Chapter 4 You dare to hit me?
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The words had barely left Lydia's mouth when Clarice's hand struck her across the face—hard.
Fast and sharp. Lydia never saw it coming.
She'd been pampered her whole life by Charles and Margaret. Being slapped—especially by Clarice—was unthinkable. Her pride snapped.
"You b***h! How dare you hit me?!"
She lunged at Clarice, swinging blindly. Clarice sidestepped and walked straight into the living room.
"Dad! Clarice hit me!" Lydia wailed, storming in with tears and a bright red handprint on her cheek.
Charles and Margaret's expressions turned sour the moment they saw her face.
Charles had always favored Lydia. In the past, he wouldn't have hesitated to slap Clarice right back. But now... he held back.
"Clarice, just apologize and let's be done with this," he said, trying to keep his voice level.
"Clarice, if you're upset, take it out on me. There's no need to lash out at your sister," Margaret said sweetly, as if Clarice had hit Lydia just to spite her.
And sure, Clarice hated Margaret. Honestly, hate might be putting it lightly.
Who could love the woman who stole your father and drove your mother to her grave?
"Margaret, she tried to hit me first," Clarice replied calmly.
"Dad, I was just messing with her, and she hit me—hard. Look at my face!" Lydia cried.
Her cheek was visibly red. Clarice didn't flinch. Why should she? Lydia had crossed a line—talking about Sophia like that.
"Clarice, hitting someone is wrong. Apologize," Charles snapped, starting to lose patience.
Clarice gave a faint smile. Of course. Just like always. No one cared about the truth. She was always the one who had to apologize. Always the one who had to take the fall.
Not this time.
"Dad," she said, brushing her hair back to reveal the faint kiss marks on her neck, "Lydia insulted me—said disgusting things. That's why I slapped her."
Charles caught sight of the marks, and realization flickered in his eyes. Had Theodore accepted Clarice after all?
"Technically, Theodore and I haven't even registered the marriage yet," Clarice added lightly.
"It already takes everything I've got just to keep him in check. So don't push me. If this whole fragile engagement blows up, Lydia's the one who'll have to step in—whether she likes it or not?"
The room went dead silent. Nobody cared about apologies anymore.
Sure, the Grant family was one of the most powerful in the country. But Lydia had never wanted this marriage—not just because of the rumors, but because Theodore was ten years older.
And more importantly, she had someone else in her heart: Jordan Moore, heir to the Moore family.
The Moores weren't as powerful as the Grants, but Jordan was handsome, gentle—her perfect prince. And Lydia? She played the part of the pretty little princess.
The irony? Jordan was already engaged—to Clarice. A match arranged by their families when they were kids.
"I'm not marrying him! Theodore's terrifying—and way older than me! I'm not doing it!"
True—he was ten years older than Lydia. Twelve years older than Clarice.
"You won't have to, sweetheart," Margaret said, patting Lydia's hand and exchanging a glance with Charles.
"Clarice, what nonsense are you talking about?" Charles snapped.
"You're already with Mr. Grant. You can't pretend nothing happened."
Then his tone softened.
"Maybe Lydia went too far, and yes, you hit her—but let's just drop this, alright?"
Clarice glanced at Lydia and let out a reluctant "Mm."
Charles motioned for her to sit.
"Clarice, I asked you to come back because we need to talk."
Clarice took her seat across from him, pulled out her phone, and casually texted Chloe:
Street race tonight. Don't be late.
I'll be there. On time.
By the time she looked up, Charles had already finished whatever he was saying—not that she'd heard a word of it.
"Clarice!"
He frowned at her blank expression.
"Sorry, Dad? What was that?"
He looked annoyed, but since he needed her help, he repeated himself.
"We're hosting a banquet in a few days. You need to bring Mr. Grant with you."
Bring Theodore home? Yeah, right. Dream on.
Lydia let out a cold laugh.
"Dad, do you really think she can pull that off? She's just Theodore's little toy."
"That's right, Dad. I'm just his plaything," Clarice said calmly, locking eyes with Lydia.
Lydia hadn't expected her to own it. The bluntness threw her off.
"Watch your mouth, Lydia," Charles snapped, then turned to Clarice. "Clarice, I believe in you."
The Sullivans were working on a major project—but funding was tight. If the Grant family got involved, it wouldn't just succeed—it would attract further investors and triple the company's market value. But without their backing… the Sullivans could face a hostile takeover, or lose nearly half their assets.
But Clarice had been living at the Grant estate for a while now, and Theodore hadn't shown his face once. Charles hadn't even had the chance to bring up the deal.
"Dad, that's asking too much," Clarice said.
And it was. Up to this point, the only things she'd ever said to Theodore were lines like:
"Oh my God."
"Faster… please."
"Right there… yes, yes!"
"I'm coming."
"Clarice! You have to bring Mr. Grant home!" Charles snapped, his voice cold and full of threat.
"Think about Sophia."
Sophia—her only real family. Her condition was fragile. She had no one else to rely on.
Clarice swallowed her emotions and gave a reluctant nod.
"I'll do it."
"I'm going to check on Sophia," she said quietly, rising to her feet and heading upstairs.
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