17 : The Dangerous Invitation
490 Words
Clara Whitmore was many things, but she was not a woman who accepted defeat.
Amelia realized this the moment she opened her email that evening and found the message waiting for her.
“Meet me tonight. If you want the lies to stop, come alone. —Clara”
Her stomach twisted. It was a trap—of course it was—but if she ignored it, Clara would only find new ways to strike. If she went, at least she had a chance to end it.
She didn’t tell Alexander. Not after the way he had dismantled Clara’s empire earlier that day. If he knew about this, he would lock her in the penthouse. And Amelia was done hiding.
⸻
The meeting place was an abandoned art gallery on the Lower East Side, its windows boarded, its halls eerily silent. Amelia’s heels clicked softly against the cracked marble as she stepped inside, her heart pounding.
“Clara?” she called, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest.
Clara emerged from the shadows, a cruel smile curving her lips. “Well, well. The dutiful wife does have a spine after all.”
Amelia crossed her arms. “Say what you came to say, Clara. Because this ends tonight.”
“Oh, it ends,” Clara said softly. “But not for me.”
Two men stepped out from the shadows—photographers, cameras ready. Clara’s eyes glittered with triumph. “One little photo. That’s all it takes. A compromising angle, a suggestive whisper, and the world will believe you’re nothing but a liar and a cheat.”
Amelia’s pulse spiked, but she held Clara’s gaze. “I won’t play your games.”
Clara stepped closer, her voice sharp. “You already are. Because whether you fight me or not, Alexander will see these photos. And he will never forgive you.”
For the first time, fear pierced Amelia’s resolve. Not fear for herself—but for the fragile bond she had begun to build with Alexander.
Then a new voice cut through the tension, low and lethal.
“Try me.”
Amelia spun, her heart leaping into her throat. Alexander stood at the entrance, his storm-gray eyes blazing, his presence filling the room like thunder.
Clara’s smirk faltered. “Alexander—”
“Enough.” His voice was ice. “You’ve overplayed your hand.”
He strode forward, pulling Amelia firmly to his side. The photographers hesitated under his piercing glare. “If a single photo of her leaks, I will bury you so deep the world will forget you ever existed.”
For the first time, Clara’s composure cracked. Her smile faded, replaced by a flicker of fear.
Alexander tightened his hold on Amelia. “You want a headline? Here’s one. She is mine. And no one touches what’s mine.”
The room trembled with his fury. And for the first time, Clara knew she had lost.
- Writer
