, the crumpled red note would instantly slip out and fall directly onto the marble floor. Right at her husband's custom leather shoes.
Don't fall. Please, God, don't let it fall.
"It's done," Richard stated smoothly, immediately pulling his hands away.
Without uttering a single word of thanks, Clara desperately grabbed the front of her heavy gown with both hands, forcefully holding the loosened corset tightly against her chest.
She practically sprinted down the left hallway, bolted into her bedroom, and slammed the heavy door shut. She violently threw the deadbolt lock twice.