Chapter 37: "Claire's Game" Julian POV

I'm crouched behind the break-room table with Sam, heart pounding loud as those footsteps stop outside the door. The Mirage feels like a trap, dark, quiet, and I'm sweating, clutching the USB with Claire's tape in my pocket. "We've got to move," I whisper, voice shaky, and Sam nods, wide-eyed, shoving his laptop into his bag. My legs ache from the ambush, but I'm up, pulling him with me, creeping to the door. I peek out, hall's empty, just shadows, and I grab his arm, saying, "Now, mate, go." We bolt, fast and quiet, down the hall, past the kitchens, my boots slipping on the tiles.

We hit the staff exit, bursting out into the parking lot, cold air hitting me hard, neon buzzing overhead. My chest's heaving, and I'm thinking, Victor? Security?, but it's clear, just cars and puddles glinting under the lights. Sam's panting next to me, muttering, "That was close, Jules," and I nod, catching my breath, feeling the weight of that tape, Claire planting chips, gloating, "Marcus'll break now." It's proof, yeah, but it's tearing me up, Marcus's choice, that voucher, costing me everything. I'm about to say we're safe when headlights flare, bright, sudden, and a car screeches up, cutting us off.

The car's a battered old Chevrolet, its white paint peeling and faded, one headlight slightly dimmer than the other. The familiar squeak of worn brakes pierces the night air. My muscles tense as I recognize the vehicle, having seen it parked outside the casino break room several times before. Behind us, a security alarm wails somewhere in the distance, making Sam jump beside me, his fingers digging nervously into my shoulder.

I freeze, squinting, and the door flies open, Claire steps out, blonde hair wild, eyes burning. My stomach drops, and I stumble back, Sam grabbing my sleeve. "You stole my life, Harrow," she says, voice loud, raw, stepping closer. She's shaking, angry, desperate, and my heart's racing, pinned under her stare. "Claire," I say, slow, hands up, "we don't want trouble." But she laughs, sharp and bitter, pulling something from her pocket, a phone, screen glowing, and my skin crawls. "Too late for that," she snaps, "you and Marcus, you took everything."

Sam's tense beside me, whispering, "What's she got?" and I see it, Diego's voice crackling from the phone, that high-roller who flirted with me once. "He'll lose everything now," Claire's saying on the recording, same gloat from the tape, but flipped, twisted. My breath catches, Diego caught her, gave it to me, and now she's got it? "Where'd you get that?" I say, voice tight, and she smirks, wild. "Your mate Diego, he's not as loyal as you think. Sold it to me, cheap." My head spins, she's turned it, blackmail now, holding it over us.

I step forward, angry, scared, and say, "What do you want, Claire? You've got me sacked, nearly killed, enough!" She's close, too close, and her eyes are wet, furious. "Enough?" she yells, voice breaking. "Ethan's dying, hospital bills piling up, and Marcus gave you that five grand, hush money from Victor, when I begged him for it!" My chest hurts, and I'm stuck, hearing her, desperate, broken. "I hacked the slots," she says, quieter now, "rigged them for cash, weeks of it, just to keep Ethan breathing. And Marcus, he chose you, his boyfriend, over my brother."

The neon sign from the casino flickers overhead, casting alternating shadows across her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes. I notice for the first time how thin she's become, how her clothes hang loosely from her frame. A gold locket dangles from her neck, one I recognize as containing a photo of Ethan from before he got sick. She clutches it unconsciously with her free hand as she speaks, her knuckles white with tension.

My hands tremble, and I'm gutted, proper gutted, seeing it clear. The voucher, Victor's dirty cash Marcus lied about, meant Ethan's life to her, and Marcus picked me instead. "I didn't know," I say, soft, but she shakes her head, stepping back. "Don't care. You've got that tape now, think it clears you? I've got this," she waves the phone, "and I'll bury you both with it." My throat's tight, and I'm thinking, Diego, that snake, flipped it to her?, and she's got us trapped, her desperation turning mean.

Sam's voice is low, "Jules, she's off her rocker," and I nod, slow, watching her pace, wild, like a cornered animal. "Claire, listen," I say, trying to calm her, "we can sort this, talk to Marcus, figure it out." But she laughs again, harsh, and points at me. "Sort it? He's why Ethan's fading, why I'm doing this! You're his world, Julian, and I'm taking it away." My stomach twists, her hate, her pain, it's all aimed at me now, and I'm scared, proper scared, she's not stopping.

The parking lot's quiet, just her breathing and the hum of her car, engine still running. My hands are sweaty, and I'm thinking, Marcus, three weeks ago, kissing me, promising me, didn't know it'd end like this, with Claire ready to destroy us. "You don't have to," I say, voice shaking, "we can help Ethan, somehow." But her eyes flash, and she shakes her head, fast. "No. You don't get it, I've got nothing left but this." She holds the phone up, Diego's recording looping, her voice, smug, and my heart sinks, she's got power now, and she knows it.

A memory flashes through my mind, of seeing Claire and Ethan together last summer, before all this started. They were laughing outside a café, his face still full then, color in his cheeks. I'd waved, and they'd waved back, friendly, normal. No hint of the storm that was coming, of how our lives would tangle and break apart like this. The contrast with the desperate woman standing before me now makes my chest ache with a sadness I hadn't expected to feel.

I step closer, desperate, and say, "Claire, please, don't do this." But she's backing up, toward her car, smirking through tears. "Too late, Harrow," she says, voice cold, "you'll see, Marcus'll see." My chest's tight, and I'm reaching out, trying to stop her, but she's in the driver's seat, slamming the door. Sam grabs my arm, pulling me back, and I'm yelling, "Wait!", but she doesn't. Tires screech, loud and sharp, as she peels out, car swerving through the lot, disappearing round the corner into the dark.

I'm left standing there, breath ragged, Sam next to me, quiet. My hands rub my face, and I'm shook, Claire's words, "You stole my life," ringing loud. She's desperate, hacking slots for Ethan, blaming Marcus's choice, blaming me, and now she's got Diego's tape, twisted to hurt us more. My head's spinning, and I'm wondering, how'd it get this bad? Three weeks ago, Marcus was my anchor, now he's why I'm here, bruised and cornered, with Claire playing her game.

Then my phone buzzes, sharp, cutting the silence, and I pull it out, hands trembling. It's a text, no name, just words: "Check your locker." My stomach drops, and I stare at it, Claire? Victor?, and my skin's crawling. Sam leans in, reading over my shoulder, and mutters, "Bloody hell, Jules, what now?" I don't know, just stand there, frozen, the lot empty around us, knowing she's close, still pulling strings, and I'm scared, scared of what's waiting back inside.