Chapter 6: He is Deeply Sinful

The moonlight stretched across the sea, shimmering like scattered gold. Inside the water villa, the rhythmic white noise of the waves provided a backdrop to Clara’s sinking, heavy thoughts.

She dreamed of being six years old, the year she moved out of her parents' room. She had moved from the child’s room on the second floor of the Harrison mansion to the third floor, right next to Quentin’s suite. Her parents said it was so her eldest brother could look after her.

But she couldn't adapt. Previously, Penelope had always coaxed her to sleep. Now, sleeping alone, she couldn't drift off and was terrified of turning off the lights. Sometimes, out of boredom, she would get up and inspect her collection of princess dresses. She would put one on, lie back in bed, and cosplay as Snow White, waiting for a prince to kiss her awake. Usually, she fell asleep while waiting.

This continued until one day, while picking out a dress, Clara discovered a passage in her walk-in closet that led to the adjacent room. She walked through it and found herself face-to-face with Quentin, who had just finished his homework and was preparing for bed.

Both were stunned for a moment. Then Clara’s eyes lit up. She looked back at the hidden compartment and exclaimed, "I can actually get through here!"

Before Quentin could react, the little girl happily ran back, grabbed her pillow, and returned, climbing onto his bed while muttering to herself, "What a coincidence! You're going to sleep too, right, Brother? Let's sleep together."

Having arranged her pillow, she turned back to Quentin and enthusiastically patted the spot next to her.

The teenage boy, his features already showing a sharp handsomeness, furrowed his brow. "Go back. Sleep in your own room."

Clara sat on his bed, dazed for two seconds. Her watery, grape-like eyes filled with grievance. "But I can't sleep. That room is so big, I'm scared. All those rooms, and I'm all alone..."

Looking at her, Quentin’s frown deepened, but he found himself unable to refuse. "Just this once."

"Okay!" Clara immediately beamed, placing her picture books in front of him. "Brother, tell me a story."

Quentin had never told a bedtime story before. He awkwardly picked up a book and opened it. Whether it was the story or the company that worked, before Quentin could finish the first tale, he heard steady breathing beside him. The girl’s doll-like face looked even more exquisite under the lamp, her forehead leaning against him.

Quentin turned off the light with gentle movements.

In all things, where there is a first time, there is a second. And where there is a second, there are countless more. Quentin wanted to seal the hidden passage, but Clara wouldn't let him.

He felt helpless. "But you're six now. You have to learn to sleep by yourself."

Clara didn't understand. "Why? Can't I just be with my brother forever?"

Near noon, a tropical thunderstorm brought a sudden downpour to the coast.

Clara woke up to the pitter-patter of rain, curling up under the covers with a splitting headache. She never wanted to drink that much again. After resting for a while, she dragged herself up.

She went out to get some water and saw Quentin sitting in the living room with a cup of coffee and a briefing in his hand. "Awake?"

For some reason, Clara felt a surge of embarrassment. Although the details were fuzzy, she vaguely remembered that her eldest brother had brought her back. Going to a hunk show, getting drunk, and being picked up by her brother...

Clara gave a muffled "Mhm." She hesitated, then said, "I... I drank a bit too much last night."

Quentin nodded. "So you realize that now."

Clara’s expression was complicated. "Did I say or do anything... inappropriate?"

"It was alright," Quentin closed the briefing. "You just said you’d never watch a hunk show again."

Clara let out a soft "Ah," her mouth moving faster than her brain. "That must have been the alcohol talking."

Quentin looked up. Clara immediately shut up and offered a guilty smile.

Quentin lowered his gaze. "Getting yourself into that state—you really aren't afraid of being targeted."

"But Cynthia was there. Who would dare cause trouble on her turf?" Clara strolled forward and leaned over the back of Quentin's chair, acting cute. "Besides, weren't you there too?"

Clara’s curls brushed against the corner of the man's vision, bringing a faint, itchy breeze. Quentin leaned back steadily, his slender fingers turning a page of the briefing.

Clara took the opportunity to sit on the sofa next to him. "Besides, this is a private island. It's not that easy for bad people to get in."

She picked up a travel magazine and began flipping through it, casually crossing her legs on the ottoman.

Hidden behind his gold-rimmed glasses, Quentin’s eyes remained calm. But internally, he thought:

Clara is still so disobedient. Still so fond of playing.

She gets herself blacked out drunk; she wouldn't even know if she was being taken advantage of. He should let her experience what happens after getting drunk. Not too drunk—she should be conscious but unable to control herself, only able to be controlled by someone else. No matter how she cried or struggled, there would be no room for resistance. Then she would never dare drink with men outside again.

Disobedient children need to be punished to become well-behaved.

Quentin’s eyes turned dark. He turned another page. Unfortunately, he was only her brother. A brother could do nothing; he didn't even have the right to stop her from playing with men.

Clara skimmed the magazine and set it aside, noticing the pinky ring on Quentin's hand. Curious, she leaned in and grasped his wrist.

Quentin paused, looking down at her. His wrist was thick and the bone structure prominent; Clara couldn't wrap her hand all the way around. It felt heavy, and she sensed his sudden alertness.

She smiled at him and moved her hand to his forearm, gesturing toward the ring. "This is so unique. Can I see it?"

Quentin’s deep thoughts surfaced. Perhaps realizing his defensiveness was too obvious, he opened his hand and let Clara take it off.

"Where did this come from?" she asked leisurely.

"It’s just an ordinary ring," Quentin explained.

"How is this ordinary?" Clara leaned back. "It has the Five Precepts and the Heart Sutra engraved on it. Did you get this from a temple?"

The craftsmanship looked old; it wouldn't be an exaggeration to call it a small antique. It likely had many years in a temple and had been consecrated.

Quentin remembered that Clara was now a specially appointed restoration expert for the museum. Memorizing patterns from various historical periods was just a basic professional skill for her.

"These are Buddhist constraints. Worn by those who have committed great sins." Clara looked at Quentin curiously. "Big Brother, what great sin did you commit?"

Outside the water villa, the thunderstorm raged on, but the ocean remained eerily calm. Quentin was silent for a long time. He had no intention of answering and reached out to take the ring back.

As he leaned in, Clara dodged, playing with the ring and trying it on her own pinky. "Why won't you answer me?"

The ring hung loosely on her pinky, unable to stay on. Clara took it off and, on a whim, placed the ring—the one that held all his chaotic and filthy thoughts—on her ring finger, right where a wedding band would go.

It fit perfectly.

CRACK!

Lightning sliced through the water’s surface, kicking up massive waves that slammed against the outdoor terrace. Quentin’s dark eyes flickered, reflecting the relentless storm outside.

Clara was startled by the sudden surge. As the waves hit the glass wall, she felt as if she were being drenched. She watched the sea howl toward her, as if wanting to drag her into the depths to be crushed, submerged, and possessed.

Hesitantly, she pulled a blanket over herself, trying to shield herself from the invasive storm. "Why is this thunderstorm lasting so long?"

After sitting for a while longer, Quentin reclaimed the ring with feigned composure and left the living room, trying not to let his abnormality show.

The Banhe Mountain Temple in Harbor Bay had been funded by the Harrison family, and their ancestral hall was located in a secluded part of the grounds. Five years ago, after Clara asked him to help change her name and move her household registration, Quentin had stayed in that hall for months. He emerged wearing this ring to control his unspeakable thoughts.

But the ring only served to constantly remind him of his pain—that he had developed illicit feelings for the sister he had raised himself. He was deeply sinful.

Three days later, Clara returned to the country after receiving notice to cooperate with a material re-audit for the museum. She tasked her private secretary, Cherry, with organizing the materials from her initial interview for re-submission.

While Clara was still on the flight back, Cherry messaged: [Submitted. Don't worry.] [They might call us in for an interview in a couple of days.]

Clara looked at the text and smiled helplessly. [I know.] It wasn't like she hadn't been through this before.

[There have been constant complaints and reports lately, saying the museum’s hiring was against regulations. They have to start an investigation.] [But don't worry, our hiring followed the official process.]

Clara propped up her chin and tapped out a reply: [Not worried.]

She leaned back in her seat, lost in thought. She was familiar with this process. Years ago, she might have clutched her phone, waiting for news in a panic, wondering if the people reporting her were business rivals of the Harrisons. Now, it didn't matter.

Experience told her that the actual whistleblowers often had nothing to do with the family. They would even swarm her social media and blatantly tell everyone which official website to use to report her, questioning if she got the job through improper means. Even her superiors would be investigated for illegal transactions.

They were just "concerned netizens" who loved seeing those on high fall into the abyss. The harder she fell, the better.

Clara was used to it, but it still made her unhappy. She messaged Cherry: [Pick me up from the airport later. Let’s go to a hot spring.]

Cherry could tell the little princess was in a bad mood. She quickly packed her things to meet her.

Near evening, Quentin’s Gulfstream G700 landed. Clara stepped off the plane to see Cherry holding a large bouquet of tulips, smiling. Clara’s mood lifted slightly at the sight. She took the flowers and said, "Thanks, babe. Let’s go."

"Sure." Cherry took Clara’s handbag and followed.

Quentin watched them leave before getting into the car heading to the company.

Heng asked, "Aren't you going home to rest first?"

Quentin adjusted his cuffs. "The media outlets reporting the 'violations' are deeply tied to the Zhengda Group. Have you looked into that?"

Heng replied, "The team has received the files."

He remembered this man named Zheng—a rising star in the social scene. His company specialized in information technology and had developed rapidly over the last five years, quickly joining the elite circles. As competition intensified, he set his sights on the new energy industry, a sector where the Harrison Group held a massive market share and voice.

Zheng was ambitious; when he started, the news labeled him "the next Howard Harrison"—after the old patriarch. Furthermore, the exposure of the DNA test was directly related to them. The Harrison Group’s stock and market share had dropped significantly, and many partners had turned to Zhengda after canceling their contracts.

The direct beneficiary was obvious. But in reality, this was just a scratch on the Harrison Group. Zhengda actually thought they were about to bring the Harrisons down.

Heng asked, "Should we act now?"

Quentin didn't answer directly. "Hold a meeting today."

"Understood."

"Mr. Zheng is about to have his fiftieth birthday. I’ll send him a gift." Quentin’s tone was casual, but his words were chilling: "I hope he still has the chance to celebrate his sixtieth."

Still feeling down, Clara spent a few days at a resort and then went shopping in Central to treat herself. She ordered an Hermès Kellydoll for her birthday in three months. Then, she met the store manager of Berko France at a cafe to choose her birthday cake design.

The cafe was inside a luxury boutique, a private space with two floors. Each floor had different exits leading to luxury stores, with no separate street entrance. It was members-only.

On the second floor, Clara was looking through the new catalog. Suddenly, she heard a familiar name. "Chloe, why didn't you buy anything? Has the family still not opened a card for you?"

Clara looked over. She saw several socialites entering from the Marc Jacobs entrance on the first floor. Chloe stood out from the group, looking out of place in casual, cold-toned clothing—a white camisole under a loose black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking like she was ready for a fight at any moment.

Everyone noticed the contrast, including the girls themselves. Chloe went to the restroom while the others took their seats. They whispered in Cantonese: "She actually came out dressed like that." "Their family is such a joke. They got rid of the thief Clara and brought back a country bumpkin." "I heard she used to work in a ramen shop."

When Chloe returned, they continued to chat and laugh without restraint, likely assuming she didn't understand Cantonese. One girl, acting helpful but with an arrogant smirk, signaled to her, "Chloe, sit here. We saved this spot for you."

They laughed. "Chloe is a real celebrity lately."

Feeling uncomfortable, Clara slammed the catalog onto the table with a

thwack

. The Berko manager jumped. The light reflected in Clara’s eyes, revealing an uncommon sharpness. She leaned back, watching through the glass. Those people were treating Chloe like a clown for their entertainment. Actually, they weren't just mocking Chloe—they were mocking the Harrisons and mocking

her

.

Chloe didn't refuse. She pulled out a chair and sat down, resting her hand on the table.

Someone spoke up, "Hey, are you still working at the ramen shop?"

Chloe replied bluntly, "I never worked at a ramen shop." She had only been there to fight.

"Don't be embarrassed; it’s not a disgrace. My parents always want me to work at the group. They only offer me a million a month, and they scold me when I don't want to go."

"A million isn't bad."

Another chimed in, "Yeah, I heard ramen shops only pay three or four thousand a month. You’re complaining about a million in front of Chloe."

Jane Zheng curled her lip. "It’s not enough to even buy this necklace of mine."

Clara narrowed her eyes. That tone sounded familiar. She remembered—these were the same girls who had invited her out before, only to talk behind her back in their group chat. The leader seemed to be a Zheng. Her family had a small group that had only risen recently; Clara hadn't seen her before. It seemed they were trying to squeeze into the top tier of the business circle, so they showed up at every event.

Chloe watched them perform and asked, "How much is that?"

"Don't you know? Jane’s necklace is worth three million."

Jane twirled her necklace. "It was bought for five million. A coming-of-age gift from my mommy."

Chloe understood, the black stud in her earlobe glinting slightly. Jane noticed the stud and scrutinized it. "That earring... looks like a fake, doesn't it?" "Poor quality, many impurities. Looks like plastic."

Chloe didn't hide it. "It

is

plastic."

The others let out contemptuous laughs.

Clara took a deep breath and called over a waiter, whispering into his ear. The waiter looked toward the table downstairs and left respectfully.

"Oh, it's fine. Order whatever you want today; my treat," Jane said slowly. "Once the Harrisons give you Clara’s shares and open a card for you, you won't have to wear these fakes."

Someone laughed, "You can keep the fakes for Clara to wear, hahaha. She might need them later." "Don't forget to introduce her to the ramen shop job, too."

They burst into laughter. Chloe’s hand remained on the table, her knuckles tapping rhythmically. The table was small and thin.

Suddenly, a loud

CRASH

echoed through the cafe!

The waiter Clara had sent froze mid-step. He watched as Chloe flipped the small table over, sending the flower vase and everything else shattering onto the floor.

Screams erupted. "My dress!" "Chloe, what are you doing?!"

Clara, who had just come downstairs, also stopped in surprise. Chloe sat calmly in her seat, watching them scream. "Your mouths are filthy." She was as calm as if she hadn't flipped the table at all—or perhaps she did this often.

Jane’s dress was soaked with water from the vase. She stood up and glared. "You country bumpkin, you—!" "I felt sorry that no one would play with you, but you're so ungrateful!"

Someone, wary of Chloe’s current status, tried to pull Jane back. Jane shoved them away. "Just you wait! I'm going to tell my dad and let them see what kind of person your family brought back." "To be honest, Clara is much better than you. No wonder everyone likes her. You’re just a crude, unrefined nobody!"

"Let's go."

As Jane turned around, she saw Clara leaning against the counter, finishing the last of her coffee. "What a coincidence."

The group was stunned. They didn't know how long Clara had been there and tried to push past her to leave. At the door, they were blocked by a waiter. "Ladies, your coffee is ready."

"We're not drinking it."

"Then please pay the bill."

Jane pulled out her card and tossed it onto the table.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You have been blacklisted by this establishment. Credit cards under your name cannot be used for payment."

"Blacklisted? Impossible!" Jane’s face turned red with anger. "Call your owner!"

The waiters looked at each other and then all turned toward Clara. The girls froze as a terrifying realization dawned on them. They remembered almost simultaneously that this mall was a property of the Harrison Group. And the private cafe inside...

Clara smiled at them, her eyes crinkling. "Why are you calling for me?"

The cafe fell silent. Jane’s lip twitched. "You... why do you have the right to block my credit card?"

"Because you insulted me," Clara played with her hair. "You called me a thief in my own shop."

"Public insults constitute a general violation of the law and an act of infringement," Cherry added. "The trust in the transaction has been broken. The owner may restrict consumer behavior to maintain order."

Clara kindly reminded them, "But you can choose to pay in cash. The shop cannot refuse cash."

Jane was fuming. "Who carries cash nowadays?!" They were used to million-dollar purchases; carrying cash was insane.

A smile spread across Clara’s lips. "If you don't have cash, you can beg someone who can pay."

"Like me," Clara looked at Chloe, "or her."

Chloe’s eyebrows shot up.

"But it seems," Clara laughed even more happily, "my temper is a bit better than hers. Say something nice. Beg me."