Daddy’s billionaire step-brother
Chapter 9: Do you think I’m pretty?

Adrian watched Clara slump in the backseat of his Rolls Royce, her disheveled appearance and slurred speech stating how drunk she was. He accommodated her as best as he could and sat by her side, ordering his chauffeur to drive. As the car moved, Clara lay on the backseat, her features drawn and her eyes unfocused, still under the influence of the alcohol. Adrian retrieved a bottle of water from a compartment and gently urged her to drink. "Drink some water, Clara. It'll help."

Clara shook her head weakly, her hand pushing the bottle away. Adrian's concern deepened, and with a firm touch, he held her cheeks in his hands and guided the bottle to her lips. "Come on, just a few sips," he encouraged softly. Having no other choice, Clara took a few sips of water, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. She sighed, feeling a slight sense of relief wash over her, although she was still drunk. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Belfort," she murmured, her voice laden with regret and self-reproach.

Adrian's brow furrowed with worry. "It's alright, Clara. Now, tell me, did someone hurt you back there? That Hartman boy, did he..." he said gently, his eyes searching hers for any sign of distress or pain.

Clara looked at him with bleary eyes, her thoughts swirling in a haze of confusion and pain. "Do you think... Do you think I'm pretty, Mr. Belfort?" she blurted out suddenly, her words slurring together in a rush of emotion. Adrian was taken aback by the unexpected question. "What are you talking about, Clara? What do you mean?" he asked sincerely, his voice filled with a mix of surprise and concern.

Clara shook her head slowly, tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't understand," she whispered brokenly. "Marcus... He said I was pretty. I thought... I thought he liked me. But he didn't. He didn't like me at all. He just wanted to use me. And make fun of me."

Adrian's heart clenched at the raw pain in Clara's words. He reached out to gently stroke her hair, offering what comfort he could. "It's not your fault, Clara," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm to her wounded spirit. "People can be cruel and deceptive, especially boys, those spoiled and entitled boys like Hartman. You shouldn't take anything they say seriously."

Clara sniffled, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. "But I still have to be the one who endures it all," she insisted, her voice trembling. "It's not fair! My father declared bankruptcy, he's the one who lost everything, and now everyone at school... They just love to make me feel miserable about this as if I haven't suffered enough!"

Clara collapsed onto Adrian's chest, her sobs shaking her entire body. He held her gently, his hand smoothing over her hair in a soothing rhythm. "It's okay, Clara, you'll be fine," he murmured softly. "I'm taking you back to your house." "No," Clara protested weakly, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I don't want to go home!"

Adrian's heart ached for her. "Clara, your father is probably worried about you," he said gently, trying to reason with her, though he knew the depth of her despair might not easily be swayed.

Clara laughed bitterly, her words tinged with a mix of sorrow and anger. "My dad doesn't care about me," she replied, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "The only reason he still keeps me around is because of my mother's trust fund being tied to my inheritance. He doesn't care. Like no one else does."

Adrian felt a pang of sadness at her words. "Clara, I know that's not true," he said, his voice firm but kind. "Your father loves you very much. You're just upset and drunk right now. You need to go home, take a shower and go to sleep. I bet everything will feel better by the morning."

Clara clung to Adrian, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. She inhaled deeply, the comforting scent of his cologne mingling with the warmth of his embrace while she brushed her nose on the skin of his beard line. The world outside the Rolls Royce felt distant and unreal, a blur of lights and shadows passing by as the car moved steadily through the night.

"I don't want to go home," she murmured again, her voice muffled against his neck, her lips lips brushing against his skin. The tears continued to flow, she rubbed her face on his shirt to dry them, dampening the fabric. Her fingers clenched tightly, as if she feared he might vanish if she let go.

Adrian sighed, gently stroking her head with one hand and the soft skin of her arm with the other, thinking about what to do with her. "Alright, Clara," he said softly, making a decision. "You don't have to go home tonight."