Chapter 20: Why Not Hide in the Prince's Bed?

"Are you doing extra practice today?"

Julian looked at Clara as she stepped out of the car. "Remember to call me; I'll come pick you up."

Clara nodded with a smile. Watching her silhouette disappear through the gates, Julian frowned and started the engine.

He couldn't shake the feeling that ever since they returned from the Vance estate yesterday, his sister had been acting a bit strange.

Inside the studio.

As Clara traced circles on her tiptoes before the mirror, the morning dew rolled from rose petals onto the rehearsal hall's windowsill.

Her pure white gauze skirt swept across the wooden floor. She adjusted the silk ribbon at her neck in the mirror, pinching the bow into a perfectly obedient curve—just like what Alistair loved to call her: a little white flower dappled with morning dew.

"Miss Clara’s flower basket has arrived!"

The stagehand's shout startled her, causing her hairpin to fall.

The moment her dark hair cascaded down to her waist, the mirror reflected a waterfall of 999 white roses. On the ribbon, gold-stamped calligraphy danced across the fabric:

“To the Little Swan.”

She knelt to sniff the petals, her skirt blooming on the floor like a snow lotus as her fingertips gently brushed the tender stamens.

On the night of the performance, Clara applied the lightest touch of peach-colored eyeshadow and pinned pearl ornaments into her updo.

While waiting in the wings, she lowered her head to straighten her snowy gauze skirt, the way her hair fell by her ear exuding total innocence.

It wasn't until the spotlight flared to life that a shimmering, watery light suddenly rose in her eyes.

When Alistair entered the theater, he caught sight of the girl stretching her neck within the pillar of light.

As she spun, her pearl earrings grazed her collarbone, and the ripples of her skirt swept past the front row of seats.

The man loosened his tie, the scab on his Adam's apple glinting with a bloody light in the shadows. His crossed-legged posture was the image of a black panther before a hunt.

Clara’s toes tapped to the notes of the music, but at the moment she lifted her leg, she intentionally let her shoulder strap slip.

The snowy gauze slid half an inch down her glowing shoulder, only to be caught in a panicked grasp just before exposing too much.

A chorus of suppressed gasps came from the audience, save for Alistair, who let out a scoffing chuckle as he flicked his lighter.

When she shed the outer gauze during her thirty-two fouetté turns, the man suddenly raised a hand wrapped in bandages.

Fresh blood seeped through the white gauze in the shape of red plum blossoms, swaying into ambiguous shadows with the rhythm of his applause.

Clara missed a beat. As she spun, her pearl hairclip suddenly snapped off, and her hair swept like a waterfall across the startled faces of the front-row audience.

"I’m sorry..."

She knelt at the edge of the stage to reach for it, her pearl necklace drooping perfectly over her chest.

Alistair leaned forward, his collar slightly open, the bandages at his collarbone brushing against her trembling fingertips. "So eager to throw yourself at me?"

Amidst the laughter from the crowd, Clara’s face flushed as she recoiled.

The music of the final act reached a frantic tempo. Clara ripped her skirt open mid-spin.

Snowy gauze flew like falling blossoms, revealing a garter belt encrusted with diamond fragments.

Her posture as she fell back under the spotlight looked like a sacrificial offering, yet when her eyes met Alistair’s burning gaze, she suddenly tossed a rose stained with her lip print toward the audience.

The man reached out to catch the stem. Amidst the thundering applause, he bit into the thorny stalk, his tongue curling over the peach-flavored lipstick she had left on the petals.

"Miss Clara’s performance was truly... unforgettable."

The champagne at the after-party had just been uncorked when Alistair was already leaning against the dressing room doorframe.

He ripped off his blood-stained tie, his wound glowing an eerie red under the warm lights. "Even more tempting to tear apart than a White Swan."

Clara was facing the mirror, removing her pearl earrings. Hearing this, she turned around timidly. "What is Mr. Vance talking about?"

Her knuckles were white as she gripped a cotton pad, her lashes trembling like a startled butterfly. "I... I’ll go find my brother."

When her wrist was seized by a grip like an iron clamp, she fell perfectly onto the vanity.

Lipsticks rolled across the floor. Alistair’s arm, propped beside her, was thick with tensed muscle. A fresh drop of blood fell into the hollow of her collarbone. "Haven't played enough of this 'good girl' act?"

"I don't understand..." Clara turned her head to avoid his breath, but the back of her neck remained exposed to his burning gaze.

When his thumb, calloused from firearms, pressed against that pale pink birthmark, she suddenly let out a kitten-like whimper. "It hurts..."

Alistair’s cold laugh made his chest rumble.

He pulled open his shirt to reveal his powerful abdomen, the unhealed gunshot wound rising and falling with his breath. "This is what pain feels like."

He suddenly seized her hand and pressed it against the wound, leaning in as she let out a panicked gasp. "Want to try rubbing some salt in here?"

When Julian’s footsteps echoed from outside the door, Clara took the momentum to push Alistair away.

"Clara, why haven't you come out yet? Everyone is waiting."

Alistair slowly began buttoning his shirt, his gaze sweeping over the girl’s eyes as she peeked through her fingers.

The moment she was helped up, he used a blood-stained finger to brush against the corner of her lips. "The tears of a little white flower..."

A low, raspy chuckle burned her ear. "Are actually sweet."

With that, Alistair turned and walked out. Clara finally breathed a sigh of relief.

She had almost thought Alistair had discovered her true identity; otherwise, why would he use words like "act"?

But based on the situation just now, the bastard was likely talking about what happened in bed.

Clara cursed him as "indecent" in her heart, but she quickly steadied her expression and walked out with Julian.

After the banquet began, Clara set down her glass and whispered to Julian, "Julian, it's too stuffy in here. I’m going out for some air."

"Alright. I'll take you home in a bit."

With that, Julian walked off with a smile to greet the others.

The moonlight was like shattered silver covering the wrought-iron balcony. Clara leaned against the railing, swirling her champagne glass. The lip print on the crystal rim was pointed directly toward the banquet hall.

When the scent of Alistair’s cigar wafted over, she intentionally turned her earring three times—the sapphire pendant was the exact one he had shoved into her vanity.

"The little thief who stole the moon."

Alistair’s silver lighter brushed past the back of her neck, the flame casting dancing shadows through the cutouts of her gauze dress.

He held a diamond necklace between his fingers, the icy chain suddenly pressing against her collarbone. "Time for the spoils of war to return to their rightful owner."

As Clara turned her head, her hair became entangled in the gears of his watch. The rose gold watch face reflected their intertwined shadows. "Can Mr. Vance distinguish between stealing and finding?"

She suddenly seized the necklace and yanked it downward. The man stumbled half a step forward, his unhealed wound colliding with her shoulder blade.

A muffled grunt mixed with the popping of champagne bubbles by her ear.

Alistair took the opportunity to trap her between the railing and his chest. The ash from his cigar fell perfectly into her glass. "I can distinguish it now."

He crushed a stray piece of tobacco that had drifted onto her shoulder. "A heart-thief should be sentenced to life."

Celebratory fireworks suddenly exploded below. In the intense light, Clara saw the bloodshot veins in his irises.

Her fingertips, as if possessed, brushed against the scarred gunshot wound. "Why not sentence me to the victim instead..."

The end of her sentence was swallowed. Alistair’s thumb pressed against her lower lip, the scent of tobacco drifting into her mouth with his breath. "As what? A pet? Or..."

As the second wave of fireworks ascended, his lips—stained with wine—grazed her earlobe. "A trophy?"

Clara’s heel stepped precisely onto his leather shoe, but the moment she applied pressure, she was lifted by her waist.

In that weightless sensation of being suspended, the sapphire pendant slid into his open collar, pressing against the bullet scar over his heart. It felt slightly hot.

"Shh." Alistair suddenly chuckled against her carotid artery. "Listen—"

The distant clock tower chimed twelve times. His finger, calloused from guns, stroked the thin gauze at her lower back. "Cinderella’s magic is about to expire. Why not hide in the Prince's bed?"

Clara laughed, but her fingers pressed against his shoulder, pushing him a little further away.

"I am the little princess of the Jian family. If I am to be anything, I will only be the Queen."

Alistair let out a laugh, his fingers toying with the diamonds on her garter belt.

"Fine. I will let you have your wish."

"But for now, shouldn't you let me collect some interest first?"