Chapter 44: Masks and Shards
A few days had passed since Clara had been rescued from the stalker's clutches. On the surface, quiet had returned to the penthouse. Min-ho had deliberately given her space to recover from the shock of the abduction. But inside his own mind, an unyielding storm raged. The discovery on her laptop refused to leave him. Every word Lukas had slurred on that drunken night hammered in his brain: "She writes the best stories because she always writes about real life... like back then at university, when we swapped clothes in the suff. She looked so much better in my suit than I did in her dress."
The realization that Clara had been deceiving him the entire time sat heavily in his stomach. It was a bitter mixture of anger and deep disappointment. Who was he to her? A joke? An experiment? A new project for her next true story? He had to know the truth—and he wanted to satisfy his ego. He wanted her to admit it.
Clara felt the shift. Ever since she had returned to the penthouse, Min-ho had been acting strangely distant. The warmth between them had vanished. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She decided to confront him in his study.
"Min-ho? How are you?" she asked softly, stepping closer to his desk. "You've been so distant ever since the kidnapping. Is everything okay?"
Min-ho acted as if he were being pulled from his thoughts. "What? Oh, yes, of course. Everything's fine," he said, leaning back casually in his leather chair and shrugging. "Just a lot on my mind. You know, I've been thinking about your boss. Ariadne. At first, I wanted to contact her to let her know what happened to you... but then I thought you might not like that. And then I started wondering why she makes such a massive secret out of her identity. I mean, nobody knows her. No one has ever met her, right?"
"That's right," Clara answered, a faint spark of alertness igniting inside her. "But what are you getting at?"
Min-ho's lips curved into a nonchalant smile. "Well, why would someone hide away so pathologically? She's probably hideously ugly. Or she has some bizarre disability... who knows, maybe she has a third eye right in the middle of her forehead, and that's why she doesn't dare step into the spotlight. Eccentrics like that are just exhausting for marketing. I need a face I can sell, not some cellar witch who is probably old and bitter, using foul language to compensate for her frustrated, lonely life."
A sudden rage flared up within Clara. It was no longer a tremor of fear; it was the shaking of a volcano. Her honor as an author who had written every single line with her own blood and tears, and her pride as a woman, were being trampled upon at the same time.
"A third eye?!" she cried, her voice cutting through the silence of the room like a shard of glass. "Have you completely lost your mind, Min-ho?! Ariadne is a perfectly normal, attractive woman who simply values her privacy! It has nothing to do with ugliness—it's about integrity!"
Min-ho tilted his head mockingly, a cold, triumphant smile playing on his lips. He could feel he had her right where he wanted her. "That's what they all say. Those who hide always have something to conceal. Her real face probably just doesn't match the beautiful, clever words in her books. She's conceited and thinks the common people aren't worthy of looking at her. A cowardly liar who is afraid of reality."
"SHE IS NOT A WITCH, AND SHE IS NOT CONCEITED!" Clara practically screamed. The dam of her fury broke completely. "She only hides because she can't stand the superficiality of guys like you! Men who only care about looks, while they would miserably rot away in an elevator if there wasn't someone there to share the darkness with them and—!"
A sudden, deafening silence fell over the room.
The echo of her words hung in the air like a toxic trail. Clara stopped mid-sentence, pressing her hand firmly over her mouth. Her heart hammered so violently against her ribs she thought it would burst. Min-ho stared at her with wide eyes—the blow had landed. Terrified, Clara realized what she had just done. She had nearly given away the kiss, the panic attack, and their entire history together.
"Merde! Verdammt noch mal! Scheiße!" she cursed frantically in French and German, desperately brushing her hair out of her face as she gasped for air. "You... you are an arrogant, heartless idiot! I quit! I'm leaving! Go find yourself another cellar witch!"
She spun around, ready to walk away from everything, but Min-ho's voice locked her in place. It was no longer mocking or bored. It was demanding now, almost pleading. "So what is it then, Ji-soo? If it's not vanity, then what? Why are you lying to me?"
Clara froze. Her back was rigid, but her shoulders began to tremble slightly. As she slowly turned around, Min-ho no longer saw anger in her face. He saw pain. Real, raw, naked pain that ran so deep no makeup in the world could have hidden it.
"Do you really think this is just about PR strategies and pretty photos?" she asked, her voice cracking. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she could no longer hold them back; they streamed unchecked down her cheeks. "There are people, Min-ho, who have to erase their identity just to survive. I don't hide from cameras because I'm ugly or because I have a third eye. I'm hiding from a person who took everything from me. Someone who nearly destroyed me and is still looking for me! Ariadne only exists on paper so that I can be safe in reality! So that I can breathe without constantly looking over my shoulder!"
She stared at him, and for the first time, Min-ho saw the raw, unshielded terror in her gaze—the look of a hunted prey backed into a corner. Before he could utter a single word of apology or comfort, she spun around and bolted out of the penthouse.
The violent slam of the closing door vibrated through the air for seconds, causing the glass display cabinets to shudder.
Min-ho was left alone in the dim room. The triumphant superiority he had felt just minutes ago had collapsed like a house of cards in a hurricane. A deep, burning shame ignited in his chest. He had sacrificed her most precious possession—her only safe haven—for a stupid, psychological power game.
"So, no third eye..." he murmured softly, his voice trembling as he stared at the empty space in front of his desk where she had just been standing. "...but a damn real problem. God, what have I done?"