Claiming My Crown: The Reborn Architect's Revenge

Chapter 2

Clara didn’t wait for Julian to recover from his shock. As he stood there, mouth agape and staring at the coffee mug like it contained a live grenade, she turned on her heel and walked out of her studio.

The heavy glass door swung shut behind her with a satisfying click.

Her heart wasn't breaking. Her hands weren't shaking. Instead, a fiery, intoxicating energy surged through her veins. For the first time in five years, she could breathe.

But the victory was only half-won. Calling off the wedding was merely the first step. If she was going to burn Thorne Enterprises to the ground and build her own empire from the ashes, she needed her master hard drives. The physical backups of the Skyline project—and every other major design she had created—were locked in the biometric safe inside Julian’s private executive suite down the hall.

In her past life, Julian had used those backups to force her compliance, holding her previous work hostage. Not this time.

Clara moved down the opulent, marble-floored hallway of the 40th floor. She traced her fingers lightly along the sleek, modern walls she had personally designed. The aesthetic flow, the recessed lighting, the seamless integration of glass and steel—it was all her brilliance, branded with the Thorne logo.

She reached the heavy mahogany double doors of the CEO suite. Usually, Julian’s fiercely loyal secretary would be sitting at the reception desk, but it was 11:00 AM. Clara knew the woman always took her lunch break early on Tuesdays.

The outer office was empty. The door to Julian’s inner sanctum was left slightly ajar, a careless mistake typical of a man who believed the world revolved around him.

Clara stepped quietly onto the plush, imported rug, reaching out to push the door open.

"Julian, are you sure she’s actually going to do it?"

Clara froze. Her hand hovered inches from the wood. It was a woman’s voice—high-pitched, breathy, and dripping with an artificial sweetness that made Clara’s teeth ache.

Serena Blake.

Clara pressed herself against the wall beside the crack in the door, listening intently.

"Of course she will, babe," Julian’s voice drifted out, sounding remarkably recovered from the dressing down Clara had just given him moments ago. He had evidently taken a shortcut through the executive elevator to beat her here. "Clara is a dog. She’ll bark and bare her teeth, but at the end of the day, she’ll do whatever I say if I throw her a bone. She’s too desperate to marry me to actually walk away."

"I don't know," Serena whined, the sound accompanied by the rustle of clothing. "She looked pretty mad yesterday when I said her foyer design was boring. I just don't want her ruining my moment at the apex bid. I’ve already picked out my dress for the gala."

"She won't ruin anything," Julian murmured smoothly, his voice dropping into a seductive register. "She’s throwing a little temper tantrum right now, playing hard to get with her ring. But she’ll be back in my office by the end of the day, crying and begging for forgiveness. She always caves. Until then, we have the master files right here in the safe. We don't even need her permission."

"You're so smart, Julian," Serena giggled, a sickeningly sweet sound. "Her design under my name is going to make us the king and queen of this city. We won't ever have to pretend to care about her stupid, boring technical lectures again."

"Exactly. Now, come here. Let me show my Creative Director how much I appreciate her vision."

The sound of wet, heavy kissing echoed through the quiet office, followed by a soft moan from Serena and the unmistakable thud of two bodies hitting the leather sofa.

In her past life, Clara would have collapsed right there in the hallway. She would have clamped her hands over her mouth, tears streaming down her face, her heart shattered into a million irreparable pieces. She would have run away, convinced she wasn't good enough, pretty enough, or talented enough to keep him.

Now? Clara just felt a profound sense of boredom.

They were so predictable. So utterly, pathetically cliché.

She looked down the hallway. Mounted neatly on the wall, housed in a pristine glass cabinet she had mandated for fire code compliance, was a bright red, industrial-sized fire extinguisher.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Clara's face.

She walked over to the cabinet, unlatched the glass door, and lifted the heavy metal cylinder. It was cold and solid in her hands. She checked the pressure gauge—perfectly full—and pulled the metal safety pin out with a sharp *shink*.

Carrying the extinguisher like a weapon, Clara marched back to the mahogany doors. She didn't bother pushing it open with her hands.

She raised her leg and kicked the door open with the flat of her heel.

*BANG!*

The heavy door slammed against the interior wall, shaking the framed architectural awards that Clara had won, which Julian displayed under his own name.

On the imported, custom-made Italian leather sofa, the two lovers leaped apart like they had been struck by lightning.

It was an objectively hilarious sight. Julian’s bespoke trousers were bunched around his ankles, his silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest. Serena was straddling him, completely topless, her designer skirt hiked up to her waist. Her perfectly blown-out hair was a tangled mess.

"What the hell!" Julian roared, scrambling backward and nearly falling off the sofa as he tried to pull his pants up.

Serena shrieked, a high, piercing sound, and crossed her arms over her bare chest, frantically looking around for her discarded blouse. "Clara! Are you crazy?! Get out of here!"

Clara stood in the doorway, her posture relaxed, the heavy fire extinguisher resting easily against her hip. She looked at them with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a pair of particularly ugly insects.

She slowly raised her free hand and began a slow, mocking clap.

*Clap. Clap. Clap.*

"Bravo," Clara said, her voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "A truly masterful performance. I see the Creative Director is already hard at work on her knees. Is that how you plan to win over the apex bid judges, Serena? It’s a bold strategy, I’ll admit. Not very structurally sound, but definitely eye-catching."

Julian’s face went from pale shock to a furious, embarrassed red. "Clara, put that down and get out of my office! Have you lost your damn mind?!"

"Oh, I think I’ve finally found it," Clara replied, stepping casually into the room. She kicked the door shut behind her with her heel.

Serena scrambled off the sofa, grabbing a decorative throw pillow to cover her chest. "Julian, do something! She’s a psycho! I told you she was obsessed with you!"

"Obsessed?" Clara laughed, a bright, genuinely amused sound. "Serena, darling, the only thing I’m obsessed with is my intellectual property. You two can have each other. Truly. A narcissistic fraud and a talentless gold-digger. It's a match made in corporate heaven."

"Shut up!" Julian yelled, finally managing to buckle his belt. He took a threatening step toward Clara, his fists clenched. "You arrogant bitch. You think you can barge in here, insult us, and just walk away? You’re done, Clara. You’re fired. I’ll make sure you never work in this city again!"

"Oh, Julian," Clara sighed, shaking her head in mock pity. "You really shouldn't make threats when your pants are barely zipped. It ruins the intimidation factor."

Julian lunged toward her. "Give me that—"

Clara didn’t flinch. She simply raised the nozzle of the fire extinguisher, pointed it directly at Julian’s chest, and squeezed the handle.

*FWOOSH!*

A massive, pressurized cloud of freezing, thick chemical foam exploded from the nozzle. It hit Julian squarely in the chest, the kinetic force physically knocking him backward onto the floor.

"Aaaaaagh!" Julian screamed, thrashing on the carpet as the freezing, suffocating foam covered his face, his hair, and his expensive silk shirt. It expanded instantly, a blinding, choking white cloud of dry chemicals.

"Julian!" Serena shrieked, dropping her pillow in panic.

Clara turned the nozzle toward the mistress.

"Don't you dare—!" Serena started, holding up her hands.

Clara squeezed the handle again.

*FWOOSH!*

Serena took a full blast to the face. The chemical foam coated her meticulously styled hair, filled her screaming mouth, and covered her bare chest in a thick, frosty layer of white sludge. She slipped on the foam-covered floor and went down hard, landing right on top of a thrashing Julian.

Clara released the handle, the roar of the extinguisher dying down to a quiet hiss.

The pristine executive office was a disaster zone. A thick layer of white chemical powder coated the mahogany desk, the imported rug, and the Italian leather sofa. In the center of the room, Julian and Serena were a tangled, sputtering mess of limbs, coughing violently and wiping the stinging foam from their eyes.

"My eyes! It burns!" Serena wailed, rolling on the floor in her ruined skirt.

"You crazy bitch!" Julian choked out, spitting foam onto the carpet. "I'll kill you! I'll call the police!"

"Call them," Clara said coolly, setting the empty fire extinguisher down on a foam-covered side table. "Tell them your Lead Architect caught you having intercourse in a corporate office and had an accidental discharge of safety equipment. I’m sure the shareholders will love reading that police report."

Ignoring their pathetic coughing and swearing, Clara walked calmly around the flailing couple and approached the biometric safe hidden behind a painting of the city skyline—a painting she had bought for him.

She punched in her master override code. The light blinked green, and the heavy steel door clicked open.

Inside sat a row of sleek, silver hard drives. The sum total of five years of her genius. The Skyline blueprints. The commercial zoning drafts. The residential high-rise concepts. Her entire portfolio.

Clara swept all of them into her leather tote bag.

"What are you doing?" Julian coughed, squinting through the white powder as he tried to push himself up on his elbows. "Those belong to Thorne Enterprises!"

"Wrong again, Julian," Clara said, zipping her bag shut and slinging it over her shoulder. She looked down at him, covered in chemicals and groveling on the floor. It was exactly where he belonged.

"They belong to me," Clara said softly, her voice echoing with finality. "Enjoy the mess. I hear chemical foam is hell on Italian leather."

Without a backward glance, Clara stepped over his legs, walked out of the ruined office, and headed for the elevator, her heels clicking a victorious rhythm on the marble floor.