Ethan, unperturbed by Alexander's brusqueness, followed him up the grand staircase, his footsteps light and quick. He found Alexander in his sprawling master bedroom, already pulling off his sweat-dampened running shirt. Alexander disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, emerging moments later with a towel slung over his shoulder, droplets of water glistening on his taut muscles.
"Oh, nice!" Ethan exclaimed, perched casually on the edge of Alexander's immaculately made bed, his eyes raking over his brother's toned physique with an appreciative, if slightly mischievous, grin.
Alexander, in the midst of toweling his hair dry, tossed the towel from his head, the damp fabric landing with a soft thud on the plush carpet. "Get out of my bed," he commanded, his voice a low growl that held no real threat, just a weary exasperation.
Ethan, unfazed, leaned back on his hands, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, brother," he began, a slow smile spreading across his lips, "your wife is quite nice. And funny thing, turns out we're the exact same age." He let out a soft, amused laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the large room.
Alexander froze, his movements arrested. The casual comment, the lighthearted tone, hit him with a sudden, almost jarring realization. How young Clarie truly was. It was a fact he rarely considered, preferring to keep their interactions strictly transactional, devoid of any personal context. But Ethan's words, brimming with youthful camaraderie, starkly highlighted the age gap, and the unexpected familiarity between his wife and his younger brother struck an odd, disquieting chord.
He turned slowly to face Ethan, his gaze hardening. "Ethan," he said, his voice dropping, "Don't make me say that twice, okay? Go home."
Ethan pushed himself off the bed, feigning an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. "Isn't this my home?" he whined playfully, spreading his hands wide.
Alexander rubbed a hand over his tired face. "Yes, this is your house," he conceded, the weariness evident in his tone, "but you have to make up with Mom. She's worried sick."
Ethan threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I know no one would take my side in this family anyway." With that, he sauntered out of the room, leaving Alexander to the quiet solitude of his thoughts.
Alexander dressed swiftly, the crisp fabric of his work shirt a stark contrast to the lingering dampness of his skin. When he descended the grand staircase, the scent of fresh coffee still hung in the air, a phantom reminder of Ethan's brief presence. He found Clarie in the spacious living room, standing by the elegant antique ironing board. She was meticulously pressing a shirt, the crisp white fabric unmistakably one of his. The sight of her, so focused, so domestic, performing what he considered a staff duty, ignited a spark of irritation within him.
He strode towards her, his voice sharp, cutting through the quiet hum of the iron. "Who told you to touch this?" he snapped, the words clipped and accusatory.
Clarie visibly flinched, her hands pausing on the fabric, her eyes widening slightly. "Miley called me," she began, her voice a soft, slightly flustered murmur, "she said your shirt needed to be ironed."
"But that's Miley's work. Not yours," Alexander retorted, his tone unwavering. He pulled out his phone with an abrupt movement, his fingers already dialing.
Clarie opened her mouth to say something, perhaps to explain, perhaps to apologize, but she thought better of it, closing her lips in a tight line.
Alexander, already speaking into the phone, ignored her. "Hello, Send Irani for two days," he instructed, his voice firm and decisive. He ended the call, then turned back to Clarie, his gaze cold and direct. "There will be a staff called Irani to replace Miley for two days. She will do whatever Miley does. So, for you, stay out of it." He delivered the pronouncement with the finality of an ultimatum, then stormed out of the room, leaving Clarie standing there, the warm scent of the iron still lingering in the air.
Clarie stood rooted to the spot, feeling utterly foolish, a dull ache blooming in her chest. Her hands, still hovering over the shirt, trembled almost imperceptibly. "What is wrong with this mind?" she whispered to herself, the question hanging unanswered in the silent room. "Why is he so obsessed with a staff working for him?"
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the vast, manicured gardens in hues of warm amber and fading gold. A gentle breeze stirred the air, carrying the sweet perfume of the roses. Clarie stood amidst the vibrant blooms, a gleaming copper watering can in hand, meticulously tending to a particularly fussy hybrid tea rose. The soft gurgle of water as it kissed the soil was a soothing counterpoint to the quiet hum of the evening, offering a rare moment of profound tranquility in the otherwise echoing grandeur of the estate.
Unbeknownst to her, Alexander's earlier departure, taken with the firm belief that Ethan had finally sulked his way back to his mother's, was entirely misplaced. Ethan, never one to follow a script, had simply decided the sun-dappled garden offered far more immediate entertainment than a potentially awkward parental reconciliation. He'd been lurking behind a particularly voluptuous rhododendron bush, perfecting his impression of a very serious garden gnome.
Suddenly, a light, teasing tap on her shoulder jolted Clarie from her reverie.
Startled, with a small yelp escaping her lips, Clarie spun around, her grip on the heavy watering can completely betraying her. A graceful, albeit accidental, arc of water shot through the air, landing squarely on Ethan's chest with a rather dramatic splat.
"Oh no!" she gasped, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and immediate mortification.
Ethan stood there, a perfectly sculpted statue of surprise, his light linen shirt now clinging to him like a second skin, rivulets of water tracing paths down his torso. He blinked slowly, once, then twice, before a wide, utterly unrepentant grin spread across his face.
"Well," he drawled, pushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead, "that's one way to cool off. Beats the AC, honestly. Very… organic."
Clarie's cheeks flushed a furious crimson. "I am so, so sorry! You startled me!"
He chuckled, wiping more water from his face, a faint splash of it landing on a perfectly manicured rose petal. "Note to self: never sneak up on someone wielding a watering can. It's surprisingly effective as a defensive weapon."
He paused, then gestured dramatically to his soaked front. "So, think this look will catch on? 'Drenched chic' for the discerning gentleman?"
Clarie managed an awkward, slightly watery smile, trying to suppress the giggle that was threatening to erupt. "Only if you're aiming for 'freshly wrung-out fashionista,' maybe."
Ethan laughed and then gestured to his clinging shirt, a comical shiver going through him.
"Alright, alright, the joke's on me. Listen, Can you possibly spare something to change into? Because of some... situations," he emphasized, clearly referring to Alexander's earlier dismissal, "I didn't exactly pack an overnight bag. Anything. A potato sack would be an improvement right now." He spread his hands in a gesture of desperate plea.
Clarie nodded, her mind immediately racing through the scant options in her own limited wardrobe, then to Alexander's meticulously organized closet. She paused, her words coming out slowly, tinged with a hesitation she couldn't quite mask. "But… my clothes, I don't think… they would exactly fit. And… well…"
Ethan gave her a truly weird look, a mixture of confusion and amusement. "Wait. Your clothes won't fit me? Just grab something, anything, from your sweet husband's expansive wardrobe. He must have a thousand shirts in there."
Clarie swallowed, her smile vanishing, her posture stiffening almost imperceptibly. She remained utterly still for a moment, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond Ethan's shoulder, towards the distant, imposing silhouette of the house. The comfortable warmth that had just blossomed between them began to dissipate.
"Why? Is there a problem?" Ethan prompted, his brow furrowed now, sensing the sudden shift in her demeanor. The lightness in his voice had vanished, replaced by genuine curiosity.
"Ah…" Clarie stuttered, finally meeting his gaze, a flicker of something almost like fear in her eyes. "Mr. Sterling… he… he doesn't exactly like people touching his clothes. Not... not without permission. You know. And definitely not... me." The last part was a near whisper, laden with a fragile vulnerability. "Why don't you... why don't you try searching his closet yourself? It's… it's the large one at the end of the hall upstairs." She said it with a forced brightness, almost pushing the words out, before she practically rushed off, leaving him standing there, soaked and utterly perplexed.
"What?" Ethan sighed, watching her hurried retreat. He looked down at his dripping shirt, then back at the house, a bewildered expression on his face.