Chapter 13 : THE GHOST IN THE ROOM
578 Words
The celebration dinner was a pathetic irony. Clara had splurged on a bottle of "good" grocery-store prosecco and a stack of expensive takeout sushi. She had cleared the legal briefs off the small dining table, lighting a single candle that flickered against the peeling wallpaper.
"To Blackstone and Sterling," Clara said, raising her glass, her eyes bright with a warmth Julian hadn't seen since the blizzard. "The first of many wins."
Julian sat across from her, his hand wrapped so tightly around his glass that his knuckles were white. He looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, he didn’t just see his rival or his partner. He saw the curve of a jawline that matched a woman his father claimed had destroyed his family.
"Julian?" Clara’s smile faltered. "You haven't touched your food. You haven't even spoken since you got out of that car. What did he say to you?"
"Nothing that matters," Julian lied, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.
"Don't do that," she snapped, the 'Ice Queen' flickering back for a second. "Don't go back into your shell. We just beat the biggest firm in the city. You should be gloating. You should be... you."
I don’t know who 'me' is anymore, Julian thought bitterly. He stood up abruptly, the chair screeching against the linoleum. The sound was like a physical jolt to his nerves. "I’m just tired, Clara. The adrenaline wore off. I think I need to sleep."
"It’s eight o'clock," she pointed out, standing up to face him. She walked around the table, reaching out to touch his arm. "Julian, talk to me. If he threatened you—"
As her fingers brushed his sleeve, Julian flinched. It was a small, sharp movement, but in the silence of the apartment, it felt like a gunshot.
Clara froze, her hand hanging in mid-air. The joy in her face didn't just fade; it shattered. "Did you just... pull away from me?"
"I'm just tired," he repeated, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall behind her. He couldn't look at her. If he looked at her, he’d see the folder. He’d see the rain-slicked road. He’d see the mother who hadn't been there to tuck him in because a Sterling had played dirty.
"You’re lying," Clara whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. "He got to you. Whatever he said in that car, you believed him over me. Over us."
"There is no 'us,' Clara! We have a lease and a caseload. That’s it."
The words were meant to be a shield, but they hit her like a blow. Clara stepped back, her face turning as cold as the marble in the Supreme Court. "I see. The Prince got his win and remembered he’s a Blackstone after all. My mistake."
She didn't wait for him to respond. She grabbed her coat and her keys, slamming the door behind her as she headed out into the Brooklyn night.
Julian sank onto the lumpy sofa, buried his head in his hands, and finally let out the breath he’d been holding. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the one thing he’d managed to snag from his father’s car: a grainy, black-and-white photo of a young woman who looked hauntingly like Clara, standing next to a car with a "Sterling" legal plate.
The war wasn't in the courtroom anymore. It was in his blood.
- Writer
