The Storm
612 Words
The rain gleamed and lashed away at Clara's skin as she stood at the very edge of the ferry. Marcus's last words were still ringing in her ears. "You were always just a pretty face." They hissed out of his mouth as a serpent would; smooth, efficient, deadly, before he had turned his back on her-faintly leaving her to cling to the ferry's rusted railing as the rain blurred the city skyline of Manhattan into a painting of betrayal.
It had all started with a joke. Just a carefully placed barb, she thought, when he had asked her to meet him there, at the terminal where they had first kissed two years before. But that smirk on his face as he boarded his private jet to Dubai-without her-told her everything. The next day, the New York Post had screamed, "CEO Blackwood Dumps Mystery Muse: Art School Sweetheart Ousted as Tech Darling Courts Supermodel."
Clara had her thumb almost convinced to just drop on the i********: notification. The face staring back, pale, rain-streaked, mascara slowly bleeding down the cheeks from a paparazzi shot was captioned "Humiliated!" The swarm of comments:
"Gold digger got played."
"Who even is she?"
"Seeing cute until she hit 25. Shelf life expired."
She tossed the phone into her canvas tote with a drag on her shoulder. The vessel groaned as it docked at St. George. Again, she had missed her stop.
The diner where she worked stank of grease and remorse. Egg yolk and yesterday's mascara stained her apron.
"Marge!” yelled the shift manager from behind the counter. “Clara! Table seven's been waiting ten minutes!"
She nodded, feigned a smile, and approached a booth where a Wall Street type in a bespoke suit was leering at her. His eyes narrowed. "Aren't you...?" Tap of his fingertip against his phone glass, sliding it across the sticky Formica. The viral video played. Cold and amused, Marcus's voice rang, "Clara? Just a phase. She's... pivoting to other things now," to a TMZ reporter.
The man smirked. "Heard you’re an artist. Draw me a latte?"
Clara's grip tightened around the coffee pot. For a heartbeat, she imagined pouring it all over his head. Instead, she scrawled a crude stick figure on his receipt, slid it back, and walked away. Her heart drummed in her ears, louder than the clattering of dishes in the diner.
That night, she sat on the fire escape of her tiny Brooklyn apartment, drawing her knees close to her chest. The skyline glittered in derision before her. Above it all towered Marcus's empire, Blackwood Tech, a glass-and-steel monument to all she'd lost. Her acceptance letters to art school lay shredded in the trash. "Tuition paid by anonymous donor," the email had said. Marcus's parting "gift."
Raindrops from the fire escape were abusing her bare feet. Her thoughts went to her mother, a seamstress who worked double shifts saving just enough to buy Clara her first set of acrylics. "You paint worlds, mija. Don’t let anybody erase yours."
Clara rose, water pooling behind her. She opened NYU's Stern School of Business website on her phone. The MBA application seemed to glare back.
"Create new account."
She typed in her name. Then she wrote in the "Personal Statement" field:
"I want to learn how to break things."
Miles away, Marcus Blackwood swirled a 30-year-old Macallan in his Tribeca loft, idly flicking through a slideshow featuring Dubai's newest AI lab. A notification buzzed: "Clara Voss viewed your LinkedIn profile."
He snorted, tossing the phone onto the white leather couch. "Sentimentality's a weakness," he muttered to the empty room.
Thunder ripped and boomed outside. Somewhere a match struck.
First spark.
- Writer
