Chapter 2The Velvet Trap

I was sixteen when I first met Damian Thorne.

My parents died in a car crash when I was young, so I lived with my grandfather. When he passed, he left me twenty million dollars and donated the rest of his vast fortune. He’d lived a wild life, driving away his one true love before remarrying.

That true love, as it happened, was Damian Thorne’s grandmother.

"Claire, I'm giving you one last chance because you're my niece. Now tell me! Where did you hide the old man's inheritance?" my uncle snarled, his finger jabbing at my face. "Such a devious little thing!"

"I'm going to lose my mind! The old man was worth hundreds of millions, and you expect us to believe he didn't leave a dime for his own children? That he donated it all?" my aunt shrieked, her face contorted with greed as she lunged at me.

I calmly pointed to the security camera on the ceiling. "Touch a single hair on my head, and the footage instantly uploads to every news outlet in the country. 'Prominent Art Curator Assaults Niece Over Inheritance Dispute.' You won't see a cent of Grandpa's money, and you'll lose your job. Doesn't seem worth it, does it?"

Her hand froze inches from my face, her eyes burning with a hatred so intense it could have drilled holes through me. "Claire, if it wasn't for your birthday, your parents would never have been driving on the highway in that storm! You're a jinx! A curse! You killed your parents, and now you've killed him too!"

"You're still as clueless as ever, Auntie," I said, looking at her with genuine curiosity. "What makes you think words like that could possibly hurt me?"

My uncle, lighting a cigarette, cut in. "Fine, let's put that aside. The twenty million. You keep one, and your aunt and I will split the rest."

I stood up, snatched the cigarette from his hand, and slowly crushed it out in an ashtray. "Don't smoke. Grandpa hated the smell," I said with a serene smile. "As for the money, you won't get a penny. And this house? It's already been donated to the state as a historic landmark. Don't come back."

He exploded, enraged that I'd given away a property worth a fortune.

I would never forget their faces when I was eight, after my parents died, the ugly greed as they plotted to steal my inheritance. My aunt had the gall to blame me for their accident, conveniently forgetting that it was her drunken phone call, demanding my father detour to pick her up, that forced them onto that treacherous, truck-filled highway.

"Damn it! I'm going to teach you some respect on your father's behalf!" My uncle raised his hand to strike me.

That’s when Damian appeared. He lazily caught my uncle's wrist, the veins on the back of his hand popping as he twisted with surprising force, shoving him to the ground.

"Picking on a kid. Real tough," he scoffed, his brow furrowed in disdain.

I discreetly slipped the mini taser I'd been holding back into my pocket and looked up at him.

Damian Thorne. He was truly dazzling. Dark hair, stunning eyes, the face of a young prince born to wealth and privilege. Every arch of his brow, every glance, was a breathtaking sight.

The bodyguards and lawyers he’d brought with him handled everything.

Before he died, my grandfather had warned me that my aunt and uncle were wolves. He feared I wouldn't be safe in my hometown of Havenwood, so he'd arranged for an old friend in New York to take me in, promising they would treat me well.

"Claire," he'd said, his withered hand stroking my hair, "I know you can take care of yourself, but my old heart still worries. They say the brightest flames burn the fastest, and the deepest loves don't last. You seem so cool and distant, but you feel things more deeply than anyone." His voice was gentle, full of love. "Strangers see a quiet, obedient girl, but I know how stubborn you are. Remember in elementary school? That boy who always pulled your hair? You’d cry and tell the teacher, but then you'd turn around and dump a bottle of hair dye on his head, forcing the poor kid to shave it all off."

Tears streamed down my face, but I was smiling. "I could never hide anything from you, Grandpa."

He smiled back. And as he smiled, his eyes closed, and his hand fell from my hair.

From that day on, I was alone.

Damian came to pick me up. I didn't say a word the entire flight. It was only when we arrived at the grand Thorne estate in New York that the reality hit me: I no longer had a home.

Suddenly, Damian spoke, his voice a little stiff. "Don't be scared. From now on, this is your home. I'll be like your brother."

I turned to look at his exquisite face, at the awkward attempt at comfort, and felt a flicker of something new. A seed of a sixteen-year-old girl's fancy, planted in that moment, destined to be watered and nurtured daily.

Who could have known then that twelve years later, I would be the one to rip that beautiful camellia from my heart?

That day, Grandma Eleanor, dressed in an elegant cheongsam, came out to greet me personally. I'd seen photos of her, and even in her sixties, she carried herself with the same grace and poise of her youth.

"That old rogue, Arthur Sterling, he certainly had a fine granddaughter," she said, taking my hand and leading me inside.

I glanced back at Damian. "Grandpa mentioned you," I said softly. "I was born three months before you. Technically, you should call me 'big sister.'"

I watched, delighted, as a flush crept up his neck and stained his ears red. He shot me a glare and stomped off.

So easy to tease, I thought. I'll have to do it more often.

Years later, Sienna would scream at me, calling me a siren, a temptress who had seduced Damian.

I think it was at his eighteenth birthday party. He couldn't hold his liquor and was passed out on a sofa in a private lounge. He wore a deep velvet suit, the collar open, revealing the elegant line of his collarbone. His usually pale face was flushed with a rosy hue, like a camellia in full, drunken bloom.

I approached with a warm towel, my fingers brushing his lips. "Damian," I whispered, "can I kiss you?"

His eyes flew open, his ears turning crimson, but he didn't pull away.

"I'll take that as a yes," I murmured, and leaned in. His lips were just as soft as I’d imagined.

Two seconds later, Sienna burst in, her face a mask of heartbreak. She shoved me hard, sending me staggering to the floor. "Claire! So it's true! You're in love with him! No wonder you've been so nice to him all these years."

I hit a decorative shelf on my way down, scraping my arm.

"Yes, I love Damian," I said, clutching my bleeding arm. I looked at Damian, who was still frozen on the sofa, and let tears well in my eyes. "Damian, I'm so sorry. I've hurt Sienna. I promise, I'll never get close to you again."

I fled the room, closing the door behind me and wiping the crocodile tears from my eyes.

Sienna and Damian had grown up together, and she'd always acted as if he were her exclusive property. I didn't care if Damian loved me back; just looking at his face brought me a sense of peace, and that was enough. But Sienna, who pretended to be my friend, had secretly bullied me, even destroying precious things my grandfather had left me.

Damian knew about the bullying, but he always tried to smooth things over, never willing to truly punish Sienna. He was drawn to me, I could feel it, but he couldn't let go of his childhood bond with her.

I've never had any use for a wavering heart.

I was going to break this beautiful, sleeping camellia myself, and make Sienna regret everything.

As for Damian? Once a flower is broken, who cares when it withers?