Chapter 142

Chapter 142
Ayleen’s POV

By the time I hit the highway, the sky had already started to bruise into that late-evening shade that always made the city look softer than it deserved. I had Clara’s building set in my GPS, her address saved like it had always been there, like my fingers hadn’t hovered over it the first time I typed it in, afraid the act alone would make it real.

Mia’s words were still ringing in my head, and so was George’s steady logic. Take control. Don’t let the internet decide. Let Clara speak.

Except the thought of Clara under a studio spotlight with someone asking her questions she didn’t owe anyone made my stomach turn.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and tried to focus on why I was even driving there in the first place.

Because I missed her.

Because the day had been long, and the morning had started with a threat, and my body still felt like it was recovering from the kind of fear that didn’t fade the moment you locked your door. Clara had stayed with me. She’d held me. She’d made my apartment feel like it belonged to both of us again, even if only for a day.

And I needed her tonight.

I was five minutes from her street when I did what I’d been resisting for hours and called her.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Angel,” her voice was warm, quiet, a little tired. It softened something in my chest instantly. “You okay?”

I exhaled through my nose, the corner of my mouth pulling up without permission. “I should be asking you that.”

“I’m alive,” she said, and I could hear the faint shuffle of papers, the click of something being set down. “Barely.”

“You’re still at work.”

It wasn’t a question.

There was a pause that sounded like guilt trying to decide whether to show itself.

“Aren’t you coming home?” I asked, eyes flicking to the dashboard clock. It was later than I wanted it to be. Late enough that my stylist would’ve been yelling at me if I was still in makeup, late enough that Mia would’ve already texted twice asking if I’d eaten.

“I will,” she said, voice careful, measured. “Just not yet.”

“Clara,” I warned softly, and I heard the faint smile in her inhale.

“I know,” she murmured. “But I need to focus.”

My chest tightened. “Why?”

“You know why,” she said, and the warmth faded. “Clients are pulling back. Cases are getting reassigned. People are nervous.”

I swallowed. “Because of the rumors.”

She didn’t deny it.

“I shouldn't have went to Katherine," I said before I could stop myself. The protectiveness came out sharp. “They’re trying to punish you through me.”

“Ayleen,” she said gently, like she was trying to calm a storm she couldn’t see. “It’s not your fault.”

I hated that she always did that. Took the blame away before I could even hold it.

“It feels like it is,” I admitted. My voice went quieter. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the office,” she reminded me, almost amused.

I stared at the road ahead as my chest filled with frustration and something softer underneath it. I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her that the world could wait, that she didn’t have to keep proving she was untouchable, that she didn’t have to rebuild everything from scratch again because someone wanted to ruin her.

But I knew Clara. The more pressure she felt, the more she clung to structure. Work was her anchor. The one thing she could control when everything else was unstable.

“I was on my way,” I admitted.

Clara’s voice softened instantly. “To my house?"

I didn’t answer right away because hearing the small hope in her tone made me feel exposed.

“Yes,” I said finally. “To see you.”

“I can come to you,” she offered. Too quick, too automatic.

“No,” I cut in. “Stay where you are.”

I took a breath, made a decision before my pride could talk me out of it.

“I’ll come to you,” I said.

Clara went quiet.

“Are you sure?” she asked, and there was something careful in her voice, like she was afraid I would resent her for choosing work.

“I’m sure,” I replied. “And don’t argue.”

A soft laugh. “I wasn’t going to.”

“I’ll see you soon,” I said.

Then I hung up before I could overthink it, before I could let my fear twist the moment into something heavy.

At the next exit, I turned the car around.

Instead of going straight to her building, I drove toward the one place that always felt like comfort disguised as food. Not a fancy restaurant. Not a place that needed reservations or a dress code. Somewhere warm and fast and familiar.

Takeout.

Because if Clara was still working, she probably hadn’t eaten. And if she had eaten, it was probably something sad she’d forgotten in a fridge.

I parked, ran in, and ordered enough food for two people and an extra side I knew she secretly loved but never admitted to. Then I waited with my arms crossed, restless and impatient, the way I always got when I cared too much.

By the time I got back in the car with warm bags filling the passenger seat.

This felt just like coming home.