CHAPTER 3 — CLARA CHOSE THE WRONG SIDE
By noon, Alexander’s lawyers were everywhere.
Hospital lobby.
Police station.
Boardroom.
My phone.
They moved fast because guilty people always do.
His first attorney called me while I was still in a hospital bed.
“Sophia,” he said smoothly, “Mr. Blackwood is willing to handle this privately.”
I looked at Vincent.
He gave one small nod.
So I put the call on speaker.
“Privately?” I asked.
The lawyer cleared his throat.
“A misunderstanding between husband and wife should not become a public spectacle.”
I stared at the cast on my leg.
“My bone misunderstood him?”
Silence.
Vincent almost smiled.
The lawyer tried again. “Mr. Blackwood is prepared to offer a generous settlement.”
“How generous?”
“Two million dollars.”
I laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough to make him uncomfortable.
“Tell Alexander my silence costs more than his company.”
Then I hung up.
Thirty minutes later, Clara called.
I almost ignored it.
Vincent said, “Answer.”
So I did.
Her voice was shaking. “Sophia, please. I didn’t know he would hurt you.”
“You wore my robe.”
She started crying.
“I was scared.”
“No,” I said. “You were comfortable until the consequences arrived.”
A long pause.
Then she whispered, “He recorded you.”
My blood cooled.
“What?”
“Alexander has cameras in the penthouse. Hidden ones. He said it was for security. But he kept clips. Arguments. Private moments. Things he could use if you ever left.”
I gripped the phone.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Where?” I asked.
“His private server. Office safe. Clara Vance birthday, 0418.”
My necklace.
My robe.
My best friend.
And now my witness.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Because the weak always wait until the monster turns toward them.
“He said he’ll blame everything on me,” Clara whispered. “He said I seduced him, drugged him, provoked you, and staged the fall.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The betrayal inside the betrayal.
Alexander did not love Clara either.
He only loved exits.
“Send me everything,” I said.
“I need protection.”
Vincent took the phone gently from my hand.
“You have ten minutes,” he said. “Send the files, the passwords, and every message he ever sent you. Then leave your apartment and go to the address my assistant texts you.”
Clara sobbed. “Who are you?”
Vincent’s voice stayed calm.
“The man keeping you useful.”
By sunset, we had it all.
Videos.
Texts.
Bank transfers.
A message from Alexander to Clara two weeks before Fashion Week:
Once Sophia signs the hotel design rights over, I can divorce her clean.
Another one:
If she refuses, we make her look unstable.
And the worst one:
Her father is dead anyway. No one is coming.
I read that sentence three times.
Then I looked at Vincent.
“You were dead?”
“To him,” Vincent said.
“Why?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because your mother made sure the world believed I had no daughter.”
“Did you let her?”
Pain moved behind his eyes.
“Yes.”
That answer hurt more than I expected.
Before I could ask anything else, the hospital TV switched to breaking news.
Alexander Blackwood stood outside his office building in a navy suit, face pale but polished.
Reporters surrounded him.
He looked straight into the cameras.
“My wife is suffering from a severe mental health episode,” he said. “I love Sophia. I only want her to get help.”
The room went silent.
My hands began to shake.
Not from fear.
From rage.
Then he added the line that ended any mercy I had left.
“Sadly, her unknown biological father has a criminal background and appears to be manipulating her.”
Vincent slowly stood.
The room seemed to shrink around him.
I looked at the screen.
Alexander had declared war on me in public.
Vincent buttoned his coat.
May you like
“No,” he said quietly.
“He declared war on both of us.”
