The soft chime of Clarie's phone startled her. It was a message from Alexander's assistant, Brenda, concise and to the point: Mr. Sterling requests your attendance at Mrs. Eleanor Sterling's residence for dinner tonight. Mr. Hart will pick you up at 7 PM.
Clarie stared at the notification, a familiar mix of resignation and a flicker of something almost akin to dread washing over her. Eleanor Sterling was Alexander's mother, a formidable matriarch whose approval was a coveted currency in their family, and whose disdain was a palpable chill. To be summoned to her inner sanctum, especially after her recent, raw confrontation with Alexander, felt like walking into a carefully laid trap.
A fresh wave of anxiety swept over her as she remembered Alexander's parting words and his insistence on Brenda managing her wardrobe. She walked to her massive walk-in closet, a space larger than her entire childhood home, filled with designer clothes she rarely wore. This wasn't about comfort or personal expression; this was about presentation. She needed to look the part of Alexander Sterling's wife, a role she felt increasingly ill-equipped to play. After a few agonizing minutes, she chose a deep sapphire-blue silk dress, its fabric shimmering subtly under the soft closet lights. It was expensive, elegant, and perfectly understated—the kind of expensive understated that screamed wealth without shouting it. She hoped it conveyed the appropriate image without making her feel like a peacock in a perfectly tailored cage.
At precisely 7 PM, the familiar, silent hum of Mr. Hart's car pulled up to the penthouse entrance. Clarie descended, her heart a quiet drumbeat against her ribs. The drive to the Sterling family's ancestral mansion was brief but tense. The mansion was even grander than Alexander's penthouse, a sprawling testament to generations of old money, its stone facade glowing softly under the security lights.
Mr. Hart opened the door, and Clarie stepped out onto the manicured gravel path. The grand entrance hall, with its soaring ceilings and antique tapestries, was already alive with the murmur of voices and the soft clinking of glasses. Alexander was nowhere in sight, which, ironically, offered Clarie a brief moment of unsettling relief.
Her gaze, a restless bird, flitted across the opulent room, searching desperately for the familiar, albeit formidable, presence of Eleanor. She needed an anchor, a guide in this sea of unfamiliar grandeur. Then, her eyes landed on him. Mr. Albert Sterling, Alexander's grandfather, a man whose very presence commanded the deepest respect within the sprawling household. He sat in a high-backed armchair by the roaring fireplace, his silver hair gleaming in the soft light, his eyes, though aged, holding a sharp, discerning glint. Clarie, mustering every ounce of her composure, approached him, offering a polite, almost trembling, greeting.
To her surprise, Albert looked at her, his stern features softening into a visibly fond smile, a warmth in his eyes that was both unexpected and, for a moment, genuinely comforting.
But then, a shadow fell. Eleanor Sterling stood before them, a formidable presence in a tailored black gown that seemed to absorb all light. Her silver hair was coiffed to perfection, and her eyes, sharp and assessing, were fixed on Clarie. There was no smile, no traditional familial greeting.
Eleanor's gaze slowly, meticulously, scanned Clarie from head to toe. It was an exhaustive inspection, missing no detail: the cut of the dress, the subtle gleam of the silk, the understated jewelry, the way Clarie's hair fell. It wasn't a look of admiration or even curiosity; it was an evaluation, a cold, clinical appraisal. Every inch of Clarie seemed to be weighed, measured, and judged against an invisible standard.
"Clarie," Eleanor finally stated, her voice cool and perfectly modulated, devoid of any warmth. Her lips barely moved. "I trust you are comfortable." It was a statement, not a question, a polite formality that carried an unspoken command to be comfortable, to behave as expected. The implication hung in the air: her comfort was not due to Clarie's own state, but to the provisions Eleanor had made.
In that very instant, as if on cue, Alexander himself materialized, a shadow detaching from the crowd. He moved with an easy grace towards Albert, his voice, deeper than Clarie remembered, resonating through the hall as he offered his own respectful greeting to his grandfather.
The dinner, a meticulously prepared affair, was laid out on the grand dining table, which gleamed under the soft glow of the chandeliers. The household staff had worked diligently to prepare the exquisite dishes. Ethan, Alexander's younger brother, a vibrant and often boisterous presence, joined them, as did Delilah, whose elegant composure offered a quiet counterpoint to Ethan's energy. The conversation, like a meandering river, flowed around topics Clarie couldn't quite grasp – murmurs about "ebens" and other unfamiliar subjects that danced just beyond her understanding. Overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity and the underlying tension, Clarie found herself merely pushing the exquisite food around her plate, her appetite utterly lost.
Then, the sky outside truly opened. The rain began, not a gentle patter, but a sudden, heavy downpour, drumming against the windows with an insistent rhythm. The roar of the storm outside became a compelling reason for Albert to speak. Looking at Clarie and then at Alexander, his voice firm but kind, he said, "It's far too heavy for travel now. I insist, Clarie, Alexander, you both must stay the night."
Eleanor's expression, a complex mix of relief and something less pleasant, flickered across her face. Relief, no doubt, that her son, Alexander, would be staying under her roof. But her thoughts, as transparent as glass to Clarie, clearly showed her unhappiness about Clarie's unexpected prolonged presence. With a forced politeness that barely masked her displeasure, Eleanor promptly arranged for two separate rooms – one for Clarie, and one for Alexander.
Later, as Eleanor moved through the hushed grandeur of the hall, she found Albert waiting, his gaze fixed upon her. His voice, low and precise, cut through the quiet, "Eleanor, don't try to make a subject that the maids will talk about." His words, laced with an unmistakable warning, were a direct hit. Eleanor's carefully constructed composure shattered. Her shoulders slumped, and a frustrated sigh, almost a growl, burst from her lips.
Meanwhile, Clarie had retreated to the room Eleanor had assigned her. It was spacious, with a grand, four-poster bed. A staff member, a kind-faced young woman, soon entered, prepared to help arrange the mattress and settle Clarie in. "Can you please a lighted..." Clarie began, wanting to ask for a lamp, her voice trailing off as her eyes caught a movement in the shadows. Her words died in her throat, a gasp caught unspoken as she saw him. Alexander, silhouetted against the dim light filtering from the window, was standing silently inside the room.
Clarie remained frozen, her gaze locked on Alexander. He was still silhouetted against the tall window, the faint glow of the distant city lights and the persistent drum of the heavy rain doing little to soften his rigid posture. His face, obscured by the dimness, was an unreadable mask.
"What are you doing here?" Alexander's voice, low and edged with an unexpected mix of annoyance and something else Clarie couldn't quite decipher, cut through the silence. He didn't move, merely observed her, a silent, imposing figure.
Clarie swallowed hard, her throat suddenly parched. "A staff member guided me here," she managed, the lie tasting like ash on her tongue. She hadn't been 'guided' to this specific room knowing he was already in it. She'd simply been shown her room, a room that now, chillingly, seemed to be their room.
Alexander stood, unmoving, absorbing her words. His lack of immediate reaction was unnerving, more unsettling than any outburst might have been. He simply stood, a silent, unyielding presence. Clarie cleared her throat, a small, nervous sound in the vast quiet. "I changed the mattress already," she blurted out, gesturing vaguely towards the neatly made bed, though it had been the diligent staff member who had efficiently smoothed the covers. "Rest then." The words were an awkward, transparent attempt at normalcy, a desperate plea for an exit. She clutched her small overnight bag tighter, the worn leather digging into her palm, and began to edge towards the door, her movements hesitant but determined.
"Stop."
The single word, sharp and definitive, sliced through the heavy air. Alexander's voice, devoid of any discernible emotion, arrested her mid-step. He moved then, placing his sleek phone with a soft thud onto a nearby antique side table, the sound resonating louder than it should have in the stillness. He turned fully towards her, his tall frame suddenly filling the space, his gaze piercing through the dimness.