Chapter 148: The Devil’s Woman Is Having Fun!

​Ana’s gentle voice cut through the quiet rustle of leaves.

​Clara immediately dropped her hands, blinking rapidly to clear her stinging eyes as she turned toward the entrance. "I’m fine, Ana. Just... reviewing the Vance offshore files in my head before Damian asks for them."

​Ana didn’t buy the deflection for a second. She walked over, closing the distance between them, and wrapped her arms firmly around Clara’s shoulders.

​The sudden warmth broke the last barrier. Clara’s breath hitched, a soft, choked sob escaping her throat as she let her forehead rest against Ana’s shoulder, her fingers gripping the fabric of Ana’s sweater.

​"He told me he wouldn’t stop trying," Clara whispered, her voice raw and fragmented. "He looked at me like... like he actually meant it. Ana, I can’t do this. I spent years building a life where no one could ever pull the ground out from under my feet again. A man like Julian... he could ruin me completely."

​"Or he could be the first man strong enough to stand beside you without letting you fall," Ana murmured softly, smoothing a hand over Clara’s hair. "You don’t have to surrender your heart today, Clara. But don’t punish him for the wounds someone else left on you. Julian threw his entire dynasty onto the line for you this morning. That isn’t a game to him."

​Clara took a long, shuddering breath, stepping back to wipe her cheeks. The vulnerability in her eyes slowly hardened back into fierce, resolute focus.

​"Let’s go to the command room," Clara said, her voice steadying as she straightened her spine. "If Julian is burning down trade routes for us, I’m going to make sure Dante Sullivan doesn’t have a single dollar left to fight back with."

As Ana and Clara stepped out of the glass conservatory and into the sunlit eastern gallery, quick, confident footsteps clicked against the marble behind them.

​"I’ve been looking all over the north wing for you two," a bright, familiar voice called out.

​Valerie Sterling rounded the arched corridor, carrying a chilled bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon in one hand and a gold-rimmed tray of macarons in the other. Dressed in an oversized cashmere knit and tailored trousers, she looked completely at home... having stayed at Northwood estate since the night Damian was brought back wounded from the docks.

​Seeing Clara’s slightly flushed cheeks and Ana’s protective posture, Valerie paused, her sharp Sterling eyes reading the room in an instant.

​"Don’t tell me," Valerie sighed, rolling her eyes with dramatic flair as she gestured down toward the basement stairs. "You two were just about to march down into that dreary, testosterone-poisoned bunker where my brother and Julian are currently trying to out-brood each other over satellite monitors."

​"We have financial files to cross-reference..." Clara began, instinctively trying to put her corporate armor back on.

​"Absolutely not," Valerie interrupted smoothly, using her elbow to push open the double doors to the private tea salon right beside them. "If Damian and Julian Montgomery are down there playing god with international shipping lanes, the least we can do is day-drink on the Sterling family dime. In here. Now."

​Clara glanced at Ana, the tight tension in her shoulders finally giving way to a weary, surprised half-smile.

​"I usually charge five hundred dollars an hour for corporate crisis management," Clara murmured, following Valerie into the sun-drenched salon, "but vintage champagne will suffice."

​"Good, because you look like you were just hit by a freight train named Julian," Valerie teased, setting the tray onto the low marble table and kicking off her shoes to curl onto the velvet chaise. "Sit. Drink. Tell me everything. Did he use the smoldering aristocratic stare, or did he go straight for the tragic, heroic vow?"

​Ana couldn’t suppress the quiet giggle that bubbled up as she sank into the plush sofa beside Clara. "Valerie, please don’t start. Clara had a genuinely exhausting morning."

​"I am merely stating facts," Valerie scoffed playfully, popping a raspberry macaron into her mouth. "Montgomery men are notoriously dramatic when they fall in love. When Julian’s uncle proposed to his third wife, he bought an entire opera house just to sing off-key from the royal box. Julian going to war with the Sullivans over you is practically his version of writing bad poetry."

​Clara buried her face in her hands, her cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson. "He didn’t write poetry. He basically promised to stalk me with emotional sincerity until I break."

​"A true romantic," Valerie deadpanned, pouring three generous flutes and raising hers in a toast. "To the terrifying prospect of men with too much money and zero impulse control."

​Ana clinked her glass against theirs, the heavy dread that had lingered since breakfast finally dissolving into genuine warmth. "To survival. And very stubborn men."

​"Speaking of stubborn men," Valerie said, her eyes narrowing with sudden, mischievous delight as she pivoted toward Ana. She set her glass down, propping her chin in her hands as her gaze swept pointedly over the collar of Ana’s robe. "Mother mentioned over tea that Damian looked remarkably... rejuvenated this morning, despite having two bullet wounds. Care to explain that miracle of modern medicine, Anastasia?"

​Ana choked instantly on her champagne, coughing into a linen napkin as a fiery blush raced across her cheeks. "Valerie! He was just... the fever broke, that’s all!"

​"Oh, something broke, alright," Clara chimed in, seizing the golden opportunity to deflect the spotlight with a triumphant smirk. "I saw the way Damian looked at you over the coffee pot. The man was ready to claim eminent domain right over the breakfast table."

​"Clara! Traitor!" Ana gasped, grabbing a velvet throw pillow and tossing it straight at her best friend’s head.

​Clara caught it effortlessly with one hand, her full, bright laugh filling the sunlit room... a rare, unguarded moment of pure sisterhood that made the looming syndicate war feel miles away.

Two empty champagne bottles later, the manicured elegance of the private tea salon had devolved into chaotic, giggling rebellion.

​Valerie had cranked an upbeat pop track on her phone, dancing barefoot on the Persian rug while using a crystal flute as a microphone. Clara, whose rigid corporate posture had entirely dissolved, was sprawled back on the velvet sofa with her tie-neck blouse slightly unbuttoned, laughing so hard at Valerie’s terrible high notes that tears streamed down her flushed face.

Beside her, Ana was holding an empty glass with both hands, swaying gently to the beat, her hazel eyes glassy, bright, and completely uninhibited.

​"I’m telling you," Valerie slurred joyfully, pointing a finger at Clara, "the Montgomerys are all pompous peacocks until you ruffle their feathers! You should make him wait three years, Clara. Five years!"

​"Five years is reasonable," Clara agreed with a tipsy, wide grin, throwing her head back against the cushions. "Let him buy me an entire shipping port first."

​The heavy double doors of the salon swung open with lethal force.

​The music was instantly choked by the sheer, suffocating gravity of the two men who stepped inside.

​Damian stood in the threshold, his tailored charcoal shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his obsidian eyes flashing with dark, simmering fury. Behind him, Julian leaned casually against the doorframe, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets.

​The room froze... or at least tried to.

​"What in the hell is going on here?" Damian’s voice dropped like an icy hammer, slicing straight through the drunken haze.