Chapter 5

“You’re coming with me,” Chris said quietly, his voice firm despite the tremor in it. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me again, you promised me dear.”

Clarisa stood in the doorway of his hospital room shocked by his words, this was getting out of hand, and she doesn't even know how to get out of this situation. The monitors behind him beeped softly, the green line of his pulse steady and slow. His eyes, uncertain, and painfully sincere locked onto hers with a pleading she hadn’t seen in anyone before.

“I didn’t promise,” she said carefully, trying to sound professional. “You were half-asleep. You thought.......”

He shook his head vigorously, the faintest frown on his brow. “I know what I felt.”

Mr. Pierce, his legal assistant, stood stiffly near the door, adjusting his glasses. He looked as though he had stepped out of a corporate photograph. He wore a crisp suit, polished shoes, not a single hair out of place. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Vale, the car is ready. The press is outside, and it would be… unwise to draw attention.”

Chris didn’t look away from Clarisa. “Then she is coming with me or else I won't leave.”

“Sir,” Pierce began, “Miss Thomas is a hospital employee, not.......”

“Shut up! not what?” Chris’s tone sharpened just a fraction, then softened again as his gaze returned to her. “She is the only person I trust right now. If she doesn’t come, I’m not going, and that's final".

Clarisa felt the shift in the room, the tension between power and fragility. The billionaire in the bed wasn’t giving orders; he was begging, and that made it worse.

Doctor Martins entered then, wiping his hands on a towel. “Mr. Vale, you’re medically cleared for discharge, but we will need follow-up visits. Miss Thomas has done more than enough.......”

Chris’s voice cut in softly. “She is my fiancée. She should be with me.”

The word fiancée still made Clarisa’s stomach twist. She should have corrected him days ago, but every time she tried, something in his expression stopped her; a flicker of panic, as if the truth might break him apart completely, so she continued to play along.

She swallowed. “I will make sure he gets home safely,” she said finally, surprising even herself.

Doctor Martins frowned, but nodded. “Temporary arrangement only. Don’t blur the line, Clarisa.” She smiled thinly. The line had blurred the moment Chris Vale had opened his eyes and said her name.

The ride to the Vale mansion was quiet. The city gave way to the outskirts, towering glass giving way to cliffs and wind-bent trees. Rain slicked down the car windows like a baby's spittle.

Clarisa sat beside Chris in the back of a sleek black Mercedes, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Every now and then, she could feel his eyes on her.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No,” she lied. “Just tired.”

He reached for the blanket folded beside him and gently placed it over her knees. His touch was light, hesitant, like a man trying to remember how to be kind. But from what everyone had heard about Chris from the media, he was brutal.

She glanced at him, her chest tightening unexpectedly. The man beside her bore no resemblance to the ruthless CEO she had read about. There was no arrogance, no steel in his posture. He looked like a man drifting somewhere between the past he has lost and a future he didn’t recognize.

When the car turned onto the private road to the Vale estate, reality began to dawn on Clarisa, she was really doing this, following this Billionaire to his home.

The mansion appeared through the fog, a vast structure of glass and stone perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the endless sweep of the ocean. The sea below roared against the rocks, the sound deep and rhythmic.

Clarisa had seen wealth before in glimpses—pharmaceutical executives, old money heirs, but nothing like this. The estate stretched wide, with terraced gardens, statues glistening with rain, and iron gates that glided shut behind them.

Her first step inside the mansion stole her breath away. The entryway was three stories high, high ceiling, a large crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The marble floors shimmered like mirrors. Rare Paintings, massive, moody things lined the walls, and a faint scent of saltwater and lilies lingered in the air.

It was beautiful, but cold and colourless.

No warmth lived here; every inch of the place seemed too perfect, too silent.

A row of servants stood waiting, five maids, a butler, four guards and a housekeeper, all immaculate and motionless. Their faces were polite masks, their eyes curious.

Chris’s hand found hers as they stepped into the grand hall. “Everyone,” he said, his voice firm but uncertain, “this is Clarisa Thomas, my fiancée. She’ll be staying here.”

Clarisa blinked, her instinct screaming to protest, but his grip tightened, gentle but unyielding. The butler, a silver-haired man with kind eyes, bowed curtly. “Welcome home, sir. Welcome, Miss Thomas.”

“Clarisa,” she corrected automatically, anxiety washing over her.

“Of course, Miss Clarisa,” the man said with a faint smile.

Chris’s gaze swept over the servants. “Clarisa is in charge of the household until further notice. Whatever she says goes.”

The words sent a ripple through the air. The maids exchanged brief glances. Mr. Pierce, standing just behind them, coughed quietly, clearly uncomfortable.

“Sir, perhaps.........”

“Thank you, Pierce,” Chris interrupted softly, his tone final.

The assistant adjusted his tie. “Very well. I will have the necessary paperwork sent over.” He turned to Clarisa, his eyes narrowing slightly. “If you need anything, Miss Thomas, don’t hesitate to call. Anything at all.”

It was both an offer and a warning.

Clarisa nodded, feeling suddenly out of place.

******************

Dinner was served thirty minutes later on a long table that could seat twenty people, with only two plates set near the center. A glass wall overlooked the ocean; Clarisa could hear the sweeping sound of the waves, something she had always dreamed about: to retire and live by the ocean.

She glanced at Chris, he didn’t eat much. He watched her instead, every movement of her fork or glance toward the window drawing his quiet attention.

“You don’t have to sit with me,” she said softly, setting down her fork. “You should rest.” He smiled faintly. “I rest too much. I want to talk. Just… talk to you.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, then looked down at his hands. “I keep thinking maybe if we talk long enough, I will remember something real. You feel… familiar.”

Her heart twisted. “Head injuries can make the mind play tricks.”

“Maybe.” He looked up, eyes shadowed. “Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe I knew you before the crash.”

Clarisa’s pulse stuttered. “That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it?” His smile was small, tired. “You’re the only thing that makes sense right now. Everything else....... my name, my house, my company, it all feels like someone else’s life. But you…” He trailed off, his gaze softening. “You feel like home.”

The air between them changed, thickening with something unspoken. Clarisa forced herself to stand, her knees unsteady.

“You should sleep,” she whispered. “You will need your strength.”

He nodded slowly, eyes lingering on her face. “Will you stay?”

“I’ll check on you later.” That was the best answer she could offer.

That night, Clarisa couldn’t sleep. Her guest room was larger than her entire apartment back in the city - white silk sheets, a balcony overlooking the storm-lit ocean, art worth more than she would ever make in a lifetime. Yet she felt trapped, she felt unease.

The house seemed alive with the rush of the sea below. There was something eerie about this place and it made her edgy. The house though luxurious felt empty, sad.

She stood up from her bed and walked out of the guest room. She moved quietly through the hallway, barefooted on marble floor, the bright crystal bulbs flickered.

Halfway down the corridor, she paused. A door at the far end was slightly open, lights spilling through the small gap. It hadn’t been open earlier, she remember passing by it.

Curious, she approached carefully, every step echoing faintly. The air grew cooler near the door, carrying a scent, metallic, like rusted metal, she pushed the door open and stepped in.

Inside, the room was faintly lit. Shelves lined the walls, dozens of them, filled with files, ledgers, and framed photographs.

And in the center stood a single desk, its surface bare except for a photograph in a silver frame. Clarisa stepped closer, her breath catching as she saw the image: Chris standing Infront of Biotech, her late father's former company where he worked.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. A low sound behind her made her turn around.

Chris stood in the doorway, dressed in loose sweats, his expression unreadable.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said quietly.

Clarisa’s throat went dry. “What is this room?”

He stepped closer, the light catching the planes of his face. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “But every time I walk past it… I feel like I have done something terrible.”

The wind howled outside, rattling the glass.

Clarisa stared at him, the photograph trembling in her hands, and for the first time since the crash, she wondered if coming here had been a mistake.

Because the house on the cliff held more than memories, it held secrets. And she had just opened one.