"Where... where am I? What happened last night?"

Clara Lancaster shot up in bed, the velvet sheets slipping off her body and revealing the telltale red marks across her chest. Her whole body felt like it had been taken apart and reassembled wrong—sore, weak, and aching in all the wrong places, especially down there.

She froze. Flashbacks from last night hit her like a truck.

At the banquet, Charles Montgomery ditched her again for Isabella Loring, just like every other time. She drank too much, cried way too hard, and then… she ran into Vincent Everett.

Yeah. That Vincent Everett. Charles’s feared uncle. The one everyone treated like some untouchable VIP.

She vaguely remembered sobbing to him, ranting about Charles’s coldness. Then, stupidly, shamelessly, she’d stood on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

The last clear memory she had was his rough voice asking, "Clara Lancaster, do you even know who I am?"

She had smiled like a drunk fool. "Yeah. You’re Vincent Everett. Charles’s uncle."

Then, without giving him a chance to push her away, she went straight for his throat—literally—and kissed his Adam’s apple.

That kiss? It was just the start.

They’d been making out from the hotel lobby all the way to the penthouse suite. And then the bathroom. And the bed—God, the bed. Over and over again.

Oh my god, what had she done?

She slept with Charles’s freaking uncle! She had officially lost her damn mind.

Vincent Scary-Guy Everett. The man even Charles was afraid of. She had to get out. Now. Before he woke up and this turned into a full-blown disaster.

Clara stumbled out of bed and nearly collapsed as her legs gave out. She grabbed for the nearest thing—her dress crumpled on the floor, the strap completely snapped. Useless.

She glanced around the room. A pricey-looking watch, a tie tossed to the floor... and a luxurious black suit jacket folded neatly over the armchair.

In full damage-control mode, she threw on the suit jacket. It drowned her frame and hung past her thighs, but it still couldn’t hide the hickeys and the fact that she was wearing nothing but air under it.

She crept out like a thief, bolting out of the suite and down the hallway.

The cold morning air slapped her across the face, doing little to clear the mess in her head or the panic in her chest.

Every passerby’s stare felt like a laser burning holes into her. The humiliation nearly suffocated her.

By the time she made it back to the fancy villa she shared with Charles after their engagement, she was a wreck. All she wanted now was to scrub every trace of last night off her skin.

But of course, life just had to make it harder.

The moment she pushed open the front door, a snide, ice-cold voice hit her like a slap.

"Out all night? Wow, Clara, you’re really branching out."

She froze, eyes snapping up.

Charles stood there in the living room, clearly just returned as well, still reeking of booze and cigarettes. He looked her over like she was something cheap he regretted buying—his gaze pausing at the men’s jacket on her.

A smirk twisted his lips, dripping with contempt and sarcasm.

Clara instinctively clutched the jacket tighter around her, heart pounding like it wanted to make a run for it. Not just fear, but a huge wave of soul-crushing shame.“I…” Her lips moved, throat unbearably dry and scratchy, but no words came out. What was she even supposed to say? That she got drunk and ended up in bed with his scariest uncle?

Charles Montgomery’s eyes locked onto the oversized men’s blazer draped over her. Clearly not hers. His lips curled with disdain.

“Whose coat is that?” His tone was mocking, gaze sweeping past the collar to the red marks peeking from underneath. His expression instantly turned icy. “Had a wild night, huh? What, couldn’t wait to find another guy because I just don’t cut it for you?”

“Clara Lancaster, you think pulling this little stunt’s gonna grab my attention?”

“Let me tell you something. Even if you stripped butt-naked and stood right in front of me, I wouldn’t feel a damn thing!”

Every word slammed into Clara like a slap, killing the last shred of hope she had left.

Suddenly, she had nothing left to argue. No strength to explain.

Turns out, no matter what she did, he simply didn’t care.

Her dazed eyes drifted downward, accidentally landing on the open collar of his shirt—

A lipstick mark. Bright, unmistakable. Rose red. Isabella Loring’s favorite shade.

Clara felt a sharp snap inside, like her heart had finally shattered to pieces.

All those justifications, the pain, panic, and regret—gone in an instant.

What replaced them was a cold, dead calm.

When Charles had his accident and lost the use of his legs, and “the love of his life” jetted off abroad, Clara had stepped up without hesitation. Got engaged to him and stayed by his side through recovery.

She really thought that once his legs healed last year, things would finally turn around. She believed they’d be happy.

Instead, ever since he started hearing god-knows-what from god-knows-where, he treated her worse than before. Passive-aggressive at best, straight-up cruel at worst. Constantly accusing her of being greedy, promiscuous, shameless.

She had a face and figure that turned heads no matter how covered up she was—which, in his eyes, just made her more guilty.

No matter how many times she defended herself, he never once believed her.

All her loyalty, patience, everything she did to hold on—he saw it all as some kind of pathetic joke.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to the man she’d spent years loving and finally, finally said it: “Charles Montgomery, let’s call off the engagement.”

The words caught him off guard for a second. Then he leaned in, grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his mocking gaze. “What now, playing some kind of hard-to-get card? Clara, that’s getting old. You really think I’ll fall for this and come crawling back? Look in the mirror. You’re not worth it.”

He threw her chin aside like he couldn’t stand touching her.

“Get out of my way. Just looking at you irritates the hell out of me.”

With that, he walked off without so much as a backward glance.

Clara stood frozen, watching him go. Her entire body felt hollowed out, like all her strength had just vanished.

It was over. It should’ve been over long ago.

She took in a shaky breath, braced herself, and walked into the study. Opening the laptop, her fingers flew across the keyboard.

She drafted the breakup contract—short, to the point. She even waived any financial compensation.

Half an hour later, she picked up her phone and sent him a message:

Charles, I’ve drafted the agreement and signed it. Look it over when you have time. If it’s all good, sign it. We’re even now.