Clarabelle's POV
My name is Clarabelle Nova LaCroix. Model. Socialite. Daughter of Roman LaCroix, CEO of LaCroix Cosmetics.
Translation: rich, beautiful, and untouchable.
At least, that's what everyone thinks.
I was in the middle of my nightly skincare routine, silk robe tied perfectly, a diamond-studded mask on my face, when my phone buzzed. I almost ignored it—nothing ruins beauty time more than people begging for attention. But the caller ID froze me.
Mom.
"Clarabelle…" her voice cracked. "Your father—he's had an accident. Come to the hospital. Now."
My heart stopped. Dad? Accident? I didn't even wash off my mask. I grabbed my bag, slipped into the nearest pair of Louboutins, and bolted.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and fear. My heels clicked against the cold floor as I ran down the hallway, mascara smudging, hair messy. I didn't care.
I rounded a corner too fast and—bam!—collided with someone. Hard.
"Sorry!" I gasped, clutching my bag, too panicked to even look up. My dad was more important. Without waiting for a reply, I kept running.
What I didn't know was that in that brief moment… my life had already shifted.
Hours later, after the chaos settled, I realized I'd lost my ID somewhere. Fabulous. Just fabulous. Like I needed one more problem in my life.
I'll just call the hospital management and tell them I dropped it. I'm sure they'll handle it. Someone probably picked it up already—who wouldn't recognize the name Clarabelle Nova LaCroix?
The reason Mom called me in the first place? Father had bumped his head. His secretary didn't know Dad was standing behind the office door and just swung it open. Hah. At least that idiot got fired. Seriously, who doesn't look before opening a door?
I sighed, rubbing my temples. The crisis was over, but my nerves weren't. Seeing Dad on a hospital bed, bandaged and pale, reminded me how fragile everything was. For once, money couldn't fix the panic in my chest.
"Clara," Mom called softly. "Why don't you go home and rest? Your father is stable now."
Rest. Right. As if I could just walk away from this day and sleep peacefully. But I forced a smile, kissed her cheek, and left.
But instead of heading home, I pulled out my phone and dialed my girls.
"Bar tonight? My treat."
Because honestly? Drinking is the only thing that calms my nerves. I'm not the sit quietly and cry into a pillow type. No. I want lights, music, and the burn of vodka down my throat.
By the time I got home, I was already stripping out of my hospital outfit and into something glittery. Silver mini-dress, pink heels, the whole look. If I was going to drink, I was going to look good doing it.
My cat gave me that judgy little side-eye from the bed, like really, Clara? again?
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered, brushing on highlighter. "This is therapy."
I plopped down on my California king bed, staring at the city lights outside my window. Manila glittered back at me like a jewelry box. But my mind was somewhere else.
Where did my ID even go? God. I hope some weirdo didn't find it and try to exchange it for some ridiculous or disgusting offer.
I groaned and flopped back dramatically, my hair fanning across the silk pillows.
I remembered bumping into someone at the hospital. Hard. But I didn't even see his face. Ugh. I smacked my forehead with my palm.
"How can you be so careless, Clara?" I muttered to myself.
I pulled my cat closer, scratching under her chin. "If some creep has my ID right now… ugh, I swear."
Double ugh. I let go of her and reached for my phone from my pink Birkin bag.
I called my assistant, already irritated. "What's my schedule for tomorrow?"
She read it off in her usual boring tone, but my brain was only half-listening.
"In the morning, you have a meeting with Isabella Morreti Aurelio—the architect for your new house."
Right. My dream house. Dad already offered me three different mansions, all ridiculously huge, but none of them were me. Cold. Old money vibes. Ugh. I wanted something different. Something I could actually breathe in.
"Sigh. Fine. What's next?"
"After that, you have a meeting at LaCroix Corp. Another advertisement shoot."
Of course. Dad's company. Always something.
I hung up, rolling my eyes. Work, meetings, events, fake smiles. Same schedule every week. It wasn't bad—it was just… boring.
I tossed my phone onto the bed, grabbed a glass of water from my nightstand, and stared out at the city again.
If only tomorrow would surprise me for once.
Spoiler: it was about to.