The Discarded Agreement

As one of Desmond's most trusted aides, Declan belonged to the very small circle of people privy to the secret of his marriage to Clara. Right now, pinned neatly to Declan's tie, was the exact sapphire clip Clara had personally chosen for Desmond's recent birthday.

Across the polished facet of the blue stone, the reflection of the massive wall screen behind Clara caught the light in sharp detail.

[Rising jewelry star Chloe Monroe and Mercer Group CEO Desmond Mercer are officially slated to attend next month's exhibition together.]

[Sources close to the pair indicate their relationship is moving toward the next stage.]

Before Clara could look away from the glare on the gem, Daphne rushed up from behind and yanked the document bag straight out of her grip. "What kind of stunt is this? Are you seriously trying to pass off those juvenile doodles as your own work to trick Desmond? As if he'd ever fall for that!"

Taking in the sheer panic written across her sister-in-law's face, Clara kept her composure and replied evenly, "If you're so confident he won't buy it, why are you sweating?"

"Sweating? Please, don't flatter yourself. This is just another pathetic ploy to get my brother to look at you. Do you honestly think it'll work?" Daphne spat back.

"Whether it works on him or not, why don't you just open the flap and check?"

Clara's unnerving calm made Daphne hesitate. Tearing the string seal open, she peered inside the folder and went rigid on the spot.

*Divorce papers? Are my eyes playing tricks on me? There is no way Clara actually wants out of this marriage. Whatever, who cares? All that matters is that her drafts aren't in here.*

Flooded with instant relief, Daphne whipped the folder straight at Declan's chest before rounding on Clara with an ugly sneer. "So this is your latest routine? Save your breath, Clara. Keep pestering Desmond like this until he stops coming home altogether, and you'll be the only one crying into an empty pillow."

"Think whatever you like." Tired of wasting words on her, Clara shifted her eyes to Declan. "Have him sign the pages and return them to me as soon as possible. I'll be waiting."

Without sparing either of them another glance, she turned on her heel and headed back toward the elevators, leaving Daphne fuming in the corridor.

"Seriously? Making a mess for yourself isn't enough, so now you have to drag Declan into the firing line? When Desmond loses his temper over this, Declan is the one who'll take the heat! How can you be so selfish?" Daphne yelled after her.

Clara didn't slow her pace or acknowledge the shouting. Furious at being ignored, Daphne stomped her heel against the floor before bolting after her.

Left alone by the double doors, Declan looked down at the manila packet in his grip, Daphne's remarks still ringing in his ears. *For years, Ms. Vance has pulled every stunt imaginable just to get Mr. Mercer's attention. He's busy accompanying Ms. Monroe right now. If I ruin his mood with this nonsense today, my job is as good as gone.*

With a dismissive scoff, he walked over to his desk and tossed the folder into his bottom drawer. *I'll bring it up once his schedule clears and he's in a decent mood. And honestly, even if I never hand it over, she'll just invent some new excuse to come around once she realizes he hasn't responded. It makes zero difference either way.*

*****

Down on the curb outside the Mercer Group plaza, Clara had just raised her hand to flag a cab when Daphne lunged forward and clamped a hand around her forearm. "Give me the draft right now. Do it, and I'll actually say something nice about you to Desmond this time."

Rhinestone-encrusted fingernails bit straight into the old scar on Clara's skin, briefly pulling her memory back to the morning after her wedding. *She grabbed my arm the exact same way back then, begging me to salvage her botched project. At least back then she knew how to say please.*

"Save yourself the trouble." Methodically, Clara pried Daphne's fingers off her skin one by one, the movement exposing the pale, slightly indented band of flesh at the base of her bare ring finger. "The moment Desmond puts his name on that agreement, the Mercers and I are done."

Caught completely off guard by her pushback, and with the submission deadline breathing down her neck, Daphne lost her temper entirely. "Don't push your luck, Clara! If you tank my shot at this competition, I'll make sure Desmond divorces you before the day is out!"

*As if she actually has the spine to walk away from him,* Daphne scoffed inwardly. *There's still a bit of time left before entries close. She'll cave and drop the finished renderings off by tonight, just like she always does.*

*It's the same old cycle every single time. Desmond gives her the cold shoulder, and she comes crawling to me hoping I'll put in a good word. Like I'd ever bother—or like he'd even listen.*

*Still, those divorce papers might be a sign of where things are heading. It probably won't be long before Desmond actually kicks her out for good to marry Chloe. I need to squeeze a few more pieces out of Clara while I still have the leverage.*

*Granted, a pushover like her won't let go easily, and she'd probably keep drawing for me even after they split. Why risk it, though? It's much smarter to stockpile a handful of extra drafts now before she decides to get difficult.*

*Just a small stash to cover the immediate aftermath of the breakup will do. Knowing her, she'll be back begging for my help within twenty-four hours anyway. And when that happens, I can demand as many designs as I want, and she won't dare say no.*

Pleased with her own calculations, Daphne felt her irritation vanish. A self-satisfied smirk curved her mouth as she pivoted on her heel and strutted back through the revolving doors, already looking forward to Clara's inevitable surrender.

*****

Leaving the corporate district behind, Clara stopped by a few stores to pick up household essentials along with a fresh set of sketching tools. Once she had unpacked everything in her new place, she pulled out the portfolio folders containing every piece she had drafted over the past few years.

Flipping through the uninspired pages, she found it hard to believe they had come from her own hand. Every single one had been rushed out purely so Daphne would have something to hand in at the office, squeezed into the brief pockets of free time left over from endless domestic chores.

Technically, the compositions were fine, yet they lacked any real soul. She hadn't noticed the decline while living in that house, but laying them out side by side now made the truth undeniable: her artistic edge had been slowly dulling from years of neglect.

Closing the portfolio, Clara reached for her phone and punched in a familiar number. "I need an entry pass for next month's jewelry exhibition," she stated, her tone steady and resolute.

A beat of silence stretched across the connection before a man's cool voice came through the speaker. "You're certain? I've lost count of how many times I tried talking you into going over the years, and you shut me down every time. Why the sudden shift?"

For more than two decades, Oakmont had hosted the annual exhibition. Riding the wave of rapid economic growth, the showcase had ballooned from a few hundred local stalls in its early days to well over a thousand booths, cementing its status on the global stage.

Established masters regularly unveiled their signature collections there, while droves of up-and-coming designers attended just to study the displays and catch a spark of inspiration, even if they couldn't secure a booth of their own.

Clara had always been the sole holdout. Year after year, she had turned down every single invite, allowing the constant demands of her marriage to swallow her schedule whole. Even when physical passes were couriered straight to her doorstep, she had politely sent them back. Today marked the very first time she had ever asked for one herself.

"My head wasn't on straight back then," Clara replied simply. "Now that I'm finally awake, it's time I got back to work."

Quiet lingered on the other end for a couple of seconds before the call clicked off without another word. Clara knew him well enough to take the silence as a yes.

Setting the handset down on the desk, a faint, determined smile touched the corners of her mouth. Getting through the doors of the exhibition was only the first step of the promise she had just made to herself—she was officially coming back to reclaim her career.