Chapter Four
979 Words
The café door jingled, and Clara’s stomach dropped.
Victor Malcom.
Of all people, she had hoped not to see him—not now, not ever again so soon. But there he was, sliding into the empty chair beside her without even asking. His smile curled like smoke, smooth and suffocating.
“Well, Clara,” he said, leaning back as if he owned the place. “I was hoping we’d meet again soon.”
Lila groaned and set down her muffin with a thud. “Seriously? Don’t you have other lives to ruin?”
Victor ignored her. His eyes locked on Clara, sharp and unsettling. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Alexander, haven’t you?”
Clara’s chest tightened. She looked away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
Victor leaned forward, lowering his voice as though he were sharing a secret. “Do you know who he really is?”
Clara frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”
Victor chuckled softly, tapping his fingers against the table in a slow, taunting rhythm. “Of course you don’t. He wouldn’t tell you. Alexander likes to play the mysterious mentor—make you trust him, lean on him. He’s good at it.”
Clara’s pulse quickened. “If you’ve come here just to poison my mind, Victor, save your breath.”
“Poison?” His smile widened. “No, Clara. I’m offering you clarity. Alexander Drake isn’t just some gallery manager. He’s the heir to Drake Enterprises. Billionaire family. Old money. The kind of man who buys dreams instead of building them.”
The name jolted something in her memory—her father once talking about Drake Johnson, one of the most powerful men in New York’s business world. And Alexander… his son?
Her throat went dry. “That’s not true,” she whispered, though doubt already slipped into her voice.
“Isn’t it?” Victor tilted his head, his gaze pinning her in place. “Think about it—the expensive suits, the way people bend when he speaks, the power he carries. You really believed a simple gallery manager could pull in collectors overnight?”
Clara’s chest burned. Flashes of memory stung—Alexander brushing aside her questions, always focusing on her work, never revealing much about himself. His silences, his careful words… had that been sincerity, or deception?
Lila’s voice cut through. “Clara, don’t listen to him. He twists everything. That’s what he does.”
But Victor’s smile only deepened. He saw the doubt settling in. “Alexander doesn’t belong in your world. Men like him… they use girls like you. It’s all a game. And when they’re bored?” He snapped his fingers, sharp and cruel. “Gone.”
Clara’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. She wanted to scream at him, deny every word—but anger and hurt tangled in her throat like barbed wire.
She stood suddenly, her chair scraping the floor. “If what you say is true,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “then he lied to me. He let me believe he was someone else.”
Victor leaned back, satisfied. “Now you’re finally seeing sense.”
Clara grabbed her bag, her vision blurring with hot tears. Lila reached for her wrist. “Clara, wait—”
But she shook her head and stormed out, the café door slamming behind her.
The city streets pressed in around her, alive with noise—traffic, chatter, neon lights—but none of it touched her. Her footsteps were hard and fast, her pulse a frantic drumbeat. Every memory of Alexander rose up at once: his quiet smile, his words of encouragement, his eyes that had always felt steady and safe.
Now every kindness seemed like a trick. Every silence, a lie.
By the time she reached the gallery, her chest was heaving. Through the glass, she saw him—Alexander, tall and composed, speaking with someone. He looked up, as though he had felt her arrive, and his expression softened.
“Clara,” he said warmly, stepping toward her.
But she raised her hand, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”
Confusion flickered in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Her laugh was bitter, sharp. Heads turned inside the gallery, but she didn’t care. “You lied to me, Alexander. You stood there, listening to me pour out my dreams, my fears—while you kept everything about yourself hidden. You let me believe you were just… ordinary.”
His jaw tightened, the calm mask finally cracking.
“You should have told me,” she continued, her voice rising. “Instead, you let me trust you. Do you know what that feels like? To open yourself up, only to realize the other person was never really there?”
His voice dropped low, weighted with something like regret. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it?” she demanded, her throat aching. “A game? An experiment? Waiting to see when I’d figure it out?”
For the first time, Alexander seemed at a loss. His hand lifted slightly, as if to touch her arm, but she flinched back.
Tears stung her eyes. “You should have told me.”
The silence between them was unbearable, suffocating. Finally, Clara turned and pushed past him, her footsteps echoing against the polished floor as she fled the gallery.
Behind her, his voice followed, quiet but raw. “Clara, please…”
But she didn’t stop.
The evening air slapped cool against her flushed skin as she hurried into the street, arms wrapping around herself as though to hold her breaking heart together. The city blurred around her—honking cars, glowing lights, rushing strangers—while only one truth echoed in her mind.
You lied to me.
- Writer
