"Claire, when did my friend become that low, that timid?" Sasha's voice, sharp with a mixture of disbelief and exasperation, cut through the phone line. "I know Alexander Sterling is... well, he's Alexander Sterling, but you have to voice out what you want. You can't just assume he'll say no without even asking!"
"I know, Sasha," Claire sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "It's just... you're right. I will. I'll talk to him."
Sasha let out a tired sigh, a sound that conveyed both concern and a reluctant acceptance. "Okay. Just... okay. Call me if you need anything, anything at all. You hear me?"
"I hear you," Claire whispered, a faint tremor in her voice.
"Good." Sasha said.
The call ended, leaving Claire once more in the echoing silence of her opulent prison. She stared at the acceptance letter, its official seal now a cruel taunt. Master's program in Applied Economics. Her passion. Her future. It felt impossibly close, yet impossibly far.
The next day, Claire woke with a sense of dread mixed with a fragile resolve. She spent the better part of the morning in her vast bedroom, pacing back and forth, the plush carpet doing little to absorb the nervous energy thrumming through her.
It wasn't about being timid, not really. She had faced down a powerful man, had even slapped him. But this was different. This was her dream, a vulnerability she hadn't dared expose to him. And Alexander's coldness, his sheer indifference, had a way of shrinking her spirit.
Moreover, the previous evening, when Eleanor had visited her, she had brought up the subject of divorce with Alexander. What if asking about her studies now, so soon after Alexander's already rigid stance on their marriage, pushed him further away? Or worse, confirmed his view of her as an inconvenient, demanding burden?
She sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of her predicament. The very idea of approaching him, of laying bare her aspirations before his unreadable gaze, filled her with a profound uneasiness. But Sasha's words, her fierce encouragement, echoed in her mind: You have to voice out what you want.
Gathering every shred of courage, Claire finally decided. She would talk to him. She would face him, lay out her case, and see what response she received. It was a terrifying prospect, but the thought of letting this opportunity, this last flicker of her dream, slip away without a fight was even more unbearable.
She smoothed down her dress, took a deep breath, and walked out of the master bedroom, descending the grand staircase with a purposeful stride. She found Miley dusting a console table. Claire said softly, "have you seen Mr. Sterling?"
Miley said, "Mr. Sterling left for the Sterling Group building just after 8 AM."
"Okay." She nodded.
Driven by a sudden, almost impulsive need for normalcy and a taste of comfort, Claire had retreated to the kitchen earlier that afternoon. She had found solace in the simple, rhythmic movements of baking – measuring flour, cracking eggs, the sweet scent of vanilla filling the air. The process was meditative, a familiar anchor in her adrift existence. Now, the golden-brown form of a freshly baked lemon pound cake sat cooling on a wire rack, its sweet, citrusy aroma beginning to waft through the wing of the house.
Just as she was about to slice into it, a familiar voice, light and playful, cut through the quiet hum of the kitchen.
"Well, well, what do we have here? Something smells divine, sister-in-law."
Claire jolted, nearly dropping the knife. She spun around, her heart giving a surprised leap. Leaning casually against the doorframe, a relaxed smile on his face, was Ethan Sterling. He was dressed in casual jeans and a soft sweater, a stark contrast to Alexander's ever-present formal attire, and his hazel eyes twinkled with an easygoing charm.
"Oh my god!" Claire exclaimed, genuinely surprised. "When did you come? I didn't hear any footsteps." His presence was always a welcome disruption, a breath of fresh air in the otherwise rigid Sterling world. He was the only one in the family, besides Miley, who treated her with an ounce of genuine warmth, and even then, Ethan's warmth felt less guarded.
Ethan pushed off the frame, walking further into the kitchen. "I have the Sterling stealth genes, I suppose," he chuckled, a lightheartedness that was infectious. He held up a slim, official-looking file. "Here. I came to give this to Alexander. Grandpa insists it's urgent and very important. Said it needs to be delivered directly to him and kept safe." He placed the file on the gleaming kitchen island, the stark white of the document a jarring contrast to the rustic warmth of the baking scents.
Claire's eyes widened at the mention of "Grandpa." The Sterling patriarch, a shrewd, powerful man who had built much of the family's empire, was a force to be reckoned with. She knew his word carried immense weight. "Oh," she murmured, a flicker of apprehension mixed with curiosity.
"Wait," she said, quickly moving to the sink. She thoroughly washed her hands, drying them carefully on a clean towel, a small act of preparation before handling something so critical. Then, with a newfound seriousness, she took the file, her fingers brushing against the cool, smooth paper. The weight of its importance seemed to settle in her palm.
She looked back at the warm, inviting cake. "Why don't you have a piece while I go and keep this somewhere safe?" she offered, the domestic gesture feeling surprisingly natural with Ethan. "I'll be right back."
Ethan's eyes lit up, his smile broadening. "Why not? That smells incredible, Claire. You've clearly got a hidden talent." He walked over to the cooling rack, already anticipating the treat.
Claire managed a genuine smile. It felt good to be appreciated, even for something as simple as baking. She turned and headed towards the grand staircase, the important file clutched carefully in her hand. Alexander had a secure office on the third floor, a place where even Miley rarely ventured without specific instructions. That would be the safest place.
As she ascended the silent, carpeted stairs, the familiar ring of her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out. Sasha. A fresh wave of excitement surged through her.
"Sasha!" Claire answered, her voice reflecting her eagerness.
"Hey, stranger!" Sasha's voice, lively and full of her usual energy, echoed down the line. "Listen, I'm just finishing up my shift. There's a new bistro downtown I've been dying to try. How about we grab dinner tonight? My treat. I can swing by and pick you up."
Claire's heart did a little flutter. Dinner with Sasha. A night out. But then, Alexander's rigid face, his emphasis on "terms" and "responsibilities," flashed in her mind. He was away, yes, but the unspoken rules of this house, of his house, seemed to cling to her like a shadow.
There was a pause, a moment where Claire's silence stretched.
"Claire? Are you there? What's wrong? Is Alexander giving you trouble even from afar?" Sasha's voice sharpened, her protectiveness instantly flaring. "Is he making you feel like you can't even go out with a friend? That's ridiculous! You're a grown woman, not a prisoner!"
Sasha's directness, her righteous indignation, ignited a spark of defiance in Claire.
"No, no, Sasha, it's not that," Claire said, her voice firmer now, a newfound resolve replacing her hesitation. "I'm coming." She wasn't going to let Alexander's rules, spoken or unspoken, completely suffocate her.
"You sure?" Sasha asked, a hint of surprise in her tone, quickly replaced by delight. "Great! Text me when you're on your way! I'm so excited!"
"Me too," Claire whispered, a genuine smile returning to her face. She felt a lightness she hadn't experienced in weeks. The call ended, leaving her with a renewed sense of purpose. She quickly found Alexander's locked office, placed the important file discreetly on a small, untouched side table near the door, and then hurried back downstairs.
In the kitchen, Ethan was savoring a slice of the lemon cake, his eyes closed in contentment. Miley, having returned from a task, was at the counter, polishing silverware. Claire approached her, a nervous flutter in her stomach.
"Miley," Claire began, her voice a little too bright. "I... I'm going out for dinner tonight. With a friend."
Miley paused in her polishing, her expression shifting to one of mild surprise, then a touch of hesitation. Her gaze flickered towards the doorway, a silent question in her eyes. "Oh, Mrs. Sterling? Of course. Should I... should I inform Mr. Sterling of your outing?" Her tone was polite, but the question hung in the air, weighted with the implication of necessary approval.
Before Claire could even formulate a response, Ethan, who had finished his cake and was wiping his mouth with a napkin, stood up, his posture suddenly radiating a quiet authority.
"Why would she need permission, Miley?" he interjected, his voice calm but firm, a subtle defense of Claire's autonomy. "Claire is a grown woman. She's allowed to spend time with her friends. It's perfectly normal." He met Miley's gaze, his eyes holding a clear, unwavering message: This is not a matter for Alexander.
Miley's lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded, acknowledging Ethan's unspoken command. "Of course, Mr. Ethan. My apologies."
Ethan turned to Claire, a reassuring smile on his face. "And don't worry about getting there, Claire. I can drop you off."
A wave of profound relief washed over Claire. Ethan's unexpected intervention, his easy defense of her, felt like a powerful affirmation. She felt a warmth spread through her chest, dispelling the lingering unease. "Really? Oh, thank you, Ethan! That would be wonderful." Her voice was filled with genuine gratitude, her earlier timidity replaced by a blossoming sense of confidence. Then, with a light step she hadn't felt in weeks, she quickly followed Ethan out of the kitchen, eager to taste the freedom that awaited her beyond the imposing gates of the Sterling estate. The lemon cake, a symbol of her quiet rebellion, remained on the counter, a silent testament to her small victory.