The splash echoed like a gunshot across the marble chamber. Chlorine-laced water surged in glittering arcs as Lucas Vane plunged into the pool. His strokes were precise, frantic with urgency, cutting the surface like knives until he reached the limp figure drifting beneath the pale lights.
Anna Sterling floated motionless, her pale hair unfurling in the water like silk ribbons. Lucas's jaw tightened as he gathered her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly above the surface. Water cascaded down her lifeless body as he strode to the pool's edge, laying her gently down.
His chest heaved, panic in his eyes, though his movements bore the calm precision of someone accustomed to responsibility. Lowering his head, he tilted hers back, preparing to seal his lips over hers.
"Must you really give her artificial respiration?" Clara's voice rang out, sharp yet tremulous.
Lucas's head snapped toward her, his dark eyes blazing. "Of course. Do you think this is a game?"
"She's pretending," Clara murmured, her gaze fixed upon Anna's still face, noticing the faint twitch of a smile curving at the corners of her mouth.
"Enough, Clara." Lucas's tone cracked like a whip. "This is a matter of life and death. Do you have no heart?" He did not wait for her reply. "Anna is not like you—she doesn't play manipulative games. She is genuine. Innocent."
Clara bit her tongue, the words dying on her lips, though fury roiled within her. Innocent? The very corners of Anna's lips betrayed her act. Clara wanted to shout it aloud, to strip the mask from the girl lying so conveniently in Lucas's arms. But no matter what she said, he would never believe her.
She stood frozen, compelled to watch as Lucas's mouth pressed firmly against Anna's. The intimacy of the act cut into her like a blade. Seconds later, Anna stirred, lashes fluttering as she gasped softly, awakening like some fragile heroine.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. She let out a choked sob, then struck Lucas's chest with weak fists. "Where were you?" Her voice trembled with crafted despair. "Do you have any idea how frightened I was, alone, sinking in the water?"
"Shh." Lucas gathered her into his arms, his voice tender with guilt. "I'm here now. Forgive me. I'll never leave you like that again."
The sight made Clara's stomach twist. The warmth in his eyes—the same warmth she once believed belonged to her—was now lavished upon another.
But then Anna's gaze caught Clara's across the shimmering pool. And in an instant, the feigned vulnerability evaporated. She pushed Lucas away, cheeks flushed but smile quick to return.
"Enough," she said lightly, brushing droplets from her hair. "I'm not as fragile as you think. Teach Clara instead."
Her hand lingered on Lucas's arm, her voice dropping into a confidential whisper only he was meant to hear—but Clara's ears caught it all.
"Don't be angry with her," Anna murmured sweetly. "She only thought I was faking because she cares for you." Her lips curved in mock resignation. "I won't practice anymore. No more staged lessons. Just… treat her well, Lucas. Promise me."
The words were poison wrapped in honey.
The pool fell silent after Anna's departure, the ripples subsiding into stillness.
Lucas stood with his back to Clara, his shoulders tense, the weight of unspoken words pressing between them. His voice, when it came, was low and cold.
"Clara. Leave us."
She drew a slow breath, masking the tremor in her chest. "Fine. Ten minutes. Then I return."
The silence deepened, then Lucas spun around, his expression darker than the storm brewing beyond the glass roof. "Have you no sympathy? Must you choose today of all days to start this childish war?"
Her chin lifted. "And if I told you I must?"
His lips curved, not with warmth but with disdain. "Now I understand why your own family prefers Anna Sterling over you. They see what I see—a woman incapable of tenderness."
The words struck her like a blade, slicing through carefully erected armor. Clara's breath caught, her composure shattering for a heartbeat. She had long told herself she did not care, that her foster parents' favoritism toward their beloved ward meant nothing. But to hear Lucas voice it aloud—it was unbearable.
Her hair fell across her face as she lowered her gaze, shadows veiling the ache in her eyes. She whispered nothing, offering no defense.
But inside, her mind whirred with ruthless precision. Every cruel word, every misplaced touch, every stolen glance—she was recording them all. The phone hidden in her towel captured both voice and image. Soon she would have enough. With the right editing, the perfect illusion would be born: proof that Lucas himself had been teaching her, guiding her, caring for her. Enough to show her mother. Enough to obtain what she desperately needed.
Her phone buzzed again, relentless. Messages from her foster mother filled the screen: Progress? Evidence? Hurry.
Clara pressed her lips together and slipped out of the pool chamber. The echoes of Lucas's barbed words clung to her like thorns.
At the reception desk, she forced her voice into calm civility. "Is there another pool available?"
The attendant hesitated. "All rooms are occupied, miss. Except… VIP Suite Two. But—" His tone lowered conspiratorially. "That guest dislikes interruptions. He's… not the forgiving type."
Clara's heart thudded. The urgency of her task outweighed caution. "I'll try. Just five minutes. I'll pay for everything."
Before the man could dissuade her further, Clara ascended the quiet corridor, her hand hovering above the heavy oak door. She knocked once. Twice. Silence.
Her fingers tightened, then pushed. The door yielded.
Blue light spilled across the tiled floor, water dancing in reflections that painted the walls with liquid fire. Clara's breath hitched as the scene unfolded: a solitary figure slicing through the pool with the grace of a predator. His body broke the surface in a glittering surge, water streaming from broad shoulders, from muscles honed like steel beneath pale skin.
He turned.
Eyes the color of storm clouds fixed upon her with sharp, cutting precision. "Who dares disturb me?"
Clara lowered her gaze at once, her carefully rehearsed words faltering beneath the weight of his presence. "Forgive me. I—" Her throat dried. "May I borrow this space for a moment? Just five minutes. I will pay for your time, your expenses—everything."
No answer.
The water shifted, then the man emerged fully, climbing from the pool with slow, deliberate steps. Droplets cascaded from the ridges of his abdomen, tracing lines that disappeared into the dark fabric clinging to his hips. He advanced until the air between them thinned, until she was forced to retreat half a step.
Her eyes darted downward, refusing the temptation to meet his gaze.
Then came the voice—low, languid, and devastatingly familiar. "Borrow the space?" His lips curved, the shadow of a smile carrying both mockery and something more dangerous. "Tell me, Clara… how exactly do you intend to use me? Five minutes—" his head tilted, eyes narrowing—"hardly seems enough."
Her head jerked up in shock.
The features before her sharpened into recognition.
Adrian Whitmore.
The last man she expected to find here.
Clara's lips parted, but no sound emerged. The name pulsed in her mind like a forbidden incantation.
Adrian Whitmore.
She had known him once in passing, or thought she had—always the silent one, the shadow lurking behind Lucas's brilliance. But here, bathed in the blue shimmer of water and light, Adrian was transformed into something far more dangerous.
He drew closer, droplets tracing silver paths down his skin, each step deliberate, predatory. "What is it?" His tone was velvet over steel. "You seem surprised. Did you not recognize me?"
Clara swallowed hard, her throat dry. "I… wasn't expecting you here."
Adrian's smile was a quiet, devastating thing—laced with irony, devoid of warmth. "Few ever do." His gaze flicked downward, catching the faint tremor of her hands clutching the towel. "And yet, you intruded."
"I only wanted the pool," she murmured, though her voice betrayed her uncertainty. "Five minutes. That's all."
"Five minutes," he echoed, as though savoring the weight of the words. "You speak as if time were yours to bargain with." His head inclined, shadows casting sharp planes across his face. "Tell me, Clara, is this the same voice you use when you lie to men like Lucas?"
Her breath caught, the accusation slicing through her composure. "I don't lie."
"Don't you?" Adrian's gaze pinned her, as though peeling back every carefully constructed façade. "Last night, you said you were… indisposed. Was that a lie too?"
The words struck her like a slap. Memories surged—the hurried excuse, the way she had slipped from him before explanations could take root. Shame, heat, and indignation tangled in her chest.
"I thought—" She faltered. "I thought it was true."
Adrian's laugh was low, without humor. He leaned closer, his breath carrying the faintest scent of salt and chlorine. "So you thought you were bleeding, and yet…" His eyes dipped to her lips. "You weren't."
Clara stiffened, every nerve in her body ablaze. "You're insufferable."
"And you," Adrian murmured, his voice lowering to a dangerous timbre, "are reckless." His hand braced against the wall beside her head, the gesture caging her without touch. "You walk into my solitude uninvited, you lie as easily as you breathe, and still—" His gaze flicked to her mouth again, lingering, burning. "You expect I will teach you?"
For a heartbeat, the silence roared louder than any storm.
Clara forced herself to meet his eyes, though her pulse thundered in her ears. "Yes. Teach me."
Adrian studied her, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his lips curved, dangerously slow.
"Very well," he whispered. "But understand this, Clara. With me, lessons are never… free."