Return to Starlight

The confirmation banner stayed lit on the monitor, signaling a successful submission, yet Clara didn't budge from her chair. For the first time, doubt gnawed at her over her own rendering, leaving a quiet unease lingering in her chest.

Stepping back into the workforce was far simpler in theory than in practice, especially in a fast-moving market where jewelry trends shifted by the season.

Over the past six years, she had only picked up a pencil when Daphne needed a piece. Not once had she sketched a single line for herself.

Lately, even Daphne had begun complaining that her drafts lacked their old spark. That blunt criticism forced Clara to confront just how far behind she had slipped.

*I walked out years ago without looking back,* she thought, her fingertips resting against the edge of the desk. *If coming back now only drags people down, what right do I have to talk about returning?*

The sudden ring of her cell phone cut through the quiet room, startling her. Dropping her gaze to the caller ID on the glass, she pressed her lips together before swiping to answer.

"Be at the café downstairs from the office in thirty minutes," an even male voice instructed on the line. Before Clara could get a word out, the call clicked dead, leaving an uneasy weight settling in her stomach.

Clara hurried into fresh clothes, brushed on light makeup, and pushed through the café doors with barely three minutes to spare. Spotting the man waiting at a corner table, she slipped nervously into the seat opposite him and set her handbag down beside her. "Lucas."

Lucas Adler lifted his head. Through the lenses of his elegant gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze settled squarely on Clara's face in quiet assessment. "What would you like to drink?"

"Fruit—" Clara caught the word right on her tongue. Out of sheer maternal habit, she had nearly ordered her daughter's favorite juice, and she quickly corrected herself. "A cup of Mandeling, please."

Lucas glanced at her without commenting. Only after the steaming coffee had been served and their waiter stepped out of earshot did he pull a printed rendering from his leather folder and slide it across the polished wood between them. "Did you draw this?"

Clara had expected him to recognize her brushwork on sight, so she nodded openly. "It's mine."

"Are you looking to come back to the company?" Lucas asked again, keeping his eyes on hers.

Without a second's hesitation, Clara answered firmly, "Yes. I want to come back."

Silence settled over the small table. After a beat, Lucas spoke in a calm, deliberate voice. "What about your husband and daughter? Don't they need you at home looking after them right now?"

The color drained right out of Clara's face. His question hit straight at the deepest pocket of guilt she carried inside, yet her fingers curled lightly in her lap as she steadied her voice. "No. I'm already preparing for a divorce."

Lucas stilled for a moment, genuine surprise flickering across his features before his composed expression returned. Folding his hands on the table, he studied Clara closely—she looked completely familiar, yet somehow like a stranger.

"When you walked away from the Starlit Tear project for Desmond back then, did you ever stop to consider how disappointed Mr. Stanton would be?" Lucas's question came out direct and pointed.

Clara bowed her head lower, staring down at her cup. "I'm sorry," she whispered, the quiet words heavy with years of unspoken regret.

"What good does an apology do now?" Lucas countered sharply, though a clear thread of expectation lingered beneath his edge. "The Starlit Tear project has stayed on hold all this time, waiting exclusively for you."

Clara hesitated, uncertainty crossing her expression. "The truth is, I wasn't sure my work still met the company's current bar. That's why I sent the rendering in first—I wanted to gauge the internal feedback."

A deep frown creased Lucas's brow. Everyone in their circle knew the two of them were university alumni, yet nobody realized they had both privately apprenticed under Giles Stanton.

Giles had once remarked that Clara possessed more natural gift and passion than any designer he had ever mentored. Throughout her college years, she had carried herself with unmistakable pride, openly boasting she could bring whatever concept she wanted to life.

Back in those days, self-assurance had practically radiated off her. Yet here she sat today, finishing a design only to anxiously test the waters with junior colleagues.

Lucas also knew plenty about Desmond, the billionaire CEO of Mercer Group. His conglomerate led the market with billions in assets, yet he had let his own wife fade completely into obscurity—telling anyone with eyes what kind of marriage she had endured.

"Come on, what happened? Has your confidence really worn down that badly?" Lucas asked, easing his tone to lighten the heavy air. "Or are you starting to doubt Mr. Stanton's teaching now?"

"Never. I would never doubt Mr. Stanton," Clara said, looking up abruptly. Globally, Giles Stanton stood as a celebrated master of design, revered among the finest in his field—practically any raw stone he touched turned into a masterpiece.

"Well, there you go," Lucas said encouragingly. "Mr. Stanton always maintained you had even more talent than he did, so falling slightly behind current trends doesn't matter. If you channel even half the determination you once wasted on that man, there's nothing you can't pull off."

Clara pulled her lips into a wry, bitter smile, dipping her chin with a flicker of self-mockery in her eyes. "Are you praising me right now, Lucas, or lecturing me?"

"Which one does it sound like?" Lucas extended his hand across the table. "Welcome back, Clara."

She reached out right away and shook his hand, feeling an old, steady familiarity from their studio days wash straight over her. Sitting here, it genuinely felt like coming home.

"Feel like heading upstairs to look around the office right now?" Lucas offered, his voice warm and inviting.

"Let me take some time to sharpen my skills first, Lucas," Clara said earnestly. "I can't promise I'll outshine everyone right away, yet at the very least, I refuse to hold anyone back." She knew the firm had no need for a rusty designer slowing the team down.

"Fair enough. I'll have someone pull together our design archives from recent years and send the files over to you," Lucas agreed. "As for competition entries, you can track those down on your own."

"Thank you, Lucas. I truly mean that," Clara replied sincerely. "I won't let you down."

They talked over recent industry shifts a while longer before Lucas checked his watch, got to his feet, and headed out. Just as Clara reached for her bag to leave as well, a startled voice rang out right beside her table.

"Clara? Is that actually you?" Daphne marched straight over, parting her lips to speak louder before catching nearby glances and dropping her voice into a harsh hiss. "Why aren't you at home drawing? What are you doing down here, and who was that guy? Does Desmond have any idea you're out sharing coffee with another man?"

Clara's expression hardened instantly at the rapid-fire interrogation. *In Daphne's eyes, sharing coffee with a man is something I have to report to Desmond,* she thought coldly. *Meanwhile, Desmond has been seen openly in public with his mistress, and Daphne hasn't breathed a single word against it.*

*Years ago, I might have compromised just to hold my marriage together. Now that I'm getting a divorce, why keep swallowing my pride to humor someone who has never respected me?*

Sliding the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, Clara looked straight up at her and replied bluntly, "I already told you, I'm done drawing designs for you. If I ever pick up a pen again, every line will be for myself." Right then, she resolved never to show Daphne another piece, not even a discarded rough draft.

Daphne stood frozen, stunned that Clara had turned her down again. The competition deadline was closing in fast, determining whether her work could be exhibited smoothly—leaving zero margin for error at this critical stage.

*Does Clara genuinely not care about Desmond or the Mercer family anymore?* Daphne thought, her mind racing. *Impossible. Nobody knows better than I do how much she sacrificed for him all these years. There's no way she would actually walk out.*

Slowly, a smug look crept back onto Daphne's face. "Clara, even if you're pulling this stunt to grab Desmond's attention, don't push your luck too far. If I tell him I caught you here meeting some strange man, don't you think he'll find you even more repulsive?"