The Vale Estate smelled of lemon polish and legacy. Theo followed Clara through halls framed with oil paintings of dead men who looked mildly disappointed.
In the dining room, everything gleamed. The chandelier threatened to judge you. The forks were aligned with surgical precision.
And at the head of the table sat Arthur Vale, a man with a voice like marble scraping over granite. Beside him, perched like a snake in a ballgown, was Celeste, his second wife—the woman who'd been Clara's mother's shadow long before the widow's funeral.
Julian Vale, their 25-year-old son, lounged beside them, looking as though he'd just stepped off a yacht and into a Rolex ad.
Theo sat beside Clara. Her fingers were still. Her eyes focused on her plate. She didn't look like the woman who'd barked tie colors at him two days ago.
Arthur's voice cut through the silence.
"So. You're Theo Finch."
"Yes, sir." Theo smiled the way they'd practiced. "It's an honor."
"And what do you do, Mr. Finch?"
Theo glanced at Clara. Her gaze was steady.
"I work in mergers and acquisitions," he said calmly. "Currently assisting with a tech-infrastructure venture targeting growth-stage capital."
Arthur gave a mild nod.
Celeste's smile was all teeth.
"That's a mouthful," she said sweetly. "For a boy with scuffed shoes."
Clara's jaw tightened. Theo chuckled lightly.
"I walk a lot. Keeps the shoes honest."
Julian snorted. Celeste didn't.
"Goodness, Clara," she went on. "You finally found your man. I was beginning to wonder if you'd given up. A woman should be married before twenty-five, not gallivanting around pretending to be independent."
The words landed like stones.
Clara didn't speak. She didn't flinch. But Theo saw it—the slow drawing in of breath. The way her fingers curled under the table.
Celeste tilted her head.
"What was it last year? Journalism school? Or was it that adorable little non-profit? Trying to play at success like it's dress-up."
Arthur stirred his wine. "And your intentions with my daughter, Mr. Finch?"
Theo opened his mouth, but Celeste cut in.
"Or is this just another performance? One of Clara's projects. Like that stray cat she brought home in university."
Clara's knife slipped. A small clink echoed through the room.
Theo stood.
The table jolted as his fists hit the wood, still clutching fork and knife.
Everyone froze.
Clara looked up, eyes wide. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed under her breath.
He stared across the table at them—at the chill in Arthur's eyes, the poison on Celeste's tongue, the hollow grin on Julian's face.
And then down at Clara. Who had walked out of that house and built a spine from scraps. Who had survived them all and still sat here, trying to pretend they didn't bury her in shame every time she opened her mouth.
He spoke with fire in his voice.
"Clara. We're done here. Let's go."
She blinked, stunned.
Then slowly—slowly—she stood.
"Dramatic, isn't he?" Celeste laughed.
Theo leaned over the table.
"Maybe. But I'd rather be dramatic than dead inside."
And they left.
They stormed out of the estate in silence, the night air sharp and biting against their flushed skin. Theo's hand clung to Clara's like it was the most natural thing in the world—like he'd always held it, like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
She suddenly stopped in her tracks.
"What the hell was that, Theo?" she snapped, her chest heaving. "Are you insane?!"
Reality hit him like a truck. The meek little man returned, awkward and apologetic.
"I—I just thought—"
"No, you didn't!" she cut in. "God, what a mess… You know what? Fuck it. I need a drink."
And just like that, she turned and walked. Theo followed without question, without thought. Because something in her tone said it wasn't a request. It was survival.
The bar they ended up in was dim, all wood and red lights, the kind of place that didn't ask questions. Clara slammed herself into a booth, pulled out a cigarette, and barked toward the bar.
"Boss! Two beers. Make something strong. I don't care what. And food—something that tastes like it's clogging my arteries."
Theo just stood there, awkward, uncertain, until she looked up at him and patted the seat.
"Sit down, Finch."
He slid into the booth. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, folding her collar to the sides until her collarbone caught the bar light like polished marble. She pulled out a silver lighter and lit her cigarette in one swift, graceful flick. Smoke curled around her head like a halo made of fire and ruin.
She turned to him.
"You want one?"
"N-no," he stammered. "No need."
She rolled her eyes and took a drag, exhaling a ghost between them. The bartender returned with beers, shots that looked like danger in a glass, and a plate of food that smelled like regret.
Clara didn't wait. She grabbed the beer by its handle and tilted it back, chugging like it was holy water. Her throat worked in smooth, steady gulps, her eyes fixed on the ceiling like she was daring the heavens to challenge her. When she slammed the empty mug down, Theo was just staring.
Damn, she's hot, he thought. Then immediately, Wh-what am I thinking?!
He slapped both cheeks with both hands.
Clara blinked. "What the hell are you doing? Some kind of ritual before drinking?"
He coughed. "No! I—just... nothing."
He picked up his beer and drank deeply, cheeks burning.
They drank in silence, one shot after another, until the harshness melted into warmth, and the warmth into ease. By the fourth shot, Theo found himself smiling. By the fifth, Clara was laughing like she hadn't in years.
Then, somewhere between jokes and half-spilled fries, her voice dropped. She stared at her empty glass, eyes distant.
"You know," she murmured, slurring a little, "no one's ever stood up for me like that. Ever. Not once. And it had to be you of all people." She snorted. "What a fucking joke, huh?"
Theo blinked. "Even I don't know why I did that. It just... felt like I had to."
She looked at him. Really looked.
"When I was little," she began, "and still had Mum and Dad... we were happy. I mean—stupidly, blissfully happy. When I scored good grades, my dad would throw me in the air, scream 'That's my girl!' like I'd won the Nobel Prize. He loved me. I was sure of it."
Her fingers trembled around the cigarette.
"Then Mum died. And suddenly he brought home this new woman. Celeste. His 'companion,' he said. And with her came Julian. His new son. His real pride."
She took another shot. Her hands were shaking now.
"I became invisible. I'd show him my grades, and he wouldn't even blink. Just threw them on his desk. Julian draws a crooked house? That's my boy." Her laugh was brittle. "Fucking unbelievable."
Theo said nothing. He just listened.
"She—Celeste—started telling me not to attend dinners. Galas. Events. Said I'd tarnish Julian's image. Can you believe that? In my own fucking house."
Her voice broke.
"And you know why I was about to jump off that bridge?" she whispered. "That night? It was my fucking birthday. No calls. No texts. Not even a goddamn email. My phone was silent like a grave. And that silence... it screamed louder than anything I'd ever heard."
Her tears came then, messy and real.
"All the shit I'd buried for years just hit me. Like a fucking truck. And I stood there thinking—why the hell am I even alive?"
Theo couldn't breathe. He reached across the table and took her hand, the only thing he could think to do.
And Clara Vale, for once in her life, didn't pull away.
Theo stumbled slightly under Clara's weight as he carried her on his back, her giggles muffled against his neck, her breath hot and tinged with the sharp scent of tequila. Her arms dangled limply over his shoulders, her fingers brushing his chest as he adjusted her weight. "Where's your place?" he asked, his voice steady but laced with uncertainty. Clara mumbled something incoherent, then lifted a shaky hand, pointing vaguely toward the shimmering silhouette of Central Park Tower in the distance.