(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

Rosewood Hall was not the idle circus most would picture. Media kingmakers, computer moguls, and political operatives were reclining on comfortable couches, beautiful young women nearby, pouring them wine and cutting them fruit. Adrian was sitting at the center of a low table, idly riffle-shuffling a deck of specially printed Blackwood Corporation playing cards and accepting a slice of mango from the beautiful model who sat next to him.

Mr. Blackwood, I have a persistent rumor that a lovely lady sought you out earlier this evening," Harold Sutton (Will), CEO of Redwood Properties, asked, his face a picture of strained pleasantness. "Who would be so brazen as to interrupt a discussion with the Grand Prix Association?"

Adrian's fingers stopped on the card. He turned to the man. "Who do you suppose, Mr. Sutton?

“I’m just curious! Was it your… former wife?”

The air instantly froze. Martin (Charles Whitman) and Daniel (Victor Cross), Adrian’s closest lieutenants, who were playing games nearby, instantly paled. They knew Adrian's glacial silence meant the man had struck a nerve.

Martin moved in fast, slapping a big, professional grin on his face. "Mr. Sutton, I heard you praising a lovely dancer! Why don't you let her come out and give the room a badly needed lift?

Harold Sutton, realizing his catastrophic gaffe, quickly changed the topic. “Right, right! She’ll be here shortly! I’m paying a small fortune for this exclusive performance!” He dialed the in-house phone. “Where is Jasmine Clarke? Get her on stage!”

The room regained its noisy vitality. Only Adrian remained cold, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, unsettling beat on the table.

Within a few minutes, the door was flung open, and a hostess ushered in a troupe of young, beautiful women. "Gentlemen, business is crucial, but so is enjoyment," the hostess cooed. Some willing ladies immediately pounced on Adrian's couch, shoving aside his model and his bodyguards.

Adrian did not stir, the crowd and the overtures unnoticed. He lit a cigarette, the smoke veiling the coldness in his eyes.

One woman alone on a small, elevated dais—she wore a tight, suggestive costume with a low V-neck and a thin, black veil over her face. The lights dimmed, the music started with a low, throbbing beat, and she began to move.

"Mr. Blackwood, Jasmine Clarke is our lead dancer. She's absolutely first-rate," Harold Sutton said, a servile smile stretching his hard features.

The dancer was undoubtedly talented, her movements sensual and sinuous, hitting the beats with perfect precision. She dominated the small stage.

Adrian's slitted eyes, behind the smoke, fastened on the lead dancer. In spite of the makeup and the costume, a primitive, familiar sense of recognition—and then sheer anger—hit him.

It was Claire.

Years of ballet training had instilled in her a dancer's poise, and she was compelling even in this sordid exhibition. She was the center of the stage, and every man in the room was staring at her.

Adrian's outrage was instantaneous and crushing. He raised a hand and pointed a single, imperious finger at the stage. "You. Come here. The rest of you, get out.".

The hostess and other dancers paused in confusion immediately.

"No need to bother them, Adrian."

Claire ripped off the veil, tossed it to the ground, and smiled—a contemptuous, reckless, startlingly beautiful smile. She lifted her hands and slowly, deliberately, untied the thin, black straps of her tight-fitting crop top, pulling down the fabric to show a tantalizing stretch of flesh.

There was a general gasp around the room. The businessmen all knew at once who she was—the infamous, disgraced Mrs. Blackwood.

Martin and Daniel watched in dismay. Not only was she dancing, but openly stripping before a room full of Adrian's most important contacts, dragging the Blackwood name through the dirtiest, most public scandal imaginable. She was fighting him with the one thing she had left: her ruined reputation.

She did. Claire swayed gently to the music, her hands moving with tantalizing slowness to the hem of the top.

Adrian pounced like a panther. He launched himself off the sofa, traversed the distance in two steps, and yanked her unceremoniously down from the stage.

"ARE YOU FINISHED HERE, CLAIRE?" he snarled, his voice a low, angry thunder, his face a mask of cold, vengeful anger.

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

Claire, what is this show?" Adrian's grip on her wrist was strangling, his face unyielding with fury. "Harrington Enterprises might be a sham, but are you so hungry for fame you'd sell your mother's final shred of dignity for a front-page headline? Do you even have any idea who you're stripping in front of? These men are journalists and politicians—they feed on scandal!

Claire flinched but didn't struggle, her eyes burning with defiance. "Isn't this just what you wanted, Adrian? A public spectacle? A final, total humiliation? I'm just giving the media exactly what the CEO of Blackwood Corporation lives on!"

She tried to turn away and continue onto the stage.

"Don't you dare dance another step." Adrian's voice was frigid, his hard gaze sweeping over her exposed skin.

The music had stopped. The sudden silence hung, thick with the shock of two dozen-plus media crème de la crème.

"She… she isn't Jasmine Clarke!" a frightened young hostess cried out.

Before anyone could move, Jasmine Clarke herself—her face spotty and speckled with a rash—broke in, followed by the club manager and security. "That is the woman who stuck me in the locker room!"

The manager, realizing the PR disaster in the making, frantically motioned for the bodyguards to grab Claire.

Claire threw up her chin, her noble presence—a remnant of the powerful Eleanor Harrington—jerkily surging to the forefront.

"Right. I am not Jasmine Clarke," she said, her voice ringing out above the stillness. "I am Adrian Blackwood's wife. But today, I am no longer. Because today I am divorcing you, Adrian. I am the one who walked out."

She would not be a victim discarded like rubbish. She would repay him the public shame he had inflicted on her with a public scandal of her own.

Victor Cross (Daniel) stared. "She just. divorced the CEO of the Blackwood Corporation in front of a room full of reporters?"

"Shut up," Charles Whitman (Martin) growled, throwing him a warning look.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you just caused? You're fiddling with all the fabrications your mother ever wrote!" Adrian curled his hand into a tighter fist, his eyes flashing with the threat of naked power.

Claire was not afraid. She rooted in the small pouch and drew out the divorce papers his lawyer had delivered to her, waving them in a defiant smile. "Adrian, do you think I have anything more to fear? You stole my home and my mother's name. This was the only way I could get your attention."

With glacial, half-mad pleasure, Claire laughed.

This is the last piece of performance I owe you. Adrian, I want a divorce. Effective immediately, I am free. I can write scandal, I can be the scandal, I can be an editor at Whitestone Media or a stripper—and it is absolutely, wonderfully none of your business."

The papers drifted to the expensive carpet, with her final, heartless vow.

From now on, your marriage, your reputation, your happiness, and your power struggles are no longer my problem. I hope you have a long, solitary life under the spotlight of the media you own."

The entire room gasped. No one had imagined that this beautiful, devastated woman would have such raw, devastating obstinacy.

"Claire, words don't mean anything." Adrian's voice was cold. He leaned in, his eyes menacing. "Do you think I can make you disappear from Ashford City's headlines tomorrow?"

"I do, Adrian. How could I not trust the man who makes a living with the press as his weapon?" Claire taunted, twisting her red lips. "But so what? Do you think I care anymore about disappearing?

She yanked her wrist free in a wild, desperate spurt of power, took two staggering steps backward. Her arm was almost out of joint, but she didn't feel it. Claire ignored Adrian's enraged, frozen form and looked around at the aghast faces of the assembled power brokers.

She smiled—a final, defiant smile. "Sorry to be a disruption, gentlemen. Enjoy your privileged tale."

She spun about, adjusted her crumpled costume, and ran out of the door.

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

The room was stuck in place.

"Mr… Mr. Blackwood." Harold Sutton stammered, not sure what to do.

Adrian was stuck in place, eyes staring at the slammed door, his face horrendously black. The great slamming of the door had been like a gunshot.

She lived up to the name Harrington after all, he considered, as Eleanor had. She enjoyed chaos.

It took a long, excruciating silence before he finally moved. "Please continue with your meeting."

He returned to his seat, piling up the cards on the table, but the incomprehensible shadow in his eyes did not lift.

Victor Cross coughed nervously, darting in to save the situation. "What are you all loitering here for? You're not getting paid to stand watch! Get back to the bargaining. Get the dancers out on stage again!" but even while he spoke, the incomprehensible shadow persisted.

The manager of the club ushered the girls away hastily, and the room attempted to return to normal. Charles and Victor exchanged nervous glances, afraid of provoking Adrian's temper yet again. He remained aloof, unapproachable, and bitterly cold.

(Claire Harrington's POV)

Claire stumbled out of The Sterling Club, the biting air a harsh reminder to wake up.

How could she dare?

The adrenaline rush faded, and she trembled. She had publicly humiliated the most powerful man in new media, essentially writing her own professional obituary. But beneath the fear, was a deep relief. She had stood up, on her own terms.

He was too proud, too dignified to simply seek business contacts. It all—the wedding, the early public acceptance—had been a cynical, revenge-oriented campaign founded on her mother's previous media indiscretions.

She was at last free. But she was homeless, penniless, and her name was media poison. This giant, cynical Ashford City had no use for the scandalised daughter of a mogul.

She was walking lost when the phone rang loudly.

"Claire, where the blazes are you? Your home is abandoned! Did that bloody Adrian do this? I bloody well will reveal him to the press myself!" Ryan Gallagher (Terry), an old racing foe and her sole true friend, bellowed with typical rage.

"Ryan…" Claire's hardened mask disintegrated. She collapsed onto a nearby bench. "It's all over. I'm divorced…"

"Don't shed tears, don't cry, bloody hell! Where are you?"

Ryan hung up and thundered away from the empty villa in his red Iron Cup sports car. "Stay right there! Don't budge!"

Claire waited for one hour. Finally, she spotted Ryan's shiny car. Under the hostile glances of strangers, she crawled into the sports car's cold interior. He drove her straight to his spacious Ashford City city center apartment.

"I warned you about Adrian being a snake with his family's Blackwood Corporation revenge fantasy. Now you've lost everything but your spine!"

Ryan led her into the 400-square-meter flat, which had an incredible 360-degree view of the city. Claire was momentarily dazzled and moved to the French window. The lovely view of the river seemed to soothe her frazzled nerves.

"This penthouse… this has gotta be a major Redwood Properties building, right? At least $8 million?"

"A ball park figure. Listen, I compete for my dream now, but you know my family's money is old. Claire, I'm serious. Marry me. I don't care that you're divorced and smashed. I'll make sure the press never gets near you."

He didn't explain that the apartment belonged to his mother's Grand Prix Association trust and a very generous act of sacrifice.

"Cut the nonsense, Ryan." Claire spun around, pulling out two tissues from her pocket. "I'm crashed here for a couple of days. When I find a job, I'll pay rent."

Ryan was smart enough not to let her fake toughness get the upper hand. "Stay as long as you like, Claire. It's my Iron Cup sponsorship and all included."

(Claire Harrington's POV)

Claire remained in the apartment for the next several days. Ryan provided her the master bedroom, went racing practice by day, and arrived home with dinner and gossip of the racing world by night.

Every time Claire closed her eyes, the image of Adrian's icy rage and the burning humiliation of the Sterling Club haunted her. The pain still stung, but she steeled herself into adaptation.

The Harrington family's unofficial motto had always been: The story has to go on. She would not allow herself to be forever defined by scandal.

One morning, Claire emerged, smartly dressed in a crisply professional suit, light makeup on, with a new look of purpose about her. She ran into Ryan, who was returning with coffee.

"Where are you off to?" he asked, catching up to her.

Interview. With a leading PR firm." She gave him a hasty kiss. "Wish me luck, baby."

"Take some coffee!"

"Too late!" She was headshaking, clinking her high heels, and running out. Ryan stood there, realizing that she was independent and would never depend on him.

The interview was for a sales and communications position at a top PR agency—a job that played on her social networking skills. The HR manager was impressed. Her mom had dragged her to every major media event under the sun; she was familiar with the political climate.

"Ms. Harrington, your resume is top-notch. Your background—the daughter of Eleanor Harrington—is common knowledge. You naturally understand the media cycle," the manager said, spinning a pen and looking at her with admiration. "I fear that our humble company would be an insult to your capabilities."

Claire quickly saw: she was overqualified and perhaps too notorious. "I know the base salary for this job is minimal, but I survive on commission. My forte is reputation recovery and media relations."

She was in the right mindset. He was all but ready to send through the offer of the job when his phone rang.

"Excuse me, Ms. Harrington. This is the main office. Hold on a moment."

Claire nodded kindly. The manager left, returning a few minutes later with a troubled, secretive face.

"Miss Harrington, I do apologize. We… we can't take you on."

"Why?" Claire asked, the single word being tart.

"It is our company's decision, Ms. Harrington. You'll do better at a larger firm. I have no doubt you'll find a better job soon enough." He would not meet her eyes, clearly under a great deal of stress from someone in charge.

Claire's first interview bombed. She munched on a sandwich in front of the building, her head reeling. Only one person had the power to blackball her that quickly, reaching deep into the city's PR grapevine.

In the penthouse suite of the CEO of the Blackwood Corporation. Adrian listened to his assistant, Miles Grant (Carter), deliver him a low-key briefing.

"So you're telling me she was rejected by the Monroe PR agency?" Adrian's brow furrowed, his chill increasing.

"Yes, Mr. Blackwood. I believe Felicity Monroe was involved. She has a good link there." Miles noticed the flash of irritation in Adrian's eyes.

"Mr. Blackwood, would I perhaps attempt to suggest Ms. Harrington a research position at Blackwood Media on the down-low? A decent means of monitoring her whereabouts…" Miles proposed, being cut off by Adrian's irate stare.

Adrian strode over towards the window and stared out at the city. His black eyes scanned past the path of The Sterling Club. Claire's unyielding expression and ruthless performance were still unsettled him.

This is the Harrington legacy at work. She must understand the cost of her mother's act," he warned himself, resisting a wave of unwanted protectiveness. His throat tightened. "Keep monitoring her actions. Report any significant developments immediately."

"Yes, Mr. Blackwood."

Humiliation and New Resolve

(Claire Harrington's POV)

Having wolfed down her hasty lunch, Claire steeled herself and went straight to her second interview. Fortunately, she had a good list of applications. Her second prospective employer, a small research team for digital media, was also optimistic.

The interview was nearly over when the door to the office room was unceremoniously flung open. Felicity Monroe strutted into the room, a fat, smug-looking woman who dominated most of the space.

"Well, well. I did not expect to find you here, Claire." Felicity tossed up her nose in contempt. "Don't even attempt it, sweetie. You won't manage that one either."

"It's you." Claire got to her feet, taking up her bag, her glance shooting from Felicity to the middle-aged male interviewer, catching the fleeting, shared embarrassment.

"I forgot to say hello." Felicity smiled sweetly. "This is my uncle. You see, Monroe Holdings has its fingers in quite a few media pies."

Claire recoiled from the humiliating punch as the full weight of the Blackwood and Monroe merger fell on her. Her entire interview had been a frightful joke.

Felicity smiled, too, as she inserted herself between them. "I am truly sorry. But as Adrian's ex-wife—now something of a public humiliation—I just can't allow you to work where I have some influence."

"Fine." Claire turned from one cold tone to another with ice-kissed speed. "Sorry to have disturbed you."

She swept past Felicity, not going to waste another minute on the woman's spiteful viciousness.

Biting cold wind assailed her body-clinging suit as she remained at the doorway of the building. She did not stir, aware that her career was being methodically smothered by Adrian.

"Ms. Harrington." Felicity interrupted her, stopping her in her tracks.

Felicity extended a hand, displaying a simple white business card. Her red lips curled into a thin, wicked smile. "If you absolutely can't get a job in Ashford City's honest media, try this one, perhaps. I suspect you'll find your skills squandered here, though, after what I witnessed the other night."

Claire accepted it, reading over the words: The Sterling Club.

The night's humiliation returned to her. Felicity had known it all.

The card was a calculated, vicious taunt—a final attempt to break her. Claire smiled, a genuine, horrible lack of emotion in her eyes. "Thank you, Felicity."

Felicity was surprised for a moment, expecting tears or an outburst of rage.

"Claire!" A loud engine roar announced Ryan's arrival. He skidded his sports car to a halt, screeching. Off came the helmet, and he waved in through the window, having just exited the track.

"Sorry, I've got a ride. I'll be off." Claire nodded at Felicity. Underneath Felicity's aggressive and accusatory stare, she slipped silently into the front seat.

"Where to?" Ryan craned his head.

"Anywhere. Just drive away from this infernal media circus." Claire sat with her eyes straight ahead, a spark of renewed determination in her eyes.

"You got it! Buckle up!" Ryan floored the accelerator.

The howl of the car drowned Felicity's curse. She stood and pursued the receding black car, her fists jammed in her pockets. "Claire, I see you've acquired a new, wealthy source of protection in very short time."

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

Eight o'clock that evening, at an expensive Regent Hotel restaurant, Felicity cut into her steak and talked freely. "Adrian, I met Claire and her… boyfriend today. The one from the Iron Cup circuit, Ryan Gallagher."

"Boyfriend?" Adrian laid down knife and fork, his expression immediately icy.

Felicity was taken aback for a second but regained speedily, her tone falling into over-the-top concern. "Yes. I did look into it. His family wealth is tied into the Grand Prix Association. It's not just that, Adrian. I hate to see Eleanor Harrington's daughter so comfortably living off her while she hurt you so terribly. Ryan is so overprotective of her. He was practically carrying around her bag and worrying about the paparazzi snapping her picture.".

Adrian's expression turned darker still, especially when Felicity added, "And rumor has it they're already living together in his downtown penthouse."

He slapped his fork on the table with a loud clatter.

"Adrian, did I say something I shouldn't have?" Felicity queried, playing the distressed victim to perfection. It was a masterful stroke at his pride. His ex-wife's moving on in such public spectacle was an enormity to the image of the invincible CEO of the Blackwood Corporation.

"No." He recovered from the momentary hesitation, his face again set in that usual cold neutrality. He folded the napkin and wiped at his mouth. "I'm finished. Miles will be along to escort you away shortly."

"Adrian, it's too late. You can't leave me here?" Felicity protested, frustration and perplexity creeping into her voice.

Be good. I have something to attend to." Adrian spoke the command with gritted teeth, his own patience clearly exhausted.

Felicity did not dare insist. She stepped out of the vehicle, and the door slammed shut behind her. The car sped off, disappearing into the city lights.

Felicity stood staring out into the deserted street, her teeth grinding. Adrian's response had assured her he still had feelings for her, but the instantaneous change from his cold attitude toward her unnerved her.

Adrian zoomed down, whistling wind snapping a protest: "Claire and that Ryan fellow live together."

Her mother lies buried, her name tarnished, and she can freely throw herself into the arms of a superficial racing heir.

"Claire, I clearly underestimated your capacity for indifference."

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, inserted his headset, and dialed a number.

"I want you to look into Ryan Gallagher's media background and any personal or family scandals that might have already happened. Investigate his Iron Cup sponsorship. And leak it to a pair of trusted rival publications. I want her support network to collapse."

(Claire Harrington's POV)

Claire had not made it through several interviews, but her concentration was still keen. She awoke each morning, the first thing to check the media and job sites.

Three days passed when she heard her phone ring. She was expecting an HR manager.

The line came through, and the voice of a middle-aged woman was on the other end. "Hello, is this Ms. Harrington? I viewed your resume. I'd like to meet with you.