He Broke My Heart, My Family Broke His Empire Chapter 03

He Broke My Heart, My Family Broke His Empire Chapter 03

After sending the message, a strange sense of calm washed over me. Five years of obsession felt as if they’d been bundled up and shipped away with that single tap.

The living room was still buzzing with noise as Julian’s friends celebrated another of his “victories.” On autopilot, I walked into the kitchen and took the hangover pills from the cabinet. The last pull of a dying habit, I supposed. For five years, I’d always had them ready when he drank too much.

I walked toward the study, where he usually held private conversations with his inner circle.

The door was ajar.

Through the crack, I saw Julian sunk into a velvet armchair, surrounded by several of his Harvard friends, all of them wearing knowing smiles.

One of them raised his glass. “Julian, seriously, aren’t you afraid Clara will find out you’ve been playing her all this time? This whole song and dance every year… it’s exhausting just watching it.”

My hand froze on the doorknob.

Julian took a drag from his cigar, the smoke blurring his arrogant features.

“A Texas filly takes time to break, doesn’t she?” He smiled carelessly. “Even if she finds out, what’s she going to do? An Hermès bag and a few sweet nothings, and she’ll calm down.”

The fireplace blazed, but a chill crept up from the soles of my feet. All my efforts to learn Boston etiquette, just to earn a single word of his approval… I was a complete joke.

Another voice chimed in, more cautious.

“She might be easy to handle, but what about the Calloways? I hear her brother is a real piece of work.”

Julian’s smile faltered for a second before twisting into something even more contemptuous.

“Texas is a long way from Boston. How much noise can oil and cattle money really make in the financial world here?”

I had crossed half the country to be with him.

Now, that same distance was the reason he looked down on me and my family.

I let go of the doorknob, disgusted with my eighteen-year-old self and her reckless devotion.

I was about to turn away when the study door was yanked open from the inside.

This year’s chosen woman, the gallery assistant Felicity, stood there holding two glasses of whiskey, a cloying, victorious smile on her face.

“Clara? What are you doing out here? Come on in.”

Before I could refuse, she shoved me hard into the room.

I stumbled, nearly falling. The bottle of hangover pills slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor, spilling white tablets across the rug.

Felicity pretended not to notice. She walked straight to Julian and settled into his lap, her voice dripping with faux coyness.

“Clara really knows how to take care of you, Julian. Look, she even brought you hangover pills. Not like me. I always figured an Ashworth man could hold his liquor.”

Julian clearly enjoyed that. Pride swelled in his expression as he reached down, intending to pick up one of the pills.

I stared coldly at his long, elegant fingers. Then I walked past him, bent down, and picked up the scattered pills one by one, tossing every last one into the trash.

“If you can hold your liquor so well,” I said, straightening up, “then you don’t need these.” My voice was quiet, but it silenced the room.

Julian’s hand froze in midair. The smile vanished from his face.

The next second, as if to punish my defiance, he snatched his hand back and shoved it into the low neckline of Felicity’s dress.

He looked at me, the corner of his mouth curling into a cruel smirk.

“Baby’s right. I can hold my liquor. I don’t need some Texas hick sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”