Ruined by the Ruthless Fixer

Chapter 2

Clara’s chest heaved as she drove away from the gala, her hands gripping the leather steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. The city lights blurred past her windshield, streaks of neon and gold painting the dark, but she wasn't seeing any of it.

All she saw were those eyes. Dark. Unforgiving. Completely fixated on her.

She had scrambled into her car while the stranger still had the blade to Julian’s throat. She hadn't looked back. She hadn't waited to see if he actually cut him. The absolute silence of the tattooed man was far more terrifying than Julian’s screaming.

It took her twenty minutes to reach the Vance Tower. The towering skyscraper in the heart of the city’s most exclusive district belonged to her father’s holding company, though she lived in one of the luxury penthouses under an LLC. She had spent the last four years hiding her identity, determined to make her name as an architect on her own merit, without the crutch of the Vance billions.

She pulled her Audi into the underground garage, her tires squealing against the polished concrete. Throwing the car into park, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel, trying to regulate her breathing.

*You did it,* she told herself. *You ruined Julian. You took your power back.*

But why did she feel so cold?

Clara grabbed her purse, locked her car, and walked toward the private elevator bay that led to the residential lobby. The marble floors gleamed under the soft, ambient lighting. The towering brass fixtures and velvet seating areas were usually comforting to her—a sanctuary from the brutal corporate world she navigated every day.

Tonight, the lobby was dead silent. The night concierge was nowhere to be seen, likely doing his midnight rounds on the upper floors.

Clara’s heels clicked sharply against the marble as she made her way toward the private resident elevator.

"Bravo, Clara."

The voice drifted out from the shadows of the seating area, smooth, cultured, and dripping with a condescension that made Clara’s blood run instantly cold.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart, which had just begun to settle, slammed violently against her ribs. She knew that voice. She would know it in her nightmares.

A figure stood up from one of the high-backed velvet chairs and stepped into the light.

Marcus Reed.

He was thirty-two, impeccably dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, with a silver tie that matched the premature dusting of gray at his temples. He looked like the cover of a GQ magazine, entirely out of place in the middle of her private lobby at midnight.

"Marcus," Clara breathed, her voice betraying a slight tremble despite her best efforts. "How did you get in here?"

Marcus offered a slow, charming smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I still have friends in high places, Clara. And you’ve always been so predictable. I heard about your little theatrical performance at the gala tonight. News travels fast among the partners."

Clara took a step back, her guarded instincts flaring up into full-blown alarm. Marcus wasn't just an ex-boyfriend. He was the senior architect who had mentored her straight out of college. He was the man who had systematically dismantled her self-worth, piece by piece, until she believed she was lucky he even looked at her.

"You shouldn't be here," Clara said, forcing her chin up. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Oh, but I have so much to say to you," Marcus murmured, closing the distance between them with slow, measured steps. "I have to admit, I was surprised. I didn't think you had it in you to bite back at Julian. Then again, I always told you he was a parasite."

"Julian is none of your business," Clara snapped, turning toward the elevator and jabbing the call button. The digital numbers above the doors indicated the car was on the fiftieth floor. It was going to take too long.

"He was a desperate, talentless boy," Marcus continued, his voice wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket. He came to a stop just a few feet away, invading her personal space. "But what does that make you, Clara? You let him use you for two years. Just like you let me mold you."

"You didn't mold me," Clara shot back, her nails digging into her palms. "You abused your power. You stole my confidence."

Marcus chuckled softly. It was a rich, warm sound that made Clara want to be sick. "Confidence requires talent, my dear. I merely showed you the reality of your limitations. I protected you from the harshness of the industry. Without me, look at you. You fell right into the arms of a mediocre junior partner who couldn't even draw a straight line."

"I took Julian down tonight. I proved my designs were mine."

"You threw a tantrum," Marcus corrected gently, his eyes filled with a mock pity that cut deeper than a knife. "A loud, messy, emotional tantrum. Do you think the board of directors respects you now? They don't. They see an unstable, hysterical little girl who can't handle her personal life."

Clara stared at the elevator doors, praying for them to open. "Leave, Marcus. Before I call security."

"You won't," Marcus said, stepping closer. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Clara flinched, slapping his hand away. "Don't touch me!"

Marcus’s eyes darkened, the charming facade slipping to reveal the cruel predator beneath. He stepped directly into her path, forcing her to back up until her shoulder blades hit the cold brass of the elevator doors.

"You're lost without me, Clara," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh, commanding whisper. "You thought ruining Julian would make you feel strong? It didn't, did it? Because deep down, you know the truth. You know you're nothing without a man to guide your hand. You're just a frightened little fraud."

"Shut up," Clara choked out. Her chest was tightening. The lobby walls felt like they were closing in on her. The familiar, suffocating weight of Marcus’s gaslighting was pulling her under.

"Look at you," Marcus taunted, leaning in so close she could smell his expensive cologne. He placed one hand on the elevator door beside her head, effectively trapping her. "You're shaking. You're falling apart. You push away the only man who ever truly understood how flawed you are."

Clara couldn't breathe. Her lungs refused to expand. The adrenaline from the gala had vanished, leaving behind a raw, gaping vulnerability that Marcus was tearing into with surgical precision.

"You're not a brilliant architect, Clara," Marcus whispered, his lips grazing her ear. "You're a mess. You've let yourself go. Look how fat and pathetic you've become without me to keep you in line. You need me. Beg me to come back, and I might just save you from yourself."

The elevator dinged, but Clara couldn't move. Her vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges of her sight. Her hands flew to her chest, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as a massive panic attack swallowed her whole.