Chapter 3 - Forging the Blade
Clara did not choose Europe. She chose war.
The next three days were a whirlwind of calculated transformation. Julian did not treat her like a prisoner; he treated her like a queen preparing for battle. Tailors, stylists, and jewelers were flown in via helicopter. Clara’s bruised jaw healed under the care of a private physician, and the terrified girl who had run barefoot through the mud was slowly buried beneath layers of armor—Prada, Cartier, and cold resolve.
On the fourth evening, Julian entered the drawing-room where Clara was reviewing financial dossiers he had provided about Victoria’s crumbling empire.
He stopped in his tracks.
She was wearing a backless, blood-red evening gown that clung to her curves, her dark hair swept up in an elegant twist, a diamond choker resting against her collarbone. The vulnerability in her eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, icy focus.
"You look like a weapon," Julian murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped closer.
Clara looked up, her heart doing a strange flutter at his proximity. "Good. Because tonight is the Sterling Charity Gala. And Victoria thinks I’m dead in a ditch."
Julian offered her his arm. "Let’s go resurrect you."
The helicopter ride to the city was tense. Julian briefed her on the guests, the security, and the layout. When they landed on the roof of the grand hotel, Julian pulled her aside before they descended the elevator.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a massive, flawless emerald-cut diamond ring.
"For the cameras," he said softly, taking her left hand. His thumbs traced her knuckles before he slipped the heavy stone onto her ring finger. It was a perfect fit.
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"Julian," she whispered, looking up at him. "What if I freeze?"
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, sending a shockwave down her spine. "You won't. You have my name now, Clara. That means no one in that room can touch you. Breathe fire."
