Chapter 3
475 Words
Clara should have walked away the moment she saw that smirk.
But she didn’t.
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a comeback, a glare, or even a scoff. Instead, she held his gaze for one lingering second — long enough to make it clear she wasn’t afraid — then turned on her heel.
Her footsteps echoed through the dusty storeroom, sharp and deliberate. Chin high. Posture firm. No words. No drama. Just silence.
And somehow… that silence said more than anything she could have spoken.
Behind her, Dominic didn’t move. But his eyes followed her, and somewhere deep inside, something cold shifted — something he hadn’t felt in years.
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The next day, Clara returned to the café.
Velvette & Co. greeted her like it always did — the soft clink of the bell, the cozy hum of jazz, the smell of coffee and caramel. She slipped into her usual seat, pulled out her sketchbook, and let her pencil wander across the page. A long dress with soft falling petals took form.
But then her eyes flicked toward the counter.
And her mood changed instantly.
It was him.
Dominic.
Dressed in black again, as if the color itself belonged to him.
He turned, met her gaze… and smirked.
Clara exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away, pretending not to notice.
But then—
“Can I sit here, if you don’t mind?” he asked, already pulling the chair beside her.
She rolled her eyes. “No. You can’t.”
He sat anyway.
“You forgot to say ‘sit here,’” he said, placing his drink down.
Clara narrowed her eyes. “What is your problem?”
“Nothing. I just came to grab a drink,” he replied smoothly.
Then, with maddening ease, he ordered her usual — the same cold brew and cheesecake.
Her fingers tightened around her pencil. She stared at him with a look that could slice stone… but she didn’t speak. Instead, she turned back to her sketchbook, arms resting on the table, ignoring him as if he didn’t exist.
But she could feel it — his eyes on her. Watching.
Always watching.
“I know you’re stalking me,” she muttered.
Dominic smirked again. “If I wanted to stalk you, I wouldn’t come and sit right in front of you.”
His voice was low, direct. Annoyingly calm.
“What do you want from me?” she snapped.
“Nothing,” he said, then added, “I just want to know your name.”
His tone was strange — part determined, part… something else. Something even he couldn’t quite explain.
“I’m Clara Sinclair. Happy now?” she bit out, rising from her seat.
And without waiting for a response, she stormed out of the café, her heels clicking like warning shots on polished tiles.
- Writer
