The late afternoon sun was beginning to fade, casting long shadows across the living room, when the doorbell chimed, a melodious, almost taunting sound. Clarie, having spent the rest of the day in a quiet, isolated haze, felt a knot tighten in her stomach.
She opened the door to find Deliah standing on the stoop. Deliah, draped in a fitted scarlet dress that seemed to shimmer in the fading light, scanned Clarie from her slightly rumpled hair to her simple, comfortable house dress with an almost surgical precision. A faint, almost imperceptible curl of Deliah's lip was the only greeting offered. Beside her stood another woman, perfectly coiffed, in a sharp, tailored pantsuit that screamed efficiency.
"This is Irani," Deliah announced, her voice a practiced purr that was entirely devoid of warmth. She swept past Clarie, not even waiting for an acknowledgment, making a beeline for the plush living room sofas. "Aunty's new assistant."
Irani offered Clarie a small, almost robotic smile. "Hello."
"Hello," Clarie managed, a sense of dawning confusion mixing with her existing apprehension. Assistant? Alexander had said Irani would be replacing Miley, the maid. This woman looked more like she managed a hedge fund than a household. Had Alexander intentionally misled her, or was this Deliah's particular brand of psychological warfare?
Deliah, now comfortably ensconced on the sofa, crossed her legs with a dramatic flourish. "Honestly, Clarie, you look utterly drained. Are you quite sure you're getting enough rest? Running a house of this… stature… it's just so much, isn't it?" Her words, though coated in saccharine concern, were delivered with the bite of a well-aimed jab, implying Clarie was barely competent enough to manage a single potted plant. Irani, standing stiffly beside Deliah, offered a fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk, a silent echo of Deliah's mocking sentiment. Clarie felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over her.
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you," Clarie said, her voice tighter than she wanted it to be.
"Of course you are, darling," Deliah purred, waving a dismissive hand. "But I did tell Alexander it's just so much for one person. Especially when one isn't... quite accustomed to the rigors of, well, managing a household of this caliber. It truly requires a specific kind of aptitude."
She glanced meaningfully at Irani, who offered a tiny, almost conspiratorial nod. "Isn't that right, Irani? Some people just have a knack for… organization."
Irani's smile broadened marginally, though it remained chillingly polite. "Indeed, Ms. Deliah. Domestic management requires a precise approach, a certain… dedication to detail." Her gaze swept over Clarie, lingering for a fraction of a second on the faint smudge on her cheek from where she'd inadvertently brushed her hand. The implication was clear: Clarie was out of her depth.
Clarie felt her cheeks burn. It was a calculated, insidious belittlement, hinting at her perceived inadequacy and lack of sophistication. She clenched her hands, fighting the urge to defend herself, to explain that she liked doing these chores, that they made her feel connected to this sterile, beautiful place. But Alexander's words about "Miley's work" echoed in her ears, silencing her. She stood there, feeling utterly exposed and foolish, a simple house dress against their tailored cruelties.
Just then, a voice, surprisingly cheerful and very familiar, boomed from the foyer. "Anyone seen my phone? I swear it teleported again, probably to a more interesting dimension."
Deliah's head snapped up, her eyes widening, her mocking smirk vanishing instantly, replaced by a sudden, almost desperate eagerness. Ethan, looking endearingly rumpled but radiating an undeniable, easygoing charm, sauntered into the living room, rubbing the back of his neck. His gaze landed on Deliah, and he blinked, surprised.
"Deliah? Wow, fancy seeing you here." Ethan's eyes, still with that playful glint, swept over Irani, whose composed expression faltered slightly under his direct, unvarnished gaze. The sharp edge of her composure seemed to dull, replaced by an almost imperceptible deference.
Deliah, suddenly flustered, rose from the sofa, smoothing her scarlet dress. "Ethan! Darling! So good to see you!" She completely ignored Clarie, her entire focus shifting to her cousin. "Just came to drop off Aunty's new assistant. Isn't she just divine? So efficient." She gestured vaguely at Irani, then turned back to Ethan, her smile dazzling, almost desperate. "I was just telling Clarie about... well, all the exciting developments in the city. You simply must hear about the new gallery opening." She began to prattle, trying to draw Ethan's attention fully, her voice a little too high, a little too eager.
Clarie, feeling herself fade into the background, watched the transformation. Deliah, the queen of cutting remarks, was suddenly a simpering, attention-seeking cousin, desperate for Ethan's approval. Irani, too, had straightened, her mocking expression completely gone, replaced by an almost invisible quietness. The mere, casual presence of Alexander's younger brother had completely deflated their carefully constructed facade of superiority. A small, triumphant smile, unbidden, touched Clarie's lips. The bullies had been silenced by a single, unexpected entrance.
The grand grandfather clock in the hall chimed precisely eight, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the silent house. Moments later, the familiar rumble of Alexander's car in the driveway signaled his arrival. Clarie, who had retreated to the solace of the master bedroom after the humiliating encounter with Deliah and Irani, flinched at the sound. She had a dull ache in her stomach from hunger, having decided against venturing downstairs for dinner. The thought of facing Irani, now likely in full command of the kitchen, or worse, having to sit through Alexander and Deliah's polite, strained interactions, was enough to kill any appetite.
Downstairs, the front door opened, and Alexander stepped into the muted glow of the living room. His gaze swept over the meticulously arranged space, then settled on Irani, who had moved from the kitchen and was now standing by the main entrance, a welcoming smile gracing her lips.
"Good evening, Mr. Sterling," Irani greeted, her voice crisp and professional. Her posture was impeccable, every inch the capable assistant. There was an eagerness in her eyes that bordered on adoration, a stark contrast to the subtle mockery she'd displayed towards Clarie earlier.
Alexander offered a curt nod, his expression unreadable. He barely broke stride, moving directly towards the living room sofa, his briefcase still clutched in his hand. He lowered himself onto the plush cushions with a tired sigh, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Is Ethan here?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes still closed. He didn't ask about Clarie. He didn't ask about Deliah. His primary concern was his brother.
"Yes, Master," Irani replied promptly, her voice softening slightly at his weariness. "He's currently in the billiards room with Ms. Deliah, Master."
Alexander's eyes snapped open. He ran a hand over his face, a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like exasperation crossing his features. He pushed himself off the sofa, the weariness momentarily forgotten. He turned to Irani, his voice firm and decisive.
"Miley will be gone for a week," he stated, his gaze direct and unwavering. "So, I expect you to manage the household for a full week. Everything Miley handles – scheduling, supplies, meals, cleanliness – it's all your responsibility now."
Irani's face lit up, a genuinely happy, almost triumphant smile blossoming. "Of course, Mr. Sterling! It would be my absolute pleasure!" Her eagerness was palpable, a stark contrast to Clarie's quiet struggles with the same tasks. She seemed to relish the authority, the control.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Clarie heard the low murmur of voices, punctuated by Alexander's distinctly sharper tone. She hadn't heard him ask for her. She hadn't expected him to. Curled on the edge of her bed, still in the house dress, she felt a profound sense of exhaustion settle over her. Her stomach grumbled, but the thought of descending, of becoming visible, of inviting further scrutiny or comparison, was unbearable. She remained in her room, a quiet, forgotten figure in a house that pulsed with an order she was not allowed to touch, and a family she felt increasingly distant from.
The soft morning light filtering through the kitchen windows did little to dispel the dull ache behind Clarie's eyes. It was pretty late, when she finally dragged herself out of bed, a lingering sense of emotional exhaustion from the previous evening's encounters weighing heavily on her. She felt faintly unwell, a subtle nausea swirling in her stomach.