In the chaos, amidst the hurried footsteps and hushed exclamations of concern for Delilah, a crucial detail was tragically overlooked. Nobody seemed to notice that Claire was still in the pantry.
Claire, still standing moments before, was now battling a pain far more intense than anyone realized. The thin silk of her dress, designed for elegance, offered no protection against the searing heat. The boiling water had seeped through the fabric instantly, scalding the skin of both her legs. The pain was excruciating, a relentless fire that spread rapidly, making her legs tremble uncontrollably. Her muscles spasmed, and a wave of dizziness washed over her.
Soon, her hands, which had been clutching the edge of the counter for support, gave out. The strength drained from her limbs, and with a soft gasp of agony, she collapsed onto the cold, hard floor. Tears, hot and involuntary, welled in her eyes and streamed down her pale cheeks, a stark contrast to the burning sensation consuming her lower body. She tried to shift, to find a more comfortable position, but even the slightest movement sent fresh waves of torment through her.
She didn't have her phone with her, having left it in her room. Alone, helpless, and in agonizing pain, she could only call for help. "Martha! Anyone! Please, help me!" she cried out, her voice hoarse and weak from the shock and pain. She shouted a few more times, her pleas echoing faintly in the now-empty kitchen, but the sounds of hurried footsteps and hushed voices had already receded down the hall, focused solely on Delilah. Nobody replied. The vastness of the manor suddenly felt isolating and cold.
It wasn't until after a minute or so – a minute that stretched into an eternity of burning torment for Claire – that Martha, having just finished her duties and perhaps having heard a faint, lingering cry, returned to the kitchen. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw Claire crumpled on the floor, her dress soaked, her face tear-streaked and ghostly white.
Without caring for anything else, without a moment's hesitation or a single question, Martha's instincts took over. She rushed to the sink, grabbed a large pitcher, and filled it with cold water. With swift, decisive movements, she knelt beside Claire and began to gently, yet urgently, splash the cold water onto Claire's injured legs. The immediate coolness brought a small, desperate gasp of relief to Claire, a momentary reprieve from the relentless fire. Martha's face was a mask of concern, her actions a silent promise of care in the midst of Claire's profound distress.
"Mrs. Sterling, ointments won't work on this," Martha said, her voice tight with concern, a deep frown etched on her face. "I need to call a doctor. There will be dire consequences if we don't take care of the injuries on your legs right away." Just as she was about to make a call on the landline, her hand hovering over the receiver, she noticed another housekeeper hurrying to open the front door. A man, dressed in a smart suit and carrying a medical kit, was being ushered into the house – it was the family doctor, no doubt summoned for Delilah.
Martha's gaze flickered between the arriving doctor and Claire's pained face. "I will call Mr. Sterling," Martha declared, assuming Alexander needed to be informed immediately about Claire's state.
"No," Claire managed to say, her voice weak but surprisingly firm, her eyes fixed on Martha. "Give me my phone." With a trembling hand, she reached out, and Martha, understanding the urgency in her eyes, quickly retrieved Claire's phone from her handbag nearby. Claire took it, her fingers fumbling slightly, before she began to dial a number, her gaze distant, already focused on the person she truly needed to reach.
Martha heard the faint murmur of Claire's voice as she spoke into the phone, her words barely audible through the pain, but clear enough for Martha to catch a fragment: "Please, pick me up... now." A puzzled frown creased Martha's brow. Who was Claire calling? And why was she asking to be picked up when the family doctor had just arrived? Just as Martha was about to ask Claire about the call, the sound of heavy, furious footsteps thundered into the living room.
Alexander Sterling burst in, his face a mask of cold fury, his eyes blazing. He had just seen the doctor attending to Delilah upstairs, and the sight of his sister's scalded arm and bleeding calf had ignited a protective rage within him. He saw Claire on the sofa, her legs submerged in the ice bucket, and his mind, clouded by anger and concern for Delilah, immediately jumped to conclusions. Without a word, he shoved Martha aside with a forceful push that sent the older woman stumbling backward, barely catching herself before she fell. He marched directly up to Claire, his hand shooting out to pinch her chin firmly between two fingers.
Under his iron grip, Claire felt as if her bones would be crushed. Her head was forced up, her eyes meeting his furious gaze. "Claire Halyes," Alexander's voice was a low, bone-chilling growl, devoid of any warmth or recognition of her pain. "Aren't you trying to kill her? Tell me exactly what you want!" His accusation hung in the air, sharp and brutal, completely misinterpreting the horrific events that had just transpired.
"Please don't be like this, Mr. Sterling." Martha, who had been shoved aside, scrambled to get up, her face pale with distress. She rushed back towards Alexander, desperately trying to explain. "Mrs Sterling is hurt too. Her legs—"
Before Martha could finish, a frantic voice called out from the hallway. "Mr. Sterling! Quickly! She's getting worse!" It was one of the housekeepers, her voice trembling with urgency, clearly referring to Delilah upstairs.
Alexander's head snapped towards the voice. He gave Martha a sharp, warning look, his grip on Claire's chin momentarily tightening before he released her abruptly.
Without another word, he spun on his heel and rushed towards the staircase, his powerful strides carrying him quickly upstairs, his focus entirely consumed by his sister's worsening condition.
Claire was left alone again, the throbbing pain in her legs intensifying with every beat of her heart. Tears, hot and stinging, welled in her eyes, threatening to spill. She squeezed her eyelids shut, biting her lip, refusing to let them fall. She would not cry, not here, not now.
Martha, still shaken from being shoved, didn't know how to console Claire. The injustice of Alexander's accusation, coupled with Claire's visible agony, was heartbreaking. She knelt beside Claire, her hand hovering uncertainly. "I will call Mrs. Eleanor," she said softly, hoping the matriarch's presence might bring some order or comfort.
Just then, Claire's phone, still clutched in her hand, vibrated. She looked at the caller ID, and a flicker of something akin to relief, or perhaps grim determination, crossed her face. "Martha," Claire said, her voice still weak but now imbued with a fragile urgency, "please help me. My friend is coming to pick me up. I need to go out."
Martha was puzzled. In her state, with such severe burns, going out seemed impossible, and certainly ill-advised. But the look in Claire's eyes, a desperate plea for control, was undeniable. It wasn't her position to interfere too much, especially with the chaos unfolding upstairs.
With a sigh, Martha nodded. "Of course, Mrs. Sterling," she replied, and carefully began to help Claire, who was still submerged in the ice, to prepare to leave the manor.
The grand oak door of Sterling Manor, still damp from the night's heavy rain, swung open, revealing Clarie. She emerged with a visible limp, one hand pressed subtly against her lower back, her movements stiff and guarded.
Just beyond the meticulously manicured grounds, parked near the ornate gates, a small, unassuming delivery truck idled, its engine a low hum in the morning quiet. Leaning against its side, a girl with short, choppy hair, dressed in a comfortable-looking tracksuit, was impatiently tapping her foot. This was Sasha, Clarie's oldest friend, who usually arrived with a boisterous greeting.
But the moment Sasha's eyes landed on Clarie, her usual vivacity drained away, replaced by a look of stark alarm. Her face, typically animated, turned pale, her jaw dropping slightly. Clarie looked utterly disheveled; her hair was a mess, her clothes rumpled from a night of restless sleep, and her posture screamed discomfort.
"Clarie! What exactly happened to you?" Sasha exclaimed, her voice rising in urgent concern. "Are you alright?" She started to move forward, her eyes scanning Clarie's strained face, her limping gait.
Instead of replying to Sasha's panicked questions, Clarie, spotting Martha, the kindly housemaid who had been holding the door for her, turned to the older woman. Her voice was low, tinged with a weariness that went beyond simple fatigue. "My friend will take care of me, Martha. Thank you." It was a polite dismissal, meant to prevent any further questions or observations from the household staff.
Sasha, catching the unspoken signal, moved closer, her features etched with worry. She gently took Clarie's arm, her fingers firm but solicitous. As Sasha's hand brushed against Clarie's leg while offering support, a sharp, excruciating pain shot through Clarie's lower limb, making her face contort visibly with agony. She winced, stifling a cry, biting down hard on her lip to keep from making a scene. Sasha, witnessing the intense pain, immediately adjusted her grip, her expression darkening with concern. "Clarie, what on earth is wrong?" she murmured again, her voice now hushed, steering Clarie towards the delivery truck.
Inside the mansion, Martha watched them go, her brow furrowed with deep worry. Clarie's strained face, her sudden limp, and the visible flinch of pain had not gone unnoticed. Something was clearly very wrong. Her mind raced, replaying fragmented images from earlier that morning. She hurried back into the depths of the mansion, her worried steps quickening as she made her way through the hushed corridors.