Chapter 29: His Tie Bound Her Wrists

Just as Clara’s hand touched the doorknob, a sudden, chilling scent of cedar swept over her from behind.

Alistair’s palm slammed heavily against the door, trapping her within the narrow space between his body and the wood.

"You think I can't find out?" His breath, laced with the mellow aroma of red wine, brushed past her ear. "Lucas Williams, the youngest design director at New York Fashion Week. Caught a flight from Paris last Thursday just to take you out to dinner?"

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, neon lights flickered. In the reflection of the glass, Alistair’s tie was askew—an unthinkable sight for a man like him.

"Master Vance even checks business class seat numbers now?" She leaned back intentionally, her spine pressing against his perfectly ironed suit. "Such intense focus on me might lead to misunderstandings."

Alistair suddenly gripped her waist and spun her around, the crystal chandeliers shattering into icy splinters in his eyes. "Misunderstandings? Do I need to remind you about what happened thirty-two days ago at the Grand Hyatt Hotel..."

"Alistair!" Clara abruptly covered his mouth, her palm meeting a burning heat.

The man seized the opportunity to pin her wrists against the wall, his thumb stroking her delicate skin.

"Let go," her voice trembled.

"And if I don't?" Alistair’s lips were nearly pressed against hers. "Just like that night, when you grabbed my shirt and said..."

The sound of a glass shattering interrupted his words.

Clara stared blankly at her own shaking hand. The champagne-colored liquid meandered into a river at Alistair’s feet.

She had actually dropped the glass.

Alistair suddenly laughed, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes. "You always drop things whenever you lie."

"Stop it." Clara turned her face away, a metallic taste of rust rising in her throat.

"Why should I stop?"

"Alistair, there was never a 'beginning' for us."

The shrill ring of a cellphone suddenly cut through the air.

Clara caught sight of the name "Lucas" flashing on the screen. In the next second, the phone was snatched by Alistair and hurled against the wall.

"You're insane!" She stared at the shattered device; that was her work phone containing her new choreography videos.

"Yes, I'm insane."

Alistair ripped off his tie and used it to bind her wrists, a terrifying dark tide churning in his eyes. "From the moment you followed that designer into this place—do you know why the surveillance in this booth is dark?"

Clara’s heart rate spiked instantly. The sensation of the tie constricting her wrists made her feel a surge of suffocation.

Alistair’s presence was inches away, carrying a dangerous pressure as if he intended to swallow her whole.

Her back was pressed against the cold wall. The chill seeped through the thin fabric into her skin, intertwining with the sharp cedar scent on Alistair to create a stifling sense of contradiction.

"Alistair, what exactly do you want?"

Her voice wavered, though she tried to mask her panic with a tone of calm.

Alistair didn't answer. He only looked down at her, the dark tides in his eyes growing more turbulent.

His fingers lightly traced her cheek, but his touch was as cold as ice.

Clara instinctively tilted her head, trying to avoid his touch, but his fingers firmly clamped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"What do I want?" He let out a cold laugh, his voice low and raspy. "Clara, you know the answer perfectly well."

Clara’s breath hitched. Images of that night thirty-two days ago involuntarily surfaced in her mind.

The penthouse suite of the Grand Hyatt, the glittering city lights outside the window, and the endless entanglement and chaos inside.

She remembered how she had lost control in his arms, what she had whispered in his ear, and how she had fallen into the abyss under his guidance.

In that moment, she had thought she could forget everything—forget the boundaries between them, forget the fact that they had never truly started.

But when dawn came, everything returned to the starting point.

"That was just a mistake," she managed to say, her voice so low it was almost inaudible.

"A mistake?" A flash of mockery crossed Alistair’s eyes. "Then tell me, why do your eyes avert mine every time you see me? Why does your body tremble every time I get close? Clara, do you really think that was just a mistake?"

Clara’s throat felt blocked by something; she couldn't make a sound.

She truly couldn't deny that Alistair’s existence had never been irrelevant to her.

From the first time they met, he had been like an inextinguishable flame, searing her logic, making her unable to resist or escape.

But there were too many unbridgeable chasms between them.

Their worlds weren't meant to intersect, and those stories that shouldn't have happened never should have begun.

"Alistair, it's impossible between us."

She finally found her voice. Though it was weak, it carried a hint of finality.

Alistair’s gaze turned cold abruptly, and the strength in his grip increased.

His voice was low and dangerous: "Impossible? Clara, do you think you're the one who decides that?"

Before the words could fully land, his lips pressed down. Clara’s pupils contracted sharply. She instinctively tried to push him away, but with her wrists bound, she was powerless to resist.

Alistair’s kiss carried a near-insane possessiveness, as if he intended to consume her entire being.

Her breath was completely stolen. Her mind went blank, leaving only his burning presence and the irresistible pressure of his will.

After an unknown amount of time, Alistair finally released her. Clara’s chest heaved violently, her breathing ragged and chaotic. Her lips felt slightly numb, and a thin mist of moisture rose in her eyes, yet she stubbornly refused to let the tears fall.

"Alistair, enough!" Her voice carried a hint of a sob. "It ended between us long ago. Why do you keep tangling yourself with me?"

"Ended?" Alistair let out a cold laugh, the chill in his eyes deepening. "Clara, what makes you think it ended? That night, you clearly promised me you wouldn't run again."

Clara’s heart sank.

She had indeed promised him, but that was when she was at her most vulnerable, in his tender embrace where she had lost nearly all her reason.

But once morning came, she realized with absolute clarity that there would never be a future for them.

"That was just... an impulse," she whispered, her voice laced with exhaustion.

"An impulse?" Mockery flashed in Alistair’s eyes. "Clara, do you really think my feelings for you are just an impulse?"

Clara’s heart shuddered, and she looked up at him.

Alistair’s gaze held a level of sincerity she had never seen before, as if he were looking right through her.

Her heartbeat quickened involuntarily, and something in a quiet corner of her heart seemed to be silently crumbling.

"Alistair, between us... it's impossible," she repeated, as if trying to convince herself.

"Why is it impossible?" Alistair’s voice was low and steady. "Because you are a dancer and I am the CEO of Vance Group? Or because you think I simply don't deserve you?"

Clara’s breath hitched, a sharp pain piercing a corner of her heart.

She had never imagined Alistair would say such a thing.

In her mind, the gap between them had always been the uncrossable chasm, but now, he had thrown the question back at her.

"It's not like that..." her voice trembled. "I just... don't want to fall into that kind of uncontrollable emotion again."

Alistair’s eyes dimmed slightly, and the strength in his grip loosened.

He looked down at her, the dark tides in his eyes gradually settling, replaced by a complex emotion.

"Clara, what exactly are you so afraid of?"

Clara’s heart gave a violent jolt. The mist in her eyes finally coalesced into tears, sliding down her cheeks.

"Alistair, I..." Her voice broke into sobs, unable to finish a complete sentence.