I pause at the door, hand on the handle. Turning to Maksim, I fix him with a hard stare.
“This little rat thinks she can come into our turf and not pay a price? We’ll show her what happens when you fuck with the wrong cats,” I snarl, slipping on my shades. “We’ll give thesukaa surprise she won’t soon forget.” We step out of the café.
Clara Caldwell. I’m coming for you.
Maksim grins, a wild glint in his eye. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
thirty-eight
Clara
Carl's standing at the door like usual, the guy’s eyes nearly popping out of his skull the second he sees me. The crazy dress probably doesn’t help, but at this point, I don’t give a damn. My mind’s already on Elijah, and I need to get inside, fast.
I hope Pam hasn’t had a goddamn heart attack yet.
“M-Miss Caldwell,” Carl stutters, his eyes desperately trying to stay focused on my face, but his gaze keeps sliding to my cleavage, barely restrained by my tight dress.
I don’t have a single fuck to spare right now.
I flick my gaze to his face.
“Carl.” I walk past him, “Any strangers hanging around? People who don’t belong?”
“N-no, ma’am. All quiet here,” he replies, a little too fast.
“Good. Keep it that way. And next time, eyes up here.” I snap my fingers near my eyes, and he jerks his head up like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
I keep walking, already eyeing the private lift up ahead.
But just as I pass the common elevator, it dings, and out steps Mrs. Cheng and her family.
Great. Just what I need right now.
Mr. Cheng’s eyes go wide like he’s seen a ghost. And their teenage son? Forget it. The kid’s practically slack-jawed, staring at me like I’m a walking scandal. Which, let’s be honest, I probably am right now.
I give an awkward smile, trying to play off the fact that I look like I’ve been through hell and back in a damn cocktail dress.
“Morning, Mrs. Cheng. Mr. Cheng.” I mutter, nodding toward the kid.
“Good… morning,” she replies, her voice trailing off as her eyes flicker with concern. Her hand shoots out, grabbing her teenage son’s arm first, giving him a gentle tug. When that doesn’t do the trick, and he keeps staring, her patience snaps. She slaps him on the back of the head—hard. The kid yelps, finally snapping out of it.
She turns to her husband next, but he’s still standing there like a deer in headlights. She lets out an exasperated huff, whacking him lightly on the shoulder.
“Come on,” she mutters, pulling them both away.
I catch her eye just as she’s hauling her family off, and she gives me a quick, apologetic nod.
I force a tight-lipped smile. “Have a good day,” I throw out before making a beeline for my own lift. The doors slide open, and I step inside, hitting the button for the penthouse.
Fuck, who makes these lifts so slow?
I’m practically vibrating with impatience, my foot tapping against the cold floor as the elevator crawls upward.
I lean against the mirrored wall, my chest tight, mind spinning.
Stop. Breathe.
But breathing doesn’t help when your kid’s been with a nanny way longer than planned, with no word from you. Guilt claws at me, sharp and relentless. I told Pam it would be one night,onenight, and now? Hell, I don’t even know how long it’s been. Feels like weeks.
