---- Chapter 11 No.11 The closed door was an insult. A declaration of war. Chase drove back to his hotel in a blind rage. He, Chase Strong, had been dismissed. Turned away at the door like a delivery boy. He stormed into his room, sweeping a ridiculously expensive vase off a table. It shattered against the wall, the sound doing nothing to quell the storm inside him. He had lost control of the narrative. This wasn't how his story was supposed to go. He paced the room, his mind racing. He had been wrong- footed by her coldness. By him. Benedict. The quiet lawyer with the protective stance. He needed to get her alone. He remembered something Karis had mentioned in one of her rambling calls. The art studio. Something about Clare hiding away, making ugly little pots. He hired the investigator again. It was disgustingly easy. Within a day, he had the address. A small, private studio space she was renting in a quiet part of town. A place she went to be alone. ' ---- He waited. He watched the studio from his car for two days. On the third day, late in the afternoon, her car pulled up. She got out, alone. This was his chance. He let her go inside, giving her a few minutes to settle. Then he followed. The door was unlocked. She was at a potter's wheel, her back to him. Her hands were covered in wet, gray clay. The room smelled of earth and water. It was quiet, peaceful. He hated it. "Clare," he said. She flinched, her body going rigid. The pot she was shaping collapsed on the wheel. She didn't turn around. "You need to leave," she said, her voice tight. "Not until we talk," he said, walking further into the room, closing the door behind him. He was trapping them in. He was regaining control. "There's nothing to say." "| disagree," he said, his voice softening. He was switching tactics. Anger hadn't worked. He would try remorse. "| made a mistake, Clare. A terrible mistake. | was under a lot of pressure. The launch, the wedding... | wasn't thinking clearly." ---- She was silent, her back still to him. He moved closer, until he was standing right behind her. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her hair. "| miss you," he whispered. "The apartment is empty without you. I'm empty without you." He reached out, placing his hands on her shoulders. She recoiled as if burned. She shot up from the stool, spinning around to face him. Her face was a mask of fury and disgust. "Don't you touch me," she hissed. "Clare, please," he said, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I love you. | know | hurt you, but | can make it right. We can go back to how things were." "Go back?" she laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "There is no going back. Do you think | don't know that you sent Karis to my appointment with acid in a bottle?" He paled. He hadn't known the exact chemical, but the intent "You destroyed my hands," she said, her voice trembling with tage. "You destroyed my career. You left me pregnant and alone on a mountain. And you think you can fix it by saying you're sorry?" ---- "tt was for us!" he insisted, his voice rising. "Your career was getting in the way! | did it to bring you back to me!" "You are insane," she breathed, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. "You're a monster." "I'm the man who loves you!" he shouted, grabbing her arm. "You belong to me, Clare!" "No," she said, her voice dropping to a deadly quiet. She looked him straight in the eye. "The only thing | belong to is myself. She wrenched her arm from his grasp. "Get out. Or | will call the police and | will tell them everything." He stared at her, at the absolute conviction in her eyes. The woman he thought he knew, the pliable, adoring girl, was gone. This woman was a stranger. A stranger who hated him. The realization was a punch to the gut. He had lost. He had truly, irrevocably lost her. He stumbled back, away from the force of her hatred. He turned and fled the studio, the scent of wet clay and her righteous fury chasing him out into the too-bright California sun.