Sugar

The sharp, metallic click of the apartment door unlocking sliced through the heavy quiet of the entryway. It was immediately followed by a clumsy, uncoordinated thud as Clara stumbled blindly inside. She was completely drunk, utterly defeated, and swaying so dangerously on her feet that she nearly crashed into the adjacent wall.

Vance caught her the absolute second he stepped into the narrow hallway, his large hands securely gripping her fragile shoulders to steady her reckless momentum.

"Were you standing there waiting for me, Arthur? Ha-ha." Her words slurred heavily together as she lunged forward, throwing her arms recklessly around his neck. She leaned her entire dead weight against his solid chest, her soft laughter lacking any real joy. "Yeah. Just wanted to enjoy myself."

He stiffened instinctively at the sudden, overwhelming contact, the sharp scent of cheap alcohol hitting him. But the mild annoyance instantly vanished when he wrapped an arm around her waist to support her. She felt dangerously light. He guided her stumbling feet toward the small bedroom, gently forcing her to sit on the edge of the mattress. Dropping to one knee on the worn floorboards, he reached out and carefully unbuckled her cheap sandals, sliding them off her blistered feet.

"They have taken away everything, Arthur," she whispered into the quiet room. Her voice broke completely, slipping through a devastating, emotional pout. Hot tears spilled fast and unchecked down her flushed cheeks, dropping onto the fabric of her stained dress. She leaned closer to him, her cold fingers weakly brushing against his hair. "You should go to them too, Arthur. I don't have anything."

A lone, agonizing tear escaped her eye as she violently opened her empty palms, shoving them right in front of his face. "See? Nothing. I don't have anything to feed you."

Then, a burst of crazy, hollow laughter tore from her throat, echoing painfully in the cramped space.

Vance knelt there, completely paralyzed, staring at her empty, shaking hands. A crushing wave of deep, uncharacteristic guilt washed over the billionaire like a physical blow. The agonizing realization finally hit him. All those times he saw her chewing gum—he hadn't given it a second thought. It wasn't a nervous habit. This fierce, intensely proud girl had been surviving solely on chewing gum just to aggressively suppress the vicious pangs of starvation. While he had been eating the breakfast she provided, he hadn't even stopped to consider if she had eaten anything herself.

He tried to gently peel off her wrinkled dress to make her more comfortable, but she weakly slapped his hands away, murmuring incoherent protests. Defeated by her stubbornness even in a drunken stupor, he simply lifted her legs onto the mattress and carefully tucked the thin blanket around her fragile frame.

She murmured something softly in her sleep, tossing slightly until she unconsciously reached out, her small fingers gripping his large hand in a desperate search for an anchor. Vance sat on the edge of the bed, his piercing icy blue eyes fixed intently upon her pale, tear-stained face.

Very gently, he lifted his free hand and brushed a tangled strand of damp hair away from her sweaty forehead. "Everything will be fine. Things are about to change," he whispered into the dark, quiet room.

She could not hear him, fast asleep and clinging to his hand as if her life depended on it. Driven by an impulsive, protective tenderness he could not fully understand or categorize, he leaned down. He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss directly to the corner of her parted mouth.

As he pulled back, his dark brows knitted together in mild confusion. He licked his own lips, immediately recognizing a hauntingly familiar, lingering sweetness. His unreadable gaze dropped back to her delicate hand holding his massive one. Letting out a slow, deep breath, he rested his head against the edge of her pillow.

"Sweetheart," he murmured softly into the shadows. "You taste like sugar."

***

The peacefulness of the night was violently shattered the next morning.

Clara's eyes fluttered open, her vision blurry as she stared blankly at the cracked ceiling above. Her head pounded with a massive, throbbing hangover. She could barely remember anything from the previous night, only fragmented flashes of being thoroughly rejected, getting dangerously drunk, and someone mercifully pouring her into a cab.

Groaning, she rolled over and forced herself to sit up straight. She reached blindly for her phone on the nightstand. The glaring digital numbers flashed exactly eleven o'clock.

Panic—sheer, unadulterated panic—instantly crashed through her veins.

"Shit! Oh, God!" she gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. She had completely, disastrously missed her critical nine o'clock interview. She looked down in horror at her wrinkled, stained clothes from yesterday. What the hell had she done?

"Gosh!" Nursing her heavy, aching head, she scrambled off the bed and aggressively barged into the tiny bathroom to splash cold water on her face.

She froze solidly in her tracks, the breath completely leaving her lungs.

Vance was just stepping out of the shower.

Her eyes went wide with pure, mortified embarrassment. He was completely shirtless, his flawless, heavily muscled torso dripping with warm water, a towel wrapped loosely low around his waist.

"Umm. I am... I didn't know that... I mean I forgot that you were... there. I..." She fumbled uselessly with her words as he stepped deliberately closer. He smelled divine—a clean, intoxicating mix of masculine soap and mint. Completely overwhelmed, Clara desperately backed up until her spine hit the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom wall.

She swallowed thickly, trying her absolute best to avoid looking down at his sculpted chest, which unfortunately meant she had to look directly into his striking eyes. The desperate urge to shrink into an insect and crawl into the grout lines intensified by the second.

His face remained effortlessly serious, but dangerous mischief visibly danced in the deep, icy blue depths of his eyes. Her heart accelerated into a frantic, deafening rhythm as he continued to stalk forward. His large, damp hands planted firmly on the wall on either side of her head, completely trapping her fragile frame between his towering body and the cold tile.

Was he going to kiss her? The frantic thought hijacked her brain. Her throbbing headache magically evaporated, entirely replaced by the intense, suffocating heat radiating from his dripping torso.

His face was now so impossibly close that she could actually feel his minty breath brushing against her heated skin. She found herself staring breathlessly into his eyes, her own hands fighting a sudden, wild urge to reach out and touch the hard, wet plains of his flat stomach.

Paralyzed and completely overwhelmed by his magnetic proximity, Clara instinctively squeezed her eyes shut. She waited, her heart pounding against her ribs, fully anticipating the inevitable press of his lips against hers.

She waited. And waited. The delay was absolute torture. Why was he taking forever?

Then, instead of taking her mouth, he dropped a maddeningly quick, teasing kiss directly onto the tip of her nose. Smoothly, he reached over her shoulder, his heavily muscled arm brushing against her cheek, and grabbed the dry towel hanging on the hook behind her head.

"I just wanted the towel, sugar. Plus remember? I am gay," he chuckled darkly, his heavy voice rumbling with pure amusement.

Clara's eyes snapped open in utter shock. "What?"

She stood there frozen, wildly bewildered and completely dumbfounded, as he confidently stepped back and left the tiny bathroom, casually drying his hair. Once the door clicked shut, Clara sagged against the wall, desperately gasping for much-needed air. The man was infuriatingly capable of robbing her of oxygen. She turned to the mirror, wincing at her flushed, deeply messed-up reflection.

Retreating to the cramped kitchen after quickly changing, Clara actively, desperately avoided glancing at his shirtless, flawlessly sculpted torso. Vance had emerged wearing only a pair of faded jeans, and she busied herself aggressively with preparing his morning pancakes just to have an excuse to look anywhere else.

Out of pure habit and dire financial necessity, she silently popped a fresh piece of chewing gum into her mouth. She had munched on two dry wheat biscuits while cooking, but the gum was her true, pathetic substitute for a real breakfast. She needed to stretch whatever meager groceries were left.

Vance sat quietly at the small, wobbly table. Even with her back turned, she could feel his piercing, heavy gaze fixed immovably upon her every single movement.

"Good morning. You are without your laptop today," she remarked nervously, placing his plate of fresh pancakes and a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He offered absolutely no reply.

She was just about to lift her own coffee cup to her lips when a large, dominant hand suddenly entered her field of vision. Vance held his fork directly in front of her face, a thick piece of pancake entirely soaked in heavy syrup clinging to the prongs.

Clara blinked in sheer confusion, looking from the food to his stoic face. He silently nodded his head, his eyes intensely commanding her to take the bite. She couldn't; her jaw was already working the piece of gum.

He calmly brought his other palm out, holding it flat just beneath her chin. "Spit the gum," he ordered, his heavy voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.

"No, Arthur," she tried to feebly refuse, forcing a quivering, entirely fake smile onto her lips. "I just had my breakfast in the kitchen and now I am full. Plus..."

"Spit the gum and eat it, sugar. You need it," he interrupted smoothly, his tone lowering into something entirely unyielding.

He had called her sugar again. Clara's mind spun, wildly trying to recall if she had done something highly indecent last night to warrant this sudden shift in his demeanor. "I am sorry for last night. I hope I did not try to do something offensive."

"You did nothing. I was the one who..." He caught himself, muttering darkly under his breath before refocusing his intense gaze on her. "Leave it. Come on. Eat it."

Clara furiously blinked back a sudden rush of hot, humiliating tears. Why did she suddenly feel like crying? Defeated by his unwavering stare, she obediently spat the gum into a napkin and leaned forward, parting her lips to take the sweet, syrup-soaked bite directly from his fork.

Without breaking eye contact, Vance meticulously divided his meager meal into two exact, identical halves. He pushed one portion firmly toward her and pressed a spare fork directly into her hand. "Here. This is for you."

Clara sat frozen, staring at the food. Her mind reeled in quiet agony, wondering exactly how much this supposedly struggling, unemployed model actually knew about her dire, humiliating financial ruin. Why was he forcing her to eat?

"Eat," he commanded again, not even bothering to look up from his own plate this time.

Heaving a heavy, defeated sigh, she finally picked up her fork and began to eat alongside him. The intensely quiet, emotionally charged breakfast settled over them, broken only by the scrape of silverware. She wanted to ask him if he had figured out her secret, but she didn't dare shatter the fragile peace.

The silence was abruptly violently interrupted by a sharp, demanding knock at the front door.

"This must be for you," Vance stated calmly.

Frowning in deep confusion, Clara stood up quickly and went to the entryway. She had no friends left besides Tessa, and she certainly wasn't expecting any packages. Opening the door, she found a uniformed courier holding a thick, premium envelope. She quickly signed for it and brought it back into the living area.

She stared blindly at the pristine, embossed logo heavily stamped onto the thick paper. The Kensington Group. The exact same corporate giant that had so brutally rejected her yesterday, directly tossing her aside in favor of the corrupt nepotism that hired Brianna.

"What is it?" Vance asked, an entirely unreadable expression settling over his sharp features as he watched her.

Clara just shrugged in bewilderment, her fingers trembling slightly as she tore the seal. Her breath hitched violently in her throat as her eyes frantically scanned the crisp, official contents.

*Dear Ms. Clara Whitmore,*

*We went through your CV and decided that you were overqualified for the post you applied for. So we want to offer you the position of Head Manager for our empowerment program at the state level...*

Her eyes widened to an impossible size as she read the staggering benefits. A massively handsome corporate salary. Immediate luxury accommodation inside the five-star Kensington Group hotel. The exclusive daily use of a company car accompanied by a private chauffeur. Full medical coverage.

A sharp, breathless gasp ripped from her lungs.

"What is it?" Vance repeated, his voice dangerously low.

Clara turned her face toward him, her entire body shaking. Suddenly, a burst of crazy, completely unhinged laughter exploded from her lips. "Oh! Oh, God!"

Driven by sheer, overwhelming adrenaline, Clara literally threw her entire body at Vance. She grabbed his broad shoulders, lifting high onto the tips of her toes, and planted an exuberant, wildly wet kiss directly onto his cheek.

"I can't believe this!" she cried out, her voice cracking with pure ecstasy, completely oblivious to how Vance's entire muscular frame temporarily froze solid at the sudden, joyful contact. "The Kensington Company where I was supposed to get the job yesterday... it seems like... my prayers are answered!"

She wrapped her arms tightly around his thick neck, hugging him with absolutely everything she had. The dam finally broke. Tears of sheer, overwhelming relief cascaded down her face, rapidly soaking into the fabric of his shirt as she buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing and laughing all at once.

Slowly, the stiffness left Vance's body. He lifted his large hands, gently grasping her shoulders to push her back just enough to clearly look at her glowing, tear-streaked face. Lifting his right hand, he reverently wiped her cascading tears away with the rough pad of his thumb.

For the very first time since she had met him, the cold, icy mask completely shattered. He offered her a genuine, breathtakingly handsome smile.

"Well. I guess. Congratulations."