Chapter 2: Cold Vows
1733 Words
The press conference room at the Wen Corporation building felt like a gladiator arena lined with camera lenses instead of swords. Clara stood beside Adrian’s wheelchair, her hand resting on his shoulder as instructed—a picture of wifely devotion that made her skin crawl. The diamond ring he’d sent over that morning caught the lights, throwing prismatic patterns across the wall like scattered promises.
“Mrs. Wen! Mrs. Wen!” The reporters surged forward like hungry wolves, their voices creating a cacophony that made Clara’s temples throb. “Is it true you only recently discovered you were the real Ye heiress?”
“How does it feel to steal your sister’s fiancé?”
“Were you aware that Bella Ye and Mr. Wen had been discussing marriage for months?”
The questions hit like precisely aimed arrows. Clara kept her expression neutral, though her nails dug crescents into her palms. She’d faced down bullies in the orphanage, survived nights without heat or food, but this—this orchestrated humiliation—was something else entirely.
A woman in a red blazer shoved her microphone closer, her smile sharp as a scalpel. “Miss Ye—oh, excuse me, Mrs. Wen—sources say you were working as a janitor just three weeks ago. Quite the Cinderella story, isn’t it? Or should we say… gold digger’s dream?”
The room erupted in nervous laughter. Clara felt heat rise to her cheeks, could practically hear Bella watching this on TV somewhere, savoring every second. The woman in red pressed on, sensing blood in the water.
“Tell us, what exactly do you bring to this marriage? Bella Ye has her charity work, her arts degree, her social connections. You have… what? Twenty years of nothing?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Clara opened her mouth, unsure what would come out—and then Adrian’s hand covered hers where it rested on his shoulder. The touch was brief, barely there, but it sent an electric shock through her system.
“Enough.” His voice cut through the room like a blade through silk. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as Adrian’s gaze swept across the assembled press. “My wife doesn’t need to justify our marriage to parasites who feed on others’ misery.”
The woman in red sputtered. “Mr. Wen, the public has a right to—”
“The public has a right to accurate reporting, not fabricated drama.” Adrian’s fingers drummed once on his wheelchair’s armrest—a warning sign Clara was beginning to recognize. “Clara is my wife. Not Bella Ye, who was never my fiancée, never my interest, and certainly never my choice. If you have questions about our marriage, ask me. But if I hear one more insinuation about my wife’s character or background…”
He didn’t need to finish. The threat hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
“Actually,” Clara heard herself say, her voice steadier than she felt, “I’d like to answer the question.”
Adrian’s hand tightened imperceptibly on hers—a warning? Encouragement? She couldn’t tell.
Clara stepped forward slightly, meeting the red-blazered reporter’s gaze. “You asked what I bring to this marriage? Twenty years of nothing, you said?” She smiled, the expression sharp enough to cut glass. “I bring twenty years of learning that worth isn’t measured by trust funds or charity galas where people spend more on champagne than most families see in a year. I bring the ability to see through performances—and darling, yours needs work. That blazer is from three seasons ago, your shoes are knockoffs, and you’re standing like someone who spent all night rehearsing how to take down the new Mrs. Wen for a bonus from your editor.”
Gasps rippled through the room. The woman’s face flushed purple.
Clara continued, her voice honey-sweet. “So what do I bring? Perspective. Something money can’t buy and breeding can’t teach. Now, shall we discuss the Wen Foundation’s new orphanage initiative, or would you prefer to keep fishing for scandal in an empty pond?”
For a moment, nobody moved. Then someone started slow-clapping from the back of the room—James, Adrian’s assistant, his face carefully neutral but his eyes gleaming with approval.
Adrian’s hand found Clara’s again, and this time, he laced their fingers together for the cameras to see. “The press conference is over. Direct all further questions to our PR department.”
As James wheeled Adrian out, Clara walking beside them, she caught a glimpse of Adrian’s reflection in the polished elevator doors. He was almost—almost—smiling.
“That was either very brave or very stupid,” he murmured once the elevator doors closed.
“Which do you think?”
“Both.” This time, the smile was real, transforming his face for just a moment before the mask slipped back into place. “She’ll come for you now. The reporter. She has connections.”
“Let her come.” Clara pulled her hand free, the warmth of his touch lingering like a brand. “I’ve faced worse than a reporter with wounded pride.”
Adrian studied her with those dark, calculating eyes. “Have you?”
Before Clara could answer, the elevator opened to the parking garage, where their separate cars waited. The moment of connection, fragile as spun glass, shattered.
⸻
The Ye mansion felt like a mausoleum when Clara returned. The entire family had gathered in the living room, apparently for her execution. Mr. Ye paced before the fireplace, his face mottled with rage. Mrs. Ye sat rigid on the sofa, her pearls clutched like prayer beads. And Bella—Bella perched on the ottoman like a wounded dove, tissues dabbed delicately at her dry eyes.
“Disgraceful!” Mr. Ye’s voice boomed. “Absolutely disgraceful! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Defended myself?” Clara suggested, dropping her purse on the side table with deliberate carelessness.
“You attacked a respected journalist! Made the family look like circus performers!” Mrs. Ye’s voice pitched higher with each word. “Bella would never—”
“Bella would never have to,” Clara cut in. “Because Bella’s had twenty years to build her reputation on a foundation of lies. I’ve had three weeks.”
“Sister,” Bella whimpered, rising gracefully, approaching Clara with arms outstretched. “Please, don’t be angry. I know this is hard for you. If you’d just let me help, let me teach you how to handle these situations—”
“Like you handled losing Adrian?” Clara sidestepped Bella’s embrace. “Oh wait, you can’t lose something you never had.”
Bella’s mask slipped for just a second, revealing something venomous beneath. Then the tears came, perfect and practiced. “I’m trying to help you! I know you didn’t have advantages growing up, that you don’t understand our world—”
“Your world?” Clara laughed, the sound sharp in the ornate room. “Bella, sweetie, it was never your world. You’ve been playing dress-up in someone else’s life for twenty years. At least I know I’m an outsider. You’re still pretending you belong.”
“How dare you!” Mrs. Ye shot to her feet. “Bella is our daughter in every way that matters—”
“Then why did you sell me to Adrian Wen the moment you found out I existed?” Clara’s question hung in the air like smoke from a snuffed candle. “If Bella’s your real daughter, why sacrifice me to save the family’s reputation?”
The silence was deafening. Even Bella’s tears stopped.
Clara climbed the stairs to her room, each step echoing like a countdown. Behind her, she heard Bella’s voice, pitched perfectly for sympathy: “I’ll talk to her. She’s just overwhelmed. We have to be patient—she doesn’t know any better.”
In her room, Clara pulled out her tablet and stylus. The illustration flowed from her fingers like water—a peacock preening before a mirror, not noticing its reflection was actually a crow in borrowed feathers. She added details with vicious precision: tears that turned to diamonds, falling into grasping hands below. A small signature in the corner—her anonymous mark that was becoming famous online.
She posted it with a simple caption: “Some people cry diamonds. Others just cry.”
Within minutes, her phone exploded with notifications. Shares, likes, comments—thousands of people recognizing Bella in the peacock without Clara having to say a word. The illustration was already trending.
Clara was savoring the chaos when a different notification popped up. A news alert from a gossip site, the headline in screaming red:
“EXCLUSIVE: Adrian Wen’s Secret Medical Records Leaked! Is His New Bride a Nurse or a Gold Digger? Sources Say Clara Ye Visited Private Clinics Before Marriage—What Is She Hiding?”
Below the headline was a blurry photo of Clara entering a building. She recognized it immediately—the clinic where she’d gone for the mandatory health check the Wen family had required before the marriage contract. But the angle, the caption, the implication…
Her phone rang. Adrian’s name on the screen.
“We have a problem,” he said without preamble. “Someone’s declaring war. The question is—are you ready to fight back?”
Clara looked at her tablet, where another illustration was already forming in her mind—a wheelchair as a throne, surrounded by vultures mistaking a hawk for prey.
“I’ve been fighting my whole life,” she told him. “The only difference now is that I have better weapons.”
“Good.” His voice held something that might have been approval. “Pack a bag. You’re moving into the Wen estate tonight. It’s easier to protect you here.”
The line went dead. Clara stared at her phone, then at the headline still glowing on her screen. Someone was playing a deeper game, someone who knew exactly which buttons to push.
Outside her window, a car idled on the street—black, unmarked, waiting.
Watching.
Clara closed her curtains and started packing, her mind already strategizing. If they wanted a war, she’d give them one.
But first, she had to survive the night.
- Writer
