Blood swirled in oily puddles around the whimpering stalker. He lay groaning, blood seeping from his thigh.
Alexander Han watched dispassionately, the Lamborghini's headlights cutting through the alley's gloom like prison searchlights.
"Filth requires filthy solutions," Alexander remarked, lighting a Dunhill despite the downpour.
The man thrashed until Sebastian's Swiss Army Knife sank into his thigh with surgical precision. A clinical twist of the blade drew a guttural scream that echoed off graffiti-tagged walls. "Who bought you?" Sebastian's voice cut through the rain like shrapnel.
"Charles Windsor!" The stalker sobbed into the pavement, fingernails scraping garbage-strewn concrete. "Winsor Corp's CEO! Said to break the girl - make her desperate!"
Sebastian rotated the blade. Tendons grated against steel. "Which girl?"
"Clara Morgan! Hartwell's secretary! AHHH GOD -"
Alexander observed with detached interest. He'd seen this focused cruelty before - hostile takeovers executed with the same icy precision.
"Message for Charles Windsor," Sebastian withdrew the blade, wiping blood on the man's jacket. "Clara Morgan wears the Hartwell brand now. Touch her again," thunder rumbled overhead, amplifying the threat, "and I'll ship your vertebrae to Ethan Windsor in a box."
The stalker's eyes bulged at the name Hartwell.
"Let's go," Sebastian said, already striding away.
······
Steam fogged Clara Morgan's bathroom mirror as she winced bruises blossoming along her ribs.
The alley confrontation had reignited old wounds - both physical and mental. Charles Windsor's face materialized in the condensation - the man who'd "graciously" sheltered an orphaned girl only to demand repayment through forcing marriage.
"Marry Ethan or forfeit your inheritance," Charles had hissed last month. As if her father's inheritance were charity rather than legal entitlement.
She toweled off violently. Her Krav Maga training had been forged in the crucible of High's cruelty - High school bullies led by Serena had taught her survival.
No one would save her, so she'd learned to save herself.
Tonight's attack was Charles' latest gambit. Break her will. Force her back into the Windsor cage. Not unlike Sebastian's tactics, her traitorous mind whispered.
But they didn't know she'd already been "tainted"—by Sebastian.
······
In the Windsor mansion.
Charles Windsor slammed the vintage rotary phone. "Double the payment! That incompetent swine threatened police involvement!"
Eleanor Windsor's pearls trembled against her Chanel suit. "I warned you, Charles! Clara's no longer the frightened girl we—"
"Fine," Charles grated.
"One more thing: the guy said Clara belongs to Sebastian Hartwell."
The ensuing silence was broken only by rain lashing against stained-glass windows depicting Windsor ancestors conquering continents.
Ethan Windsor entered unnoticed, rainwater dripping from his Armani coat onto Persian rugs. His gaze tracked the agitated phone cord coiling like a viper.
Eleanor conjured a brittle smile. "Darling! Have you eaten?"
But Ethan ascended the grand staircase like a sleepwalker, bypassing his suite for the Clara's former room.
Charles watched his son climb the stairs. "Does Ethan really care about Clara?"
"Judging by his stares—yes."
"Useless! Can't even keep a woman. If Ethan had claimed Clara years ago, we wouldn't be in this mess! Instead he chased after Serena Vance—do you think the Vances give a damn about us?"
Eleanor whispered, "Charles, what about the incident—"
"Never mention that!" he roared.
······
In Clara's old bedroom, Ethan traced the teddy bear on her nightstand. Memories flooded back:
16-year-old Clara at his door, backpack slung over one shoulder."Ethan ,may I walk to school with you?" Her voice had trembled like a sparrow's wing.
Another flash: Pneumonia-ridden, he'd woken to find a mason jar filled with 97 origami cranes. "The book says 100 wishes make you well," she'd whispered, dark circles beneath her eyes.
Birthdays: Her shy smile presenting thrift-store gifts—vintage lighters, hand-bound journals—all met with his sneer. "Trash for trash," he'd told her, watching the clatter into the bin.
······
No one in the Windsor mansion had ever known her birthday. When she'd moved out at 18, only a group text had announced her departure. He'd been too busy celebrating with Serena to care where the 18-year-old would sleep.
He'd never comforted her when bullied.
After she left , he'd dated recklessly—until seeing her with Sebastian.
Was it her beauty, or had she always owned his heart?
He'd stood by as Serena's cronies shoved her into lockers, laughed when Clara offered him soup while he had sick.
Raindrops pattered the window, mimicking the tears he'd never shed for her. Ethan pressed the teddy bear to his chest, its stuffing lumpy from years of Clara's hugs.
I deserve her coldness. But can I win her back?