As she rounded a corner near the main staircase, she collided, quite literally, with Ethan.
"Whoa, Martha! What's wrong?" Ethan asked, catching her by the shoulders to steady her. He noticed her agitated breathing, the wide, panicked look in her eyes. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"
Martha, still breathless and flustered, stammered, "Mrs. Sterling... she... she went to the hospital!"
Ethan's eyes snapped wide. "What are you saying? Who went to the hospital? Mom" he demanded, a sudden cold fear gripping him. "Speak clearly, Martha!"
"No, no, not Mrs. Sterling. Mrs. Clarie!" Martha managed to gasp out, her words tumbling over each other in her haste. "Earlier this morning... I saw her in the pantry... her legs... they were burned!"
Ethan's face went utterly blank with shock. The casual smile vanished, replaced by a stark, disbelieving expression. "Clarie?"
He gripped Martha's shoulders tighter. "Did she go to the hospital?"
"Yes! Yes, she did! Please, Mr. Ethan, you must follow that delivery truck!" Martha cried, her voice trembling with urgency, pointing frantically towards the front of the mansion.
Ethan didn't wait for Martha to explain further, his mind already racing, piecing together the fragments of Martha's distress and Clarie's earlier appearance. He spun on his heel, his eyes already scanning the entrance hall for his keys.
"Which truck? Where is she going?" he demanded, his voice sharp, devoid of its usual calm, a desperate urgency propelling his words.
"A small one, dark blue, just left the gates! I think it's a local delivery for some art supplies, she said she was going with her friend!" Martha cried after him, her arm still outstretched, vaguely pointing towards the front of the mansion, her voice rising in pitch as she tried to give him enough information.
Ethan cursed under his breath, a low, guttural sound of frustration and alarm. Without another word, he sprinted out of the hall, his polished shoes skidding slightly on the marble floor. He snatched his car keys from the console by the door, the metal cold against his palm, and was out the front door in seconds. He didn't even bother to close the mansion door properly, nor did he put on a seatbelt as he jumped into his sleek black car.
The engine roared to life with an angry, impatient growl, mirroring the turmoil in his gut. He pulled out of the driveway with a screech of tires, flooring the accelerator, determined to catch and follow the small, unassuming dark blue delivery truck that had just driven Clarie away from the mansion. His jaw was set, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, a fierce protectiveness rising within him.
In hospital, the Doctor gaze sharpened as she took in the injury. Just above Clarie's ankle, on her left leg, was an angry, red patch, blistered in several places. The skin was raw in parts, weeping slightly. It was clearly not just a minor scald.
"Alright. We need to clean this thoroughly and dress it. It will be painful, but it's important to prevent infection." She began to carefully clean the burn with antiseptic solution, a process that made Clarie bite her lip so hard she tasted blood. Sasha held Clarie's hand tightly, offering silent support, her own face pale with sympathy.
As the Doctor worked, she explained each step, her voice a steady balm. "Rest, keep it clean, and keep your weight off it as much as possible for a few days." She applied a specialized dressing, securing it gently. "I'll give you some cream and pain medication. You'll need to change the dressing twice a day. Come back in three days for a check-up."
Clarie nodded, her body still trembling slightly from the pain and the underlying stress. The burn was throbbing now, a persistent fiery ache. As Sasha helped her pull her pant leg back down, a wave of exhaustion washed over Clarie. She just wanted to be somewhere quiet, far away from grand mansions and toxic people.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway seemed to hum, doing little to alleviate Clarie's throbbing leg or her deep weariness. Sasha, her face a mask of worry, carefully maneuvered the wheelchair Clarie was sitting in, pushing her towards the main entrance. The burn, now thoroughly cleaned and tightly bandaged, still radiated a dull, persistent ache.
As Sasha guided the wheelchair through the bustling corridor, Clarie suddenly tilted her head, her gaze snagging on a familiar figure standing just past the waiting area, a look of intense concern etched on his face. He was scanning the faces of everyone coming out, clearly searching. It was Ethan.
"Ethan?" Clarie called out, her voice a little weak but clear enough to catch his attention.
Ethan's head snapped up, his eyes widening in relief and concern the moment they landed on her. He strode forward instantly, his previous hurried anger now replaced by unconcealed worry. His gaze immediately dropped to her bandaged leg, his brow furrowing deeply.
"Are you alright, Clarie?" he asked, his voice rough with genuine concern, his eyes lingering on the stark white bandage that wrapped her lower left leg. The question was unnecessary; her pale face and the wheelchair spoke volumes.
Clarie forced a small, tired smile. "I'm fine," she replied, though the lie was evident in the slight tremor of her voice.
Sasha, who had been a silent, supportive presence, now stepped forward, her curiosity piqued by the striking man who seemed so concerned for her friend. She looked from Ethan to Clarie, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Who is it, Clarie? Your husband?" The question was direct, laced with a hint of suspicion.
Clarie shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair. "His younger brother," she clarified, her gaze darting between Sasha's questioning face and Ethan's still-concerned expression.
Sasha's eyes, sharp and protective, fixed on Ethan. Her arms crossed over her tracksuit-clad chest, and she took a definitive step forward, placing herself almost protectively in front of Clarie's wheelchair. "Listen, younger brother!" Sasha began, her voice dropping to a dangerous, accusatory purr. "What exactly is wrong with your brother?" Her eyes flashed with an almost aggressive protectiveness. "My friend here," she continued, gesturing sharply towards Clarie, "married him to share his life, not just his face! What did my friend do to your brother that she ends up like this, getting rushed to a hospital within hours of staying in your house?" The last words were spat out, full of righteous anger, the underlying accusation hanging heavy in the sterile hospital air.
Ethan's face, already etched with worry, tightened further at Sasha's aggressive tone and the implication of her words. "Did something happen with Alexander?" he asked Claire directly, his voice low, trying to cut through Sasha's fury.
Sasha, however, wasn't done. She scoffed, a short, bitter sound. "No wonder his bride ran away." The muttered comment was loud enough for both Ethan and Claire to hear, a cruel reminder of the Sterling family's past scandal.
Ethan's head snapped back to Sasha, his eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "Excuse me!" he retorted, his voice sharp, a clear warning. "I know their marriage is complicated. But you shouldn't say anything like that. And who are you to even comment?" He took a step towards her, his posture stiffening, ready to defend his family, despite his own confusion.
Sasha, however, merely gave a cold, dismissive laugh. "Complicated?" she snapped, her voice rising, dripping with contempt. She leaned in slightly, her eyes boring into Ethan's, her words slow and deliberate, designed to inflict maximum impact. "Is that why your cousin sister poured hot water on her legs?"
The words hit Ethan like a physical blow. His face, moments ago flushed with anger, turned slightly pale, the color draining from his cheeks as the horrifying implication sank in. His eyes darted back to Claire's bandaged leg, then to her pale, pained face. The pieces clicked into place with a sickening lurch, a truth far more sinister than he could have imagined.
"Is that true, Claire?" Ethan asked, his voice barely a whisper, a raw plea for her to deny it, to tell him Sasha was lying. His gaze was fixed on her, pleading for her to speak.
Claire, still clutching her phone, couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze. She simply gazed down at her trembling hands, the silence a heavy, painful confirmation. The truth, unspoken, hung in the air between them.
Sasha, seeing Ethan's shock and Claire's silent admission, gave a short, bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. She moved swiftly, her hand reaching out to grasp the back of the wheelchair.
"This is not even funny," she said, her voice dropping to a chilling murmur, her eyes glinting with a dark satisfaction as she emphasized the gravity of the situation she had just exposed. She began to push the wheelchair forward, ready to take Claire away from the Sterling family's toxic drama.