Valera Dawson’s greatest fear was no longer about losing her future in Manhattan, but rather about the exact second when Clarissa’s innocent gaze transformed into a blade ready to strip bare her conscience. In the silent corridor of the fiftieth floor of the Valen Group Building, time seemed to stop turning.
The pounding of the rainstorm outside the glass wall felt faint, overpowered by the roar of anxiety thumping violently inside Valera’s chest.
Clarissa stepped out of the elevator incredibly slowly. Her pair of honey eyes, which usually radiated carefree cheerfulness, now appeared dull, harboring an invisible, deep wound. Her hand, clad in a black velvet glove, squeezed the blue document folder against her chest so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
"Clary ...." Valera’s voice c
