~ Clara’s POV ~
The silence in the back of the car felt even louder than the crowded ballroom we had just left.
As the Rolls-Royce pulled away from the gala, the flashing cameras faded into the dark, leaving us in a tense, deafening quiet.
I sat at the far end of the back seat with my hands clenched tightly in my lap, terrified of what Miss Evelyn was going to say about my speech
The rush of adrenaline that had carried me up to that stage had completely vanished, leaving behind a cold wave of regret.
What on earth was I thinking?
The words I had spoken kept looping in my head.
‘I should have just accepted her trophy and left, why did I say those thing , oh my god’ I silently chided myself
To a woman who ruled her empire with an iron fist, my speech must have sounded like a joke.
Or worse, a public betrayal of the fearsome image she had spent years building.
Every now and then I steal a quick glance at her.
She was staring straight out the window, her jaw set, her face a completely blank mask.
She hadn’t said a single word to me since we left the stage.
No “good job,” no “thank you”—not even a scolding for my impulsiveness.
Her silence was terrifying, and with every mile we traveled, the knot in my stomach tightened.
By the time the car finally pulled up the estate’s long driveway, I was emotionally exhausted.
“Goodnight, Miss Evelyn,” I whispered as the chauffeur opened my door.
My voice sounded weak, barely carrying over the quiet hum of the idling engine.
She didn’t turn to look at me.
“Goodnight, Clara,” she said, her voice cool and even, telling me absolutely nothing of what she was thinking.
I hurried inside, heading straight for the safety of the North Wing, the quick click of my heels echoing off the floor.
The moment I was safely behind my bedroom door, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding all night.
I didn’t even have the energy to take off the diamond necklace or unbutton the heavy green dress properly; I just collapsed onto the bed.
I lay there in the dark, my mind too tired to process the mess I’d made, and closed my eyes before the tears of frustration could even start to fall.
If I thought the gala would change things for the better, I was wrong.
It only made them worse.
For the next week, Miss Evelyn went completely silent.
She started leaving for the office before I even woke up, and when she was at the estate, she spent her nights locked in her study.
At work, she kept our interactions strictly professional, routing most of her instructions through Lydia.
To me It felt like a silent, deliberate reminder of my place and before I knew it we were back to where we started; she was the boss, and I was just the assistant.
To distract myself from the unfamiliar feelings starting to brew in my chest, I spent my nights in the studio.
I poured all my frustration and forbidden thoughts into the secret portrait that remained hidden in the darkest part of the studio.
Then came Friday morning, and the call that changed everything.
“Clara, come to my office.”Her voice rang out through the office phone, and my heart skipped a beat.
Her voice was exactly as it always was—crisp, calm, and terrifyingly efficient.
For days, I had been starved of it.
Part of me was relieved to be summoned, but a much larger, more anxious part felt like I was walking to my own execution.
Maybe she had finally decided what to do about the gala debacle or maybe she was finally going to punish me for the audacity of my speech.
I stood before her office door, taking three deep, steadying breaths.
I raised my hand and knocked.
“Come in,” her voice called out from inside.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
The sub-zero air from the Ac vents hit me immediately, sending a cold shiver down my spine.
Miss Evelyn didn’t look up right away.
She was busy, focused on a mountain of documents on her desk.
When she finally raised her head, her gaze locked onto mine.
It was a brief look, but it held me entirely in place.
I swallowed hard, forcing down my nerves as I walked to the center of the room.
“Yes, Miss Evelyn?” I said, clasping my hands tightly in front of me, waiting for the blow to fall.
“Get your things ready. We’re leaving in an hour,” she said simply.
She didn’t offer an explanation, and she didn’t even stop the rhythmic scratching of her gold fountain pen against the paper.
I had expected…
something.
A reprimand, a task, maybe a comment on my speech.
Instead, I felt like a piece of luggage she was just moving from one room to another.
Isn’t it too early to head back to the estate?
I wondered, my feet staying glued to the carpet.
“Why are you still here?” she asked, her eyes still tracking the lines of a contract.
Then, she paused, set the pen down with a soft clack, and leaned back in her chair.
Her expression was a polished mask of indifference, and the coldness of it stung.
“Is there something you want to say to me, Clara?”
Yes, I wanted to say.
I wanted to ask her if she was angry at me, I wanted to know if my words at the gala had cut her as deeply as her silence was cutting me.
I wanted to apologize for tearing off her protective mask in front of everyone.
I wanted her to yell at me, glare at me— anything but treat me like I invicible.
But under the weight of her stare, the words died in my throat.
“No, Miss Evelyn,” I managed to say, my voice sounding incredibly thin.
I turned and walked out.
I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath until the heavy door clicked shut behind me and the air in the hallway felt suddenly, mercifully warm.
“Clara? Are you alright?”
Lydia’s voice made me jump.
She walked over, her brow furrowed with genuine concern.
“You look completely pale, like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, really,” I lied, the guilt making my stomach turn.
“Just a little light-headed. The AC is really high in her office today.”
“Do you want me to speak with her? I can suggest that you head home early,” Lydia offered, her kindness only making me feel worse.
“Oh no, it’s fine! I can manage,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly.
Lydia gave a soft, understanding chuckle at my sudden panic and brought me a glass of warm water.
I drank it in one go, desperate to wash away the tightness in my throat.
I spent the next hour forcing myself to focus on my paperwork.
At exactly noon, the sound of her office door opening had me standing up immediately.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and fell into step behind her as we headed down to the private elevator.
Once we were in the back of the car, I realized we weren’t heading toward the estate.
The driver took a completely different route, weaving through the high-end shopping districts of the city.
I stole a quiet glance at her.
She was leaning back against the leather seat, scrolling through her phone, her face lit by the blue glow of her screen.
She looked completely relaxed, entirely unbothered by the change in direction.
Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up to a towering glass skyscraper.
A line of staff in uniforms stood by the entrance, immediately bowing the moment our car stopped.
“This way, please, Miss Vance,” the manager said, guiding us toward a private lift.
I followed Evelyn, my chest tight with curiosity.
I had no idea where we were going.
In moments like this, watching how easily the world bent to accommodate her, I was reminded once again of how powerful Miss Evelyn really was.
The lift rose in a smooth, silent rush, opening directly onto the penthouse floor.
The moment the doors slid back, my breath caught.
The entire space was flooded with natural light, the walls lined with stunning, vibrant canvases.
I realized instantly where we were: an exclusive art exhibition hosted by Mr Miguel Francesco, one of the most famous curators in the country and my absolute idol.
I walked through the gallery like I was in a dream, staring at the masterful brushstrokes on the walls as the staff led us toward a reserved table near the windows.
Suddenly, a voice called out from across the room.
“Evelyn!”
A warm, energetic voice broke through the quiet of the gallery.
I turned and instantly froze.
Walking toward us was Francesco Miguel himself.
He carried himself with an effortless, practiced charm, a wide, genuine smile on his face.
Mr Miguel greeted her like an old friend, leaning in to press a light kiss to both of her cheeks.
“How are you, Francesco?” she asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.
“I’m wonderful! Honestly, I didn’t think you’d actually make it, given your schedule,” he said, gesturing for us to sit as he took the chair opposite ours.
“I always make time to see your new collections,” she said smoothly.
Then, her eyes drifted over to me.
I felt a prickle of confusion.
Why was she looking at me?
And then, she said the one thing I never expected to hear from her lips.
“But I also came here for another reason. Francesco, I’d like you to meet Clara Sinclair. This is the artist I told you about.”
My heart stopped.
Meeting my idol was overwhelming enough, but hearing Miss Evelyn introduce me, not as her assistant, but simply as an artist, took the air right out of my lungs.
I was left speechless and just stared at her, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Miss Evelyn held my gaze for a long, quiet second.
And then, she smiled at me.
It wasn’t a polite, empty gesture.
It was a real, genuine smile that actually reached her eyes, softening the cold green of her gaze.
In that split second, the untouchable mogul vanished, and I saw the woman underneath.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and if we hadn’t been sitting in a room full of the city’s elite, I think I would have started crying right there and than.
“Ah,” Miguel said, his attention turning fully to me, his eyes lighting up with interest.
“It is a pleasure to finally put a face to the name. Evelyn has been telling me about you.”
“Thank you, sir,” I managed to stammer, my voice tight with emotion.
“It is the honor of my life to meet you.”
“Your work has a very raw, honest quality, Clara,” he said, his smile warming.
“It’s rare to see that level of emotion in modern art. The pleasure is entirely mine.”
My chest swelled with a mixture of pride and complete disbelief.
Had Evelyn actually shown him my paintings?
Or did he remember my pieces from university?
For the next hour, Mr Miguel personally led us through the gallery, explaining the stories and techniques behind each of his masterpieces.
For the first time in years, the heavy weight of my past seemed to slip away.
I wasn’t Julian’s discarded wife, or a pawn in a billionaire’s game.
I was an artist, standing among my peers.
As we prepared to leave, Mr Miguel pulled out a business card from his pocket and held it out to me.
“Here. Take this.”
I hesitated, my hand hovering in the air, until I felt Evelyn’s subtle nod beside me.
“If you ever have any questions about art, about the business, or simply just want to find your own voice in this industry, my office is always open to you, Clara,” Miguel said kindly.
“Thank you, Mr. Miguel,” I beamed, holding the card like it’s the most precious thing.
The ride back to the estate was quiet, but the silence had changed.
The suffocating coldness from before was gone.
I watched Miss Evelyn out of the corner of my eye as the car sped through the dark streets.
She was already back to her tablet, her face once again blank and giving nothing away, but the memory of her smile was still burned into my mind.
“Miss Evelyn,” I said softly.
She didn’t look up, but her thumb paused its scrolling on the screen.
“I just… I wanted to say thank you. Meeting Mr Francesco Miguel was a dream I never thought would come true. You made it happen, and I’m incredibly grateful.”
The car hummed quietly on the asphalt as we sped through the night.
She finally lifted her head slowly, her green eyes unreadable in the dim light of the cabin.
“I hope you know my help is never free, Clara,” she said.
Her voice was cool, level, and entirely devoid of the warmth she had shown at the gallery.
The sudden change sent a sharp chill straight through my chest.
“You are an investment. And eventually, I will expect a return.”
My heart skipped a beat, the happiness of the evening instantly curdling into a heavy knot of anxiety.
I stared at her, desperately searching her face for any hint of a joke, but there was nothing.
Just the Ice Queen.
“I understand,” I whispered, looking down at my lap, wondering what I could give back to someone that had everything.