The day Damian Thorne and I finalized our divorce, I was three months pregnant. Divorce papers in one hand, his long-lost love in the other, he sneered at me. "Claire, you really think I can't live without you? Let me tell you something—you don't control me." I saw the woman on his arm, Sienna, shift uncomfortably. I offered him a soft, almost pitying smile. "Damian, everything has always come so easily to you. That's why you never learned to cherish anything. It's rare to get a second chance with your first love. I hope you find the happiness you're looking for." From sixteen to twenty-eight. For twelve long years, I'd catered to his every whim. I was just so, so tired. 1 I collapsed at my desk after pulling an all-nighter. My junior colleague, Lily, rushed me to the hospital. Clutching my lab results, her expression was a tangled mess of emotions. "Claire… you're pregnant. Three months along." Tears welled in her eyes, and she threw her arms around me, her voice trembling. "Did something terrible happen to you? Please tell me." Her dramatic fear made me chuckle. "No, nothing like that," I said softly. "I've actually been married for three years. I'm sorry I never told you." To all my colleagues and friends, I was single. Some things, I'd simply never felt the need to mention. "You scared me to death!" Lily swatted my shoulder, her pout adorable. "I was worried sick! Marriage is a huge deal, how could you keep it from me?" I smiled. "I may have kept the wedding a secret, but you're the first to know about the divorce. How's that for an exclusive?" Lily froze for a second, then burst into tears all over again. She was such a sweet girl, young and full of tears. "Hey, no more crying. I have the day off tomorrow, a rare treat. Let me drive you home." She clung to me, sobbing dramatically. "I want to see the face of the son of a bitch who broke your heart! How could anyone be cruel to someone as gentle as you?" I dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue, a curious thought popping into my head. "What if... what if I was the one who broke his heart?" "No way!" Lily said, her loyalty fierce and unwavering. "You're too kind, too beautiful. You speak so softly… The first time I met you, I was afraid to even talk too loud, scared I'd startle you. And for three years, you've known I'm bad at staying hydrated, so you bought a little electric kettle just to brew fruit tea for me, every single day." The more she spoke, the harder she cried. "Forget him! Good riddance to bad rubbish! You're out with the old and in with the new. Our Claire deserves better! The best!" In the end, I was the one comforting her, patting her back until she finally calmed down enough for me to put her in a cab home. I suppose I’ve always been good at soothing people. I’d had twelve years of practice with Damian. When I got home, the living room lights were on. The man on the sofa shot me a look of pure displeasure. "Three in the morning, Mrs. Thorne. Care to offer an explanation?" I hadn't seen him in three months. He was a little thinner. The financial news had been full of his latest successful acquisition abroad; Damian’s talent was never in question. I brewed a pot of herbal tea, the fragrant steam filling the air. As I poured him a cup, the tight line of his jaw seemed to relax, ever so slightly. He glanced at me, his words still sharp. "Don't think you can distract me. You've been pulling that trick since we were kids, Claire. Whenever you don't want to answer a question, you offer tea." A small, genuine smile touched my lips. He did know me, at least a little. I waited for him to finish his cup, then retrieved the divorce agreement from the drawer and handed it to him. Damian’s handsome brows shot up. He flipped through the pages, a cold laugh escaping him. "How considerate of you. You're leaving with nothing? The press would have a field day, make it sound like Damian Thorne mistreated his wife." My voice was even, placid. "In our three years of marriage, I made no financial contributions. You bought the house, the cars, furnished everything. If you're worried about public opinion, we can agree on a story to tell." "Oh, thank you so much for your consideration!" he snarled, his face a mask of fury. He snatched a pen, scrawled his name across the signature line, and slammed the document on the floor before storming out of the house. I sat on the sofa, calmly finishing the rest of the tea. An hour later, my phone buzzed. It was a picture from Sienna. Damian, in a plush bathrobe, holding a glass of red wine, lounging languidly on a sofa. I swiped up. Another picture of him, this one from three months ago. He was flushed from wine, his head resting in Sienna’s lap, just like when they were children. Sienna’s text read: Claire, you stole a love that wasn't yours. It's time to give it back. I typed my reply, imagining the fury it would ignite. She was always so proud, so easily wounded. Don't get too comfortable. I am the one he married, the one the Thornes recognize as Mrs. Thorne. As long as we're not divorced, you're nothing but the other woman, hiding in the shadows. Stole her love? That wasn't quite right. The moment I saw Damian Thorne at sixteen, my only thought was how to pluck that magnificent, untouchable flower from the heavens and plant it in my own garden. And now, after twelve years of admiring it, I was done. 2 I was sixteen when I first met Damian Thorne. My parents died in a car crash when I was young, so I lived with my grandfather. When he passed, he left me twenty million dollars and donated the rest of his vast fortune. He’d lived a wild life, driving away his one true love before remarrying. That true love, as it happened, was Damian Thorne’s grandmother. "Claire, I'm giving you one last chance because you're my niece. Now tell me! Where did you hide the old man's inheritance?" my uncle snarled, his finger jabbing at my face. "Such a devious little thing!" "I'm going to lose my mind! The old man was worth hundreds of millions, and you expect us to believe he didn't leave a dime for his own children? That he donated it all?" my aunt shrieked, her face contorted with greed as she lunged at me. I calmly pointed to the security camera on the ceiling. "Touch a single hair on my head, and the footage instantly uploads to every news outlet in the country. 'Prominent Art Curator Assaults Niece Over Inheritance Dispute.' You won't see a cent of Grandpa's money, and you'll lose your job. Doesn't seem worth it, does it?" Her hand froze inches from my face, her eyes burning with a hatred so intense it could have drilled holes through me. "Claire, if it wasn't for your birthday, your parents would never have been driving on the highway in that storm! You're a jinx! A curse! You killed your parents, and now you've killed him too!" "You're still as clueless as ever, Auntie," I said, looking at her with genuine curiosity. "What makes you think words like that could possibly hurt me?" My uncle, lighting a cigarette, cut in. "Fine, let's put that aside. The twenty million. You keep one, and your aunt and I will split the rest." I stood up, snatched the cigarette from his hand, and slowly crushed it out in an ashtray. "Don't smoke. Grandpa hated the smell," I said with a serene smile. "As for the money, you won't get a penny. And this house? It's already been donated to the state as a historic landmark. Don't come back." He exploded, enraged that I'd given away a property worth a fortune. I would never forget their faces when I was eight, after my parents died, the ugly greed as they plotted to steal my inheritance. My aunt had the gall to blame me for their accident, conveniently forgetting that it was her drunken phone call, demanding my father detour to pick her up, that forced them onto that treacherous, truck-filled highway. "Damn it! I'm going to teach you some respect on your father's behalf!" My uncle raised his hand to strike me. That’s when Damian appeared. He lazily caught my uncle's wrist, the veins on the back of his hand popping as he twisted with surprising force, shoving him to the ground. "Picking on a kid. Real tough," he scoffed, his brow furrowed in disdain. I discreetly slipped the mini taser I'd been holding back into my pocket and looked up at him. Damian Thorne. He was truly dazzling. Dark hair, stunning eyes, the face of a young prince born to wealth and privilege. Every arch of his brow, every glance, was a breathtaking sight. The bodyguards and lawyers he’d brought with him handled everything. Before he died, my grandfather had warned me that my aunt and uncle were wolves. He feared I wouldn't be safe in my hometown of Havenwood, so he'd arranged for an old friend in New York to take me in, promising they would treat me well. "Claire," he'd said, his withered hand stroking my hair, "I know you can take care of yourself, but my old heart still worries. They say the brightest flames burn the fastest, and the deepest loves don't last. You seem so cool and distant, but you feel things more deeply than anyone." His voice was gentle, full of love. "Strangers see a quiet, obedient girl, but I know how stubborn you are. Remember in elementary school? That boy who always pulled your hair? You’d cry and tell the teacher, but then you'd turn around and dump a bottle of hair dye on his head, forcing the poor kid to shave it all off." Tears streamed down my face, but I was smiling. "I could never hide anything from you, Grandpa." He smiled back. And as he smiled, his eyes closed, and his hand fell from my hair. From that day on, I was alone. Damian came to pick me up. I didn't say a word the entire flight. It was only when we arrived at the grand Thorne estate in New York that the reality hit me: I no longer had a home. Suddenly, Damian spoke, his voice a little stiff. "Don't be scared. From now on, this is your home. I'll be like your brother." I turned to look at his exquisite face, at the awkward attempt at comfort, and felt a flicker of something new. A seed of a sixteen-year-old girl's fancy, planted in that moment, destined to be watered and nurtured daily. Who could have known then that twelve years later, I would be the one to rip that beautiful camellia from my heart? That day, Grandma Eleanor, dressed in an elegant cheongsam, came out to greet me personally. I'd seen photos of her, and even in her sixties, she carried herself with the same grace and poise of her youth. "That old rogue, Arthur Sterling, he certainly had a fine granddaughter," she said, taking my hand and leading me inside. I glanced back at Damian. "Grandpa mentioned you," I said softly. "I was born three months before you. Technically, you should call me 'big sister.'" I watched, delighted, as a flush crept up his neck and stained his ears red. He shot me a glare and stomped off. So easy to tease, I thought. I'll have to do it more often. Years later, Sienna would scream at me, calling me a siren, a temptress who had seduced Damian. I think it was at his eighteenth birthday party. He couldn't hold his liquor and was passed out on a sofa in a private lounge. He wore a deep velvet suit, the collar open, revealing the elegant line of his collarbone. His usually pale face was flushed with a rosy hue, like a camellia in full, drunken bloom. I approached with a warm towel, my fingers brushing his lips. "Damian," I whispered, "can I kiss you?" His eyes flew open, his ears turning crimson, but he didn't pull away. "I'll take that as a yes," I murmured, and leaned in. His lips were just as soft as I’d imagined. Two seconds later, Sienna burst in, her face a mask of heartbreak. She shoved me hard, sending me staggering to the floor. "Claire! So it's true! You're in love with him! No wonder you've been so nice to him all these years." I hit a decorative shelf on my way down, scraping my arm. "Yes, I love Damian," I said, clutching my bleeding arm. I looked at Damian, who was still frozen on the sofa, and let tears well in my eyes. "Damian, I'm so sorry. I've hurt Sienna. I promise, I'll never get close to you again." I fled the room, closing the door behind me and wiping the crocodile tears from my eyes. Sienna and Damian had grown up together, and she'd always acted as if he were her exclusive property. I didn't care if Damian loved me back; just looking at his face brought me a sense of peace, and that was enough. But Sienna, who pretended to be my friend, had secretly bullied me, even destroying precious things my grandfather had left me. Damian knew about the bullying, but he always tried to smooth things over, never willing to truly punish Sienna. He was drawn to me, I could feel it, but he couldn't let go of his childhood bond with her. I've never had any use for a wavering heart. I was going to break this beautiful, sleeping camellia myself, and make Sienna regret everything. As for Damian? Once a flower is broken, who cares when it withers? 3 After giving Damian the divorce papers, I quit my job to focus on my health. While packing, I found a box of old trophies, gathering dust. If not for these tarnished awards, I might have forgotten the brilliant youth I once had. My grandfather was an internationally renowned watercolorist. I started learning from him at three, showing a natural talent. Many called me a rising star, the heir to his legacy. But now, my right hand can barely hold a paintbrush. The year I graduated high school, at eighteen, Sienna and her friends cornered me in the girls' bathroom. She shattered my right hand with a baseball bat. For years after, even peeling an apple was a struggle. Damian came to see me, his face etched with exhaustion. "The Thornes and the Vances are at war over this. Sienna is a wreck, she regrets it, she's in pain every day. Claire, can't you just let it go? Drop the charges." I looked up at his beautiful, troubled face, tears blurring my vision. "So this is the price of loving you, Damian? If it were Sienna lying in this hospital bed today, would you be asking her to just let it go?" He was silent for a long time before he finally whispered, "Claire… I'm sorry." In the end, Sienna was sent abroad, and in everyone's eyes, the matter was closed. She thrived overseas, living her life as the same proud princess she'd always been. And I, forced to withdraw from the art world, vanished amidst a chorus of ful sighs. I polished each of those trophies until they gleamed, then put them carefully away. At six that evening, Damian picked me up for dinner at the estate. It was a Saturday ritual—if we were in town, we’d have dinner with Grandma Eleanor. As I settled into the passenger seat, I was hit by a wave of perfume. Gardenia. Sienna's favorite. It hadn't changed in all these years. I opened the window, letting the crisp, desolate autumn air rush in. At a red light, Damian's fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel, a clear sign of his agitation. I knew he was waiting for me to speak, waiting for me to surrender. He was so used to me placating him. When he was a rebellious teen, racing his car on winding mountain roads, I was the one in the passenger seat, staying with him until he'd had his fill of madness. When his father's anger left bruises on his back, I was the one who crept into his room late at night to apply ointment and coax him to eat. When he was fighting with his family to start his own company, working himself to the bone, I was the one who brought him every meal. When he threw a tantrum and went drinking, calling me but saying nothing, I was the one who took a cab to the bar in the middle of the night to bring him home. When I was too busy with work to dote on him, he’d contact Sienna just to get a reaction out of me. The perfume in the car today was just another warning shot. A declaration of war. You’re the one who’s desperate for my love, Claire. If you don't hold on tight, I can leave at any moment. It was a tactic that had never failed him before. Whenever he reached out to Sienna, I would panic and cling to him even tighter. "Damian, we need to find time to get the divorce certificate," I said, my voice calm and even. "And you can tell Sienna she doesn't need to send me photos anymore. You're free." His brow furrowed into a tight knot. "What did she send you?" I forwarded him the pictures. He scrolled through them, and then his anger flared. "Claire, your tolerance is truly something else. I was in the States for three months, I called you, and you didn't say a single word about this. I was lying in her lap, and you didn't care? Do you even have a heart? Do you even love me?" His chest heaved with suppressed emotion. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, got out, and smoked a cigarette in tense silence. When he got back in, he thrust his phone at me. On the screen was a blurry, pixelated photo. His voice was laced with a pain he couldn't hide. "Claire, what have I been to you all these years? Huh? A replacement? A stand-in for Caleb Thorne?" In the photo, I was young, my hair in a high ponytail, wearing a school uniform, my cheeks flushed. Beside me, a boy with a radiant, sunny smile. His hand, hidden behind his back, was gripping my wrist tightly. In the springtime of my sixteenth year, I had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a boy, bathed in sunlight, the gentle breeze on our faces.
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