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Chapter Three: The Clash of Worlds
The next morning, Clara promised herself she would not return to the grand estate. She had barely slept, her dreams tangled with steel-gray eyes and a voice that carried like velvet smoke. What a fool I was, she thought as she scrubbed vegetables at her father's table. Sneaking into the gardens of a man like that…
And yet, as fate tends to do, her path led her back.
She had gone to the orchard with a basket for apples, humming quietly to herself. The village air was simple, smelling of soil and sun. But the estate loomed just beyond the hedges, its marble towers gleaming like a dare. She tried not to look—until she heard a familiar voice.
"I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me, Clara Rose."
She spun, nearly dropping her basket. Damian stood there, impossibly well-dressed for someone in a garden—dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a cane he clearly didn't need but carried with the ease of a man who owned everything. He leaned against an old oak as though he had been waiting for her.
"You—why are you here?" Clara gasped.
He arched a brow. "Here? This is my orchard."
"No, it isn't! This belongs to the village!"
Damian smirked. "Correction: the village belongs to me. And by extension… so does the orchard."
Clara's mouth fell open. "You can't own trees."
"Oh, Clara Rose," he said, chuckling softly, "I can own anything I want."
Her cheeks burned with irritation. She stomped past him toward the apple trees, muttering under her breath. Damian followed, amused by the sight of her small frame marching stubbornly away from him. Most people slowed down in his presence; Clara sped up.
"Tell me," he drawled, "do you always talk back to men who could have you thrown in jail?"
She stopped short, glaring at him with her hands on her hips. "Do you always sneak around orchards to frighten girls who are just trying to pick fruit?"
Damian burst out laughing—an unguarded, rich laugh that startled a flock of birds from the branches above. He hadn't laughed like that in years. Clara blinked at him, unsure whether to be angry or relieved.
"You're impossible," she huffed, turning away again.
"And you," he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice, "are fascinating."
The word slipped through the air like a promise. Clara froze, gripping the handle of her basket tighter. She could feel his presence just behind her, not touching, but close enough to make her pulse stumble.
"I don't understand you," she whispered.
"Good," he replied smoothly. "If you understood me, you'd be like everyone else. And then you wouldn't matter at all."
Clara turned, eyes wide. Damian's expression had softened—just slightly—but his gaze burned with an intensity that left her both flustered and breathless.
He reached past her suddenly, plucking an apple from the branch above her head. For a moment, she thought he might brush her hair or touch her cheek, and the thought terrified her almost as much as it thrilled her. Instead, he held the apple out to her, his lips curved in that half-smile she was beginning to know too well.
"Eat," he commanded softly.
Clara stared at the fruit in his hand, then back at him. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet," Damian said, watching her intently, "you'll take it."
With a nervous laugh, Clara snatched the apple from his hand, biting into it defiantly. Juice dripped down her chin, and she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. Damian's laughter followed, smooth and delighted.
It was the strangest thing—how a man with the world at his feet could be entertained by something as simple as a girl biting into an apple.
But in that orchard, between laughter and tension, Clara Rose had unknowingly stepped deeper into Damian Blackwood's world.
And Damian? He knew already—he wouldn't let her go.