Chapter 226 Chapter 0225

Chapter 226 Chapter 0225
The drive back to the police station was tense.
Arthur sat in the backseat, rigid, arms crossed, eyes locked on the window like it held all the answers he didn't have.
Clark, on the other hand, had his usual ice-cold detachment in place. Legs crossed, elbow resting on the door, flipping through emails on his phone like he wasn’t sitting next to a literal criminal acting as his bodyguard.
Adam?
Adam was watching them both, the way Arthur’s knee bounced, the way Clark’s fingers were tight around his phone despite the bored expression.
He smirked. "Damn. This car ride’s fuckin’ depressing."
Arthur didn’t respond.
Clark didn’t even look up. "Then drive faster, MacDougall."
Adam let out a low chuckle but did exactly that.
When they pulled up in front of the station, Arthur finally moved. He unclipped his seatbelt, hesitated, then muttered, "Thanks."
Clark barely glanced at him. "Try not to look like you’re mourning your own goddamn funeral in there."
Arthur gritted his teeth but said nothing as he stepped out, shutting the door harder than necessary.
Adam watched him go, smirking. "Kid's a mess."
Clark exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Not my problem."
"Yeah?" Adam leaned back against the seat, "That why you're out here playin’ hero?"
Clark finally looked at him. Cold. Calculating.
"I’m not a hero, MacDougall."
Adam chuckled darkly. "Nah. Guess not."
Clark clicked his tongue. "Drive. I have work to do."
Adam grinned, but he didn’t argue.
The drive was quiet after that.
No pointless banter. No sharp words exchanged. Just the soft hum of tires against pavement, the occasional flicker of passing headlights cutting through the dim interior.
Clark didn’t check his phone again.
Adam didn’t comment on it.
When they finally reached Clark’s building, the stillness broke.

Clark exhaled, slow, measured, then stepped out without a word.
Adam followed a second later, shoving his hands in his pockets, his pace easy, unhurried, trailing Clark toward the entrance.
Clark reached the mailbox first.
Adam wasn’t paying attention at first—more focused on the quiet of the street, the distant hum of city life muffled under the weight of something else.
Then he saw it.
The way Clark’s fingers stilled for a fraction of a second, the way his shoulders tensed just slightly before he continued flipping through the stack of envelopes.
Bills.
More bills.
Clark’s jaw tightened.
Adam, standing beside him, arched a brow. "Damn, counselor. You drowning in debt?"
Clark’s grip on the envelopes tightened. He didn’t dignify that with a response.
Then—one stood out.
Different paper. Expensive. Heavy.
An invitation.
Adam tilted his head, catching sight of it.
"That don’t look like a bill."
Clark ignored him. Turned sharply.
Adam assumed he was heading for the elevator.
But—he didn’t.
Clark turned for the stairs.
Adam stopped. Stared.
"You’re fuckin’ with me."
Clark didn’t respond, already taking the first step up.
Adam let out a slow, deep breath, muttering something under his breath before reluctantly following.
The stairwell was quiet except for their footsteps.
Clark moved calm, controlled, like this wasn’t even an inconvenience.
Adam, on the other hand, was two seconds from losing his patience.
By the time they hit the second floor, he huffed, "You got somethin' against modern technology, or you just enjoy sufferin’?"
Clark didn’t even glance back. "If you’re so bothered, take the elevator."
Adam scowled. Not an option. The job was to stick to Clark, even if that meant climbing ten goddamn floors like an idiot.
"Fuckin’ lunatic," Adam muttered, shaking his head, but he kept following.
Step after step.
Floor after floor.
By the time they finally reached Clark’s apartment, Adam was thoroughly unimpressed.
Clark didn’t look winded. Didn’t look anything. Like the last five minutes hadn’t just happened.
Adam, staring daggers into the back of his head, was half-convinced Clark was some kind of bureaucratic demon in human skin.
Clark unlocked the door. Walked in.
Adam followed—reluctantly, bitterly, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.
The door clicked shut.
Clark tossed the stack of envelopes onto the dining table, bills scattering.
Adam noticed them. Didn’t comment.
Instead, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching.
Clark grabbed a whiskey glass, poured himself a drink, and downed half of it in one slow sip.
Adam smirked. "Rough night, moneybags?"
Clark didn’t look at him. "Don’t call me that."
Adam chuckled, gesturing lazily toward the scattered bills. "What’s the deal? Your high-class lawyer lifestyle not payin’ enough?"
Clark’s jaw twitched. "None of your business."
Adam shrugged. "Guess not. But you sure as hell drink like a man with problems."
Clark exhaled sharply, ignoring him. Instead, he picked up the invitation, turning it over in his fingers.
The envelope was thick. Heavy. The kind of paper that screamed money—elegant, embossed, expensive just for the sake of being expensive.
Clark barely reacted as his fingers traced the raised lettering, his gaze flicking over the names.
The gold-foil script glinted under the dim kitchen light.

Mr. & Mrs. Holloway
cordially invite you to celebrate
the engagement of their son,
Emery Holloway & Nicholas Sinclair
Saturday, April 8th
7 PM
Holloway Estate, North Yorkshire
A night of celebration, champagne, and new beginnings.
Formal attire required.

His fingers tightened.
A slow, cold sensation curled around his ribs, seeping into his chest.
For a brief second, Clark thought about laughing.
Not because it was funny. But because it was so ridiculous that his ex-fiancé—his—had the goddamn audacity to send him this.
To invite him to watch him marry someone else.
The envelope crinkled under his grip.
The sheer entitlement. The narcissism.
Like he was supposed to be happy for him.
Like he was supposed to show up, smile politely, shake hands, sip champagne and nod along as Emery—his goddamn ex—celebrated his perfect life without him.
Clark exhaled slowly.
Then, without a word, he tossed the invitation onto the table, grabbed his whiskey glass, and poured himself a drink.
The amber liquid sloshed as he took a sharp, deep sip.
Adam, who had been leaning against the counter, watching him like a wolf watching prey, arched a brow.
Clark ignored him.
He didn’t want to deal with Adam’s shit right now.
Instead, he turned on his heel and strode to his room, whiskey glass still in hand.
Adam’s gaze flicked to the invitation.
He let it sit there for a few seconds. Stared at it.
Then, with a casual roll of his shoulders, he picked it up.
Didn’t look dangerous.
Didn’t look like much of anything.
Just another rich-people event.
Adam’s eyes skimmed the text.
Holloway.
Sinclair.
He knew that second name.
Somewhere.
Maybe through business. Maybe through not-so-legal business.
But whatever.
Didn’t matter.
What mattered was Clark’s reaction.
Because he sure as hell didn’t react like a man who’d moved on.
Then… "—THE FUCKING AUDACITY—"
Adam blinked.
Clark’s voice erupted from the other side of the apartment, sharp and livid.
Adam turned his head toward the half-open door.
He didn’t even need to see Clark’s face to know he was pacing.
Probably with one hand in his hair, the other gesturing wildly, as if his sister could actually see his rage through the phone.
"Terese, you will not believe this—"
Adam smirked, \`Yeah. This is going to be good. ´
"This absolute DOUCHEBAG—this fucking slimy, egotistical, self-absorbed asshole—had the NERVE to invite me to his engagement party!"
Adam clicked his tongue, turning the invitation between his fingers.
\`So. That’s what this was about. Clark’s ex was getting engaged. ´
Adam leaned against the counter, not even pretending not to eavesdrop.
Clark’s voice was all sharp edges and thinly veiled loathing.
"Does he think I’m desperate? Or that I’ll come crawling back to watch his fairytale bullshit unfold?"
Adam’s lips twitched.
Clark might’ve dressed like he had his shit together, but he had more bottled-up rage than a man his size should carry.
"Are you serious?" she asked, somewhere between exasperated and gleeful.
"Dead serious," Clark muttered, flopping onto his bed and staring at the ceiling. The whiskey glass was still in his hand, his fingers tight around it.
"And you're telling me—" Terese paused, like she needed to collect herself. "That Emery, your ex-fiancé, has invited you to his engagement party? With another man? After everything?"
Clark gritted his teeth.
"I am, unfortunately, telling you exactly that."
Terese let out a long, slow whistle.
"Wow. He’s either an idiot or has some kind of death wish."
"Both," Clark muttered, taking a long sip of whiskey.
The smooth burn settled uneasily in his stomach.
Terese hummed. A dangerous sound.
Clark knew that sound. It meant she was thinking. Plotting.
"So," she started casually. "Are you going?"
Clark scoffed. Loud.
"Fuck no."
"Why not?"
Clark sat up so fast the whiskey nearly sloshed over the rim of the glass.
"Why not? Terese, did you hit your head?" He waved a hand vaguely toward his bedroom door, as if she could see his outrage. "Why the hell would I voluntarily sit through my ex’s engagement party?"
"Because," Terese said simply, "it would drive him crazy."
Clark froze.
His jaw tightened.
He hated that. Hated that she had a point.
Terese, sensing blood in the water, pushed.
"Think about it," she continued, her tone turning sly. "He invites you because he thinks you’re over him. That you’ll just show up, shake hands, be civil, smile politely—"
Clark grimaced.
"—but what if you did show up? And you weren’t just civil? What if you looked happy? Unbothered? What if you looked so damn good he regretted every single thing he ever did?"
Clark gritted his teeth.
Terese chuckled.
"Come on, Clark. I know you. You don’t let things go. Why let him have the satisfaction?"
Clark didn’t respond.
Not immediately.
Because she was right.
And he hated that.
Emery had left him. Walked away.
Clark had spent the last two years drowning in work, drowning in bills, drowning in himself just to keep moving forward.
And now this asshole wanted to invite him like nothing had ever happened?
Clark gripped his glass tighter.
Terese’s voice softened slightly.
"Look," she said. "I’m not saying go and make a scene. I’m just saying—if you did go, you could make it… educational for him."
Clark snorted, "Educational?"
"You know," Terese said, a smirk evident in her tone, "show him what he lost. Make sure he remembers."
Clark leaned back against the headboard, tilting his glass, watching the whiskey catch the dim light.
It was petty.
It was ridiculous.
It was exactly the kind of thing he wanted to do.
But…
"Not worth my time," Clark muttered finally, forcing himself to mean it.
Terese sighed dramatically. "Fine, be boring. But you know he’s going to be expecting you to show up. Maybe even hoping you’ll come."
Clark gritted his teeth.
Yeah. He knew.
That was the worst part.
"Just ignore it," he muttered, gritting the words out.
"Uh-huh," Terese said, unconvinced. "Whatever you say, Clark."
Clark hung up without another word.
Five Minutes Later
Adam was still leaning against the counter, sipping his beer like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Clark strode in, barefoot, whiskey glass still in hand, his jaw tight.
Adam didn’t look up.
But his smirk widened.
"So," Adam drawled, casual as anything. "We goin’ or not?"
Clark shot him a glare, "We?"
Adam tilted his beer toward him. "You. Me. This fancy-ass party."
Clark scoffed, "I’m not going."
"Yeah?" Adam arched a brow. Didn’t look convinced. "‘Cause from what I just heard, sounds like you wanna."
Clark huffed, rolling his shoulders.
"It’s a waste of my time," he said stiffly, taking a slow sip of whiskey.
Adam watched him.
Didn’t say anything.
Just let the silence stretch.
Clark felt it.
Felt the way Adam’s gaze lingered, reading something in him he wasn’t willing to acknowledge.
Clark’s grip tightened around his glass.
Adam smirked. But didn’t push.
"Whatever you say, lawyer boy."
Clark exhaled slowly.
Then took another sip.