The sterile, chemical scent of the ICU was still burning the back of Clara Vance’s throat.

*Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeeeep.*

The sound of her own heart monitor flatlining echoed in her skull, a deafening siren that heralded the end of a pathetic, wasted life. In those final, agonizing moments, her lungs had refused to draw air, her vision tunneling into darkness. But even over the rushing sound of her own death, she had heard him.

Julian Thorne. The man she had loved, the man she had bled for, standing over her hospital bed with a clipboard in his hand and a callous smile on his lips.

*"Don't worry about the press conference, darling,"* his voice had slithered through the cold room. *"I'll make sure everyone knows Serena designed the Skyline. You were just the draftswoman. You’d want her to be happy, wouldn't you?"*

Clara gasped, her eyes snapping open as she violently inhaled a lungful of air.

There was no hospital bed. There were no IV tubes piercing the bruised skin of her arms. The suffocating scent of antiseptic was gone, replaced by the rich aroma of freshly brewed espresso and the expensive, sandalwood cologne that always made her stomach flutter.

Or, rather, the cologne that *used* to make her stomach flutter. Now, it just made her want to vomit.

"Clara! Are you even listening to me? For God's sake, stop staring at the wall like an idiot."

Clara blinked against the harsh, morning sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her private architectural studio at Thorne Enterprises. She looked down at her hands. They were unblemished, free of the dark, purple needle marks of her final days. She flexed her fingers, feeling the familiar calluses from years of gripping drafting pens.

Her gaze darted to the digital calendar glowing on her sleek desk monitor.

*May 14th.*

Three months before the wedding. Three months before the aneurysm that would rupture in her brain after working ninety straight hours to finalize the Skyline project. Three months before Julian would watch her die and hand her life’s masterpiece to his mistress.

She wasn't dead. She was reborn.

"Clara!" Julian Thorne snapped his fingers an inch from her nose, his handsome face twisted into an ugly sneer of impatience. He was dressed impeccably in a bespoke navy suit, his dark hair perfectly styled. To the rest of the city, he was the charming, billionaire heir to Thorne Enterprises. To Clara, in this moment of pure, crystalline clarity, he was nothing but a parasite.

"I asked you a question," Julian demanded, leaning over her drafting table and carelessly planting his hand on a stack of preliminary sketches. "Where is the master drive for the Skyline blueprints? I told Serena she could pick them up before noon so she has time to review them before the board meeting."

Clara slowly sat back in her ergonomic chair. The sheer audacity of the demand, exactly as it had happened in her past life, washed over her. In the past, she had argued, cried, and eventually surrendered the files, desperate to keep the peace and secure his love. She had believed his lies that it was just a temporary PR move.

She looked at him now, really looked at him, and felt nothing but a glacial, absolute contempt.

"No," Clara said. Her voice was quiet, steady, and entirely devoid of the warmth she usually reserved for him.

Julian blinked, his hand pausing on her desk. He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Excuse me? What did you just say?"

"I said no, Julian," Clara repeated, her tone hardening. She stood up, smoothing the wrinkles from her tailored pencil skirt. "Serena Blake is not getting my blueprints. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."

The amusement vanished from Julian’s face, replaced by the entitled fury of a man who was rarely told no. "Clara, we’ve already discussed this. The board is hesitant about Serena’s role in the company. She needs a massive win to legitimize her position as Creative Director. The Skyline project is guaranteed to win the city's apex bid."

"Yes, it is guaranteed to win," Clara agreed smoothly, walking around her desk to face him. "Because *I* designed it. I spent the last eight months working eighty-hour weeks. I calculated the tensile strength, I designed the cantilevered terraces, I perfected the wind-resistance models while you were out at charity galas and Serena was getting her nails done. It is my masterpiece. Not hers."

"Don't be so dramatic," Julian scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "You're acting like I'm asking you to cut off an arm. You work for Thorne Enterprises. Everything you design belongs to the company, and as the future CEO, I am assigning the credit to Serena. You’ll still get your salary, Clara. Don't be greedy."

"Greedy?" Clara laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed off the glass walls of her studio. "I am the Lead Architect. I am the only reason Thorne Enterprises hasn't gone bankrupt under your father's outdated management. Serena Blake couldn't draft a doghouse without it collapsing under its own weight. She is a fraud, Julian, and you want to use my blood, sweat, and tears to build her a throne."

Julian’s jaw tightened. He took a menacing step toward her, using his height to try and intimidate her. It was a tactic that used to make Clara shrink into herself. Today, she didn't even flinch. She met his glare with eyes as cold as absolute zero.

"Watch your mouth, Clara," Julian warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Serena is my childhood friend. She is my muse. She has a vision that you, with all your technical, boring little numbers, simply lack. You are a workhorse. She is a star. You should be honored to help her shine."

"A muse?" Clara tilted her head, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "Is that what we're calling it now? Tell me, Julian, does your 'muse' know the difference between a load-bearing column and a decorative pillar? Because if you submit my designs under her name and the apex bid judges ask her a single technical question, she is going to freeze on that stage and embarrass this entire company."

"She won't, because you are going to write her a script and coach her," Julian fired back, jabbing a finger toward Clara's chest. "You are going to hand over the drive, you are going to write down every single detail she needs to know, and you are going to smile while she takes the stage. That is your job as my fiancée. Your success is my success, and right now, my success requires Serena to be at the top."

Clara looked at the man she had once prepared to spend the rest of her life with. She saw the deep-seated insecurity masking his lack of talent, the extreme arrogance that allowed him to use her so callously. He truly believed he owned her. He believed her devotion was a bottomless well he could draw from until she was dry and dead.

"My job as your fiancée," Clara murmured, testing the words on her tongue. "You think putting a ring on my finger gave you the right to strip-mine my intellect?"

"I think putting a ring on your finger elevated you from a nobody to the future Mrs. Thorne," Julian sneered, his true colors bleeding through the charming facade. "Do you have any idea how many women in this city would kill to be in your position? How many women would gladly hand over a few stupid blueprints to secure a billion-dollar marriage?"

"Then go marry one of them," Clara said effortlessly.

Julian froze. "What?"

"You heard me," Clara said, her voice ringing with absolute authority. "If you want a silent, obedient ghostwriter for your talentless mistress, go find one. But you are not taking the Skyline. The copyright is legally filed under my personal LLC, a little loophole your father agreed to when he begged me to stay three years ago. Thorne Enterprises only has the rights to the design if I remain the Lead Architect."

Julian’s face went pale, then flushed a violent, ugly red. "You wouldn't dare. You're bluffing."

"Try me," Clara challenged, crossing her arms over her chest. "Take the blueprints. I'll walk out that door, call a press conference, and announce to the entire architectural community that Thorne Enterprises is committing corporate plagiarism. Let’s see how the apex bid judges feel about your 'muse' then."

"You arrogant bitch," Julian hissed, losing the last shreds of his composure. He slammed his fist onto her drafting table, rattling the pen cups. "You think you can threaten me? You think you're indispensable? You are nothing without the Thorne name backing you!"

"I *am* the Thorne name right now," Clara shot back, her voice like a whip crack. "Without my designs, your stock plummets by Friday."

Julian glared at her, his chest heaving. He was panicking, trying to find a lever to pull, a way to force her back into the neat, obedient little box she had lived in for the past five years. He reached for the ultimate weapon, the one he always used when she showed the slightest hint of independence.

He straightened his suit jacket, pasting on a cold, indifferent mask. "Fine. You want to play hardball? Here is the reality, Clara. You give Serena the blueprints by noon, or I am calling the wedding planner and canceling the entire event."

He waited for the tears. He waited for her breath to hitch, for her to apologize, for her to crumble at the thought of losing him.

Instead, Clara smiled. It was a terrifying, brilliant smile that reached her eyes and illuminated the sheer, unadulterated relief flooding her soul.

She calmly reached over to her desk, picked up her half-finished cup of morning coffee, and brought it to the center of the table. Slowly, deliberately, she slid the massive, three-carat diamond engagement ring off her left hand.

Julian’s eyes widened in shock. "Clara, what are you doing?"

Clara held the ring over the dark, lukewarm liquid. "You want to cancel the wedding to appease your mistress, Julian?"

She opened her fingers. The heavy diamond hit the coffee with a dull *plop*, sinking instantly to the bottom of the ceramic mug.

Clara looked him dead in the eye, her voice practically purring with satisfaction. "Consider it canceled."

Clara didn’t wait for Julian to recover from his shock. As he stood there, mouth agape and staring at the coffee mug like it contained a live grenade, she turned on her heel and walked out of her studio.

The heavy glass door swung shut behind her with a satisfying click.

Her heart wasn't breaking. Her hands weren't shaking. Instead, a fiery, intoxicating energy surged through her veins. For the first time in five years, she could breathe.

But the victory was only half-won. Calling off the wedding was merely the first step. If she was going to burn Thorne Enterprises to the ground and build her own empire from the ashes, she needed her master hard drives. The physical backups of the Skyline project—and every other major design she had created—were locked in the biometric safe inside Julian’s private executive suite down the hall.

In her past life, Julian had used those backups to force her compliance, holding her previous work hostage. Not this time.

Clara moved down the opulent, marble-floored hallway of the 40th floor. She traced her fingers lightly along the sleek, modern walls she had personally designed. The aesthetic flow, the recessed lighting, the seamless integration of glass and steel—it was all her brilliance, branded with the Thorne logo.

She reached the heavy mahogany double doors of the CEO suite. Usually, Julian’s fiercely loyal secretary would be sitting at the reception desk, but it was 11:00 AM. Clara knew the woman always took her lunch break early on Tuesdays.

The outer office was empty. The door to Julian’s inner sanctum was left slightly ajar, a careless mistake typical of a man who believed the world revolved around him.

Clara stepped quietly onto the plush, imported rug, reaching out to push the door open.

"Julian, are you sure she’s actually going to do it?"

Clara froze. Her hand hovered inches from the wood. It was a woman’s voice—high-pitched, breathy, and dripping with an artificial sweetness that made Clara’s teeth ache.

Serena Blake.

Clara pressed herself against the wall beside the crack in the door, listening intently.

"Of course she will, babe," Julian’s voice drifted out, sounding remarkably recovered from the dressing down Clara had just given him moments ago. He had evidently taken a shortcut through the executive elevator to beat her here. "Clara is a dog. She’ll bark and bare her teeth, but at the end of the day, she’ll do whatever I say if I throw her a bone. She’s too desperate to marry me to actually walk away."

"I don't know," Serena whined, the sound accompanied by the rustle of clothing. "She looked pretty mad yesterday when I said her foyer design was boring. I just don't want her ruining my moment at the apex bid. I’ve already picked out my dress for the gala."

"She won't ruin anything," Julian murmured smoothly, his voice dropping into a seductive register. "She’s throwing a little temper tantrum right now, playing hard to get with her ring. But she’ll be back in my office by the end of the day, crying and begging for forgiveness. She always caves. Until then, we have the master files right here in the safe. We don't even need her permission."

"You're so smart, Julian," Serena giggled, a sickeningly sweet sound. "Her design under my name is going to make us the king and queen of this city. We won't ever have to pretend to care about her stupid, boring technical lectures again."

"Exactly. Now, come here. Let me show my Creative Director how much I appreciate her vision."

The sound of wet, heavy kissing echoed through the quiet office, followed by a soft moan from Serena and the unmistakable thud of two bodies hitting the leather sofa.

In her past life, Clara would have collapsed right there in the hallway. She would have clamped her hands over her mouth, tears streaming down her face, her heart shattered into a million irreparable pieces. She would have run away, convinced she wasn't good enough, pretty enough, or talented enough to keep him.

Now? Clara just felt a profound sense of boredom.

They were so predictable. So utterly, pathetically cliché.

She looked down the hallway. Mounted neatly on the wall, housed in a pristine glass cabinet she had mandated for fire code compliance, was a bright red, industrial-sized fire extinguisher.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Clara's face.

She walked over to the cabinet, unlatched the glass door, and lifted the heavy metal cylinder. It was cold and solid in her hands. She checked the pressure gauge—perfectly full—and pulled the metal safety pin out with a sharp *shink*.

Carrying the extinguisher like a weapon, Clara marched back to the mahogany doors. She didn't bother pushing it open with her hands.

She raised her leg and kicked the door open with the flat of her heel.

*BANG!*

The heavy door slammed against the interior wall, shaking the framed architectural awards that Clara had won, which Julian displayed under his own name.

On the imported, custom-made Italian leather sofa, the two lovers leaped apart like they had been struck by lightning.

It was an objectively hilarious sight. Julian’s bespoke trousers were bunched around his ankles, his silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest. Serena was straddling him, completely topless, her designer skirt hiked up to her waist. Her perfectly blown-out hair was a tangled mess.

"What the hell!" Julian roared, scrambling backward and nearly falling off the sofa as he tried to pull his pants up.

Serena shrieked, a high, piercing sound, and crossed her arms over her bare chest, frantically looking around for her discarded blouse. "Clara! Are you crazy?! Get out of here!"

Clara stood in the doorway, her posture relaxed, the heavy fire extinguisher resting easily against her hip. She looked at them with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a pair of particularly ugly insects.

She slowly raised her free hand and began a slow, mocking clap.

*Clap. Clap. Clap.*

"Bravo," Clara said, her voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "A truly masterful performance. I see the Creative Director is already hard at work on her knees. Is that how you plan to win over the apex bid judges, Serena? It’s a bold strategy, I’ll admit. Not very structurally sound, but definitely eye-catching."

Julian’s face went from pale shock to a furious, embarrassed red. "Clara, put that down and get out of my office! Have you lost your damn mind?!"

"Oh, I think I’ve finally found it," Clara replied, stepping casually into the room. She kicked the door shut behind her with her heel.

Serena scrambled off the sofa, grabbing a decorative throw pillow to cover her chest. "Julian, do something! She’s a psycho! I told you she was obsessed with you!"

"Obsessed?" Clara laughed, a bright, genuinely amused sound. "Serena, darling, the only thing I’m obsessed with is my intellectual property. You two can have each other. Truly. A narcissistic fraud and a talentless gold-digger. It's a match made in corporate heaven."

"Shut up!" Julian yelled, finally managing to buckle his belt. He took a threatening step toward Clara, his fists clenched. "You arrogant bitch. You think you can barge in here, insult us, and just walk away? You’re done, Clara. You’re fired. I’ll make sure you never work in this city again!"

"Oh, Julian," Clara sighed, shaking her head in mock pity. "You really shouldn't make threats when your pants are barely zipped. It ruins the intimidation factor."

Julian lunged toward her. "Give me that—"

Clara didn’t flinch. She simply raised the nozzle of the fire extinguisher, pointed it directly at Julian’s chest, and squeezed the handle.

*FWOOSH!*

A massive, pressurized cloud of freezing, thick chemical foam exploded from the nozzle. It hit Julian squarely in the chest, the kinetic force physically knocking him backward onto the floor.

"Aaaaaagh!" Julian screamed, thrashing on the carpet as the freezing, suffocating foam covered his face, his hair, and his expensive silk shirt. It expanded instantly, a blinding, choking white cloud of dry chemicals.

"Julian!" Serena shrieked, dropping her pillow in panic.

Clara turned the nozzle toward the mistress.

"Don't you dare—!" Serena started, holding up her hands.

Clara squeezed the handle again.

*FWOOSH!*

Serena took a full blast to the face. The chemical foam coated her meticulously styled hair, filled her screaming mouth, and covered her bare chest in a thick, frosty layer of white sludge. She slipped on the foam-covered floor and went down hard, landing right on top of a thrashing Julian.

Clara released the handle, the roar of the extinguisher dying down to a quiet hiss.

The pristine executive office was a disaster zone. A thick layer of white chemical powder coated the mahogany desk, the imported rug, and the Italian leather sofa. In the center of the room, Julian and Serena were a tangled, sputtering mess of limbs, coughing violently and wiping the stinging foam from their eyes.

"My eyes! It burns!" Serena wailed, rolling on the floor in her ruined skirt.

"You crazy bitch!" Julian choked out, spitting foam onto the carpet. "I'll kill you! I'll call the police!"

"Call them," Clara said coolly, setting the empty fire extinguisher down on a foam-covered side table. "Tell them your Lead Architect caught you having intercourse in a corporate office and had an accidental discharge of safety equipment. I’m sure the shareholders will love reading that police report."

Ignoring their pathetic coughing and swearing, Clara walked calmly around the flailing couple and approached the biometric safe hidden behind a painting of the city skyline—a painting she had bought for him.

She punched in her master override code. The light blinked green, and the heavy steel door clicked open.

Inside sat a row of sleek, silver hard drives. The sum total of five years of her genius. The Skyline blueprints. The commercial zoning drafts. The residential high-rise concepts. Her entire portfolio.

Clara swept all of them into her leather tote bag.

"What are you doing?" Julian coughed, squinting through the white powder as he tried to push himself up on his elbows. "Those belong to Thorne Enterprises!"

"Wrong again, Julian," Clara said, zipping her bag shut and slinging it over her shoulder. She looked down at him, covered in chemicals and groveling on the floor. It was exactly where he belonged.

"They belong to me," Clara said softly, her voice echoing with finality. "Enjoy the mess. I hear chemical foam is hell on Italian leather."

Without a backward glance, Clara stepped over his legs, walked out of the ruined office, and headed for the elevator, her heels clicking a victorious rhythm on the marble floor.

The drafting floor of Thorne Enterprises was a sprawling, open-concept space illuminated by modern, geometric chandeliers—a lighting fixture Clara had custom-designed to reduce eye strain for her team. For five years, this room had been her sanctuary, her prison, and ultimately, her graveyard.

As she pushed through the frosted glass doors, the familiar hum of computers and low chatter washed over her. She didn’t pause to take in the nostalgia. She marched straight to her corner office, grabbed three flattened cardboard banker boxes from the supply closet, and began snapping them into shape.

"Clara?"

She glanced up. David, one of her brightest junior draftsmen, was standing in her doorway, a roll of tracing paper in his hand. He looked confused.

"Is everything alright? We have the review for the commercial zoning project at two," David said, stepping tentatively into the room.

"Cancel it," Clara said smoothly, opening her desk drawer and tossing her collection of custom drafting pens into the first box. "Or better yet, ask Julian to run it. I’m sure his deep, profound understanding of structural engineering will be a massive help."

David blinked. "Mr. Thorne? But he doesn't know how to read the load-bearing schematics. He always delegates that to you."

"Not anymore," Clara replied, sweeping her reference books into the box. "I’m leaving, David. I’m resigning, effective immediately."

Before David could process the shock, the heavy double doors at the far end of the drafting floor flew open with a violent crash.

"Clara!"

The entire floor went dead silent. Fifty heads snapped up from their monitors.

Julian Thorne stood in the doorway, panting heavily. His custom-tailored Italian suit was ruined, plastered to his body with thick, dripping white chemical foam. Splotches of the fire retardant clung to his perfectly styled hair, making him look like a deranged, melted snowman. His face beneath the foam was a vibrant, furious crimson.

"Stop what you are doing right now!" Julian roared, marching down the center aisle. The wet squelch of his foam-soaked leather shoes echoed through the silent room.

Clara didn’t even pause. She unhooked her framed architectural licenses from the wall and placed them neatly into the second box.

"Someone call security!" Julian bellowed, pointing a trembling, white-coated finger at her. "Don't let her take anything! Those files belong to Thorne Enterprises!"

Murmurs erupted across the floor. David backed away, his eyes darting between Clara’s calm demeanor and Julian’s unhinged state.

"Julian, keep your voice down," Clara said, her tone as placid as a frozen lake. "You’re dripping toxic chemicals onto the hardwood. The janitorial staff is already underpaid; they don't need this."

"You are having a psychotic break!" Julian shouted, finally reaching her office. He slammed his hands down on her desk, scattering a stack of sticky notes. "You think you can just walk out? After everything I’ve done for you? I made you, Clara! You were a nobody before I gave you the title of Lead Architect!"

Clara paused. Her hands hovered over her keyboard.

In her past life, those words would have wounded her. She would have internalized the guilt, believed that her genius was somehow a byproduct of his magnanimity. She would have stayed late, worked herself into a literal early grave, just to prove she was worthy of his scraps of affection.

But looking at him now—a pathetic, entitled boy playing dress-up in his father's company—she felt absolutely nothing.

"You made me?" Clara laughed, a sharp, crystalline sound that cut through the tension in the room. "Julian, you can't even make a cup of coffee without asking your assistant for the instructions. I built this department. I designed every single award-winning structure this firm has erected in the last five years. You just slapped your name on the plaques."

"You signed a non-compete!" Julian snarled, his eyes wide with desperate rage. "You signed an NDA! If you walk out that door with those hard drives, I will sue you into oblivion! You will never work in architecture again!"

Two bulky security guards, Mike and Greg, hurried onto the floor, their walkie-talkies buzzing. They stopped short when they saw Julian covered in foam, looking to him for orders.

"Confiscate her bags!" Julian ordered, stepping back and gesturing wildly at Clara. "Grab the hard drives! She’s trying to steal corporate property!"

Greg took a step forward, reaching out a meaty hand toward Clara’s leather tote.

"Greg, I suggest you think very carefully about your next move," Clara said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. She didn't flinch. She simply stared the guard dead in the eyes. "If you lay a single finger on my personal property, or on my person, I will have my lawyers file a civil suit for assault, battery, and illegal seizure before you clock out today. I know exactly what your pension looks like. Do you really want to lose it for a man who won't even validate your parking?"

Greg froze, his hand hovering in mid-air. He looked at Julian, then back at Clara, and slowly lowered his arm, taking a distinct step backward.

"What are you doing?!" Julian shrieked at the guards. "I pay your salaries!"

"Actually," Clara projected her voice, addressing the entire drafting floor, "he barely pays anyone’s salaries. Legally, anyway."

Julian’s face went pale under the foam. "Clara, shut your mouth."

"You want to talk about legally binding contracts, Julian?" Clara stepped around her desk, walking right up to him. She didn't care about the foam; she wanted him to see the utter ruthlessness in her eyes. "Let's talk about the Fair Labor Standards Act. Let’s talk about Section Seven."

She turned to the sea of wide-eyed architects and draftsmen.

"How many of you have worked more than forty hours a week in the last six months?" Clara asked loudly. Every single person in the room exchanged glances. Slowly, hesitantly, hands began to raise.

"And how many of you were told by Julian that your 'salaried exempt' status meant you didn't qualify for overtime, despite the fact that your specific job duties under state law classify you as non-exempt?"

More gasps. Whispers rippled through the cubicles.

"Clara, I am warning you—" Julian hissed, stepping toward her.

"I have the ledgers, Julian," Clara interrupted, her voice slicing through his threat like a scalpel. "I kept track of every single unpaid hour this department was forced to work. I know about the 'bonus structures' that magically disappeared into the executive retreat budget. I know about the safety shortcuts you ordered on the Riverfront project to save a few pennies on materials."

She turned her gaze back to the staff, her expression softening just a fraction for the people who had bled for this company alongside her.

"If I were you," Clara said clearly, "I would start backing up your personal portfolios and updating your resumes. Thorne Enterprises is a sinking ship, and the captain is currently standing in a puddle of his own mess."

David, standing near the doorway, quietly folded his tracing paper and walked back to his desk, immediately opening his computer to copy his files. A domino effect swept the room as dozens of employees turned back to their screens, ignoring Julian entirely.

"You're destroying my company!" Julian choked out, his voice cracking with a mixture of humiliation and fury.

"No, Julian," Clara said, picking up her heavy leather tote and her single box of personal items. "I’m just taking away the pillars. You’re the one who built the roof out of glass."

She walked past him, her heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood. The security guards parted like the Red Sea to let her through. Julian stood frozen in the center of the drafting floor, entirely impotent, humiliated in front of his entire staff.

Clara pushed through the double doors and walked briskly down the corridor to the executive elevators. She hit the down button, her heart beating in a steady, victorious rhythm. She had done it. She had severed the chains that had dragged her to the bottom of the ocean in her past life.

The polished steel doors slid open. Clara stepped inside, turning around to face the corridor as the doors began to close.

Just before they shut, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was a text from Julian.

*You think you've won? You are nothing. I will make sure you are blacklisted in this city. No one will ever hire you.*

Clara stared at the glowing words. A slow, chilling smirk spread across her lips. He really was delusional. He thought he controlled the board, completely unaware that Clara had just flipped the table.

She didn't bother typing a reply. Instead, she opened her contacts, scrolled down to a number she had memorized from a rival firm's business card years ago, and pressed dial.

As Clara gets into the elevator, she receives a text from Julian: 'You'll be blacklisted in this city.' Clara immediately dials the number of Victor Sterling, his greatest rival.