The heavy oak door of Alexander Sterling's private study clicked shut, a soft, final sound that nonetheless echoed in the vast, silent room. He walked to the imposing mahogany desk that dominated the space, its surface gleaming under the soft glow of a single, strategically placed lamp. The room, like the man himself, exuded an aura of controlled power and meticulous order. Bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes lined the walls, interspersed with framed accolades and subtle, expensive art.
Alexander loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, a rare gesture of relaxation. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a faint sigh escaping his lips. The remnants of the slap Claire had delivered still tingled on his cheek, a phantom burn that mirrored the unexpected jolt to his composure. He touched the spot, his fingers tracing the faint redness. It wasn't the physical sting that bothered him; it was the sheer audacity, the raw, unfiltered emotion behind it. Claire, the fragile, almost ethereal woman he had just brought back, had dared to defy him. And her words... her accusations about Delilah, about Zane Harrington. He dismissed them as childish drama, yet a sliver of unease, a tiny crack in his carefully constructed indifference, had formed.
He moved to the wet bar in the corner, pouring himself a measure of amber liquid. The ice clinked softly, the only sound in the cavernous room. He took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through him, but it did little to dissipate the lingering tension. His mind, usually a fortress of logic and strategy, felt strangely unsettled. He had expected compliance, resignation, perhaps even tears. He had not expected defiance.
The digital clock on his desk glowed a stark red: 11:47 PM. It was late, but his day was far from over. He had reports to review, calls to make, decisions that couldn't wait. He was Alexander Sterling, a man who built empires, not a man who indulged in emotional theatrics. Yet, Claire's tear-streaked face, her raw anguish, and her furious, desperate words kept replaying in his mind. "I gave up everything to marry you, to save my family... and that's the worst thing that has ever happened to me!" The words, sharp and laced with genuine pain, resonated with an unexpected force. He had seen her as a problem, a pawn in a larger game. But in that moment, she had been undeniably human, undeniably hurt. He pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the cold, hard facts. She was his wife but an unnecessary component of his life.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," Alexander commanded, his voice regaining its usual crisp authority.
The door opened, and Brenda entered, followed by a man whose presence exuded a quiet, almost scholarly intelligence. This was Mr. Noren, Alexander's special assistant, a man whose analytical mind and unwavering loyalty were invaluable. He had been out of the city for the past week, handling a complex acquisition overseas. His return signified a return to the true rhythm of Alexander's life.
Alexander nodded a curt acknowledgment of Mr. Noren's presence. "Noren. Good to have you back. Any issues with the Singapore deal?"
"None that couldn't be resolved, Mr. Sterling," Noren replied, his voice calm and measured. He carried a slim briefcase, which he placed neatly on a side table. His eyes, though respectful, held a keen, observant quality. He was one of the few people who could read the subtle shifts in Alexander's demeanor.
Brenda, meanwhile, moved with her customary efficiency. She placed a set of dinner on a small, elegant table opposite Alexander's imposing desk. A perfectly arranged plate of grilled salmon, steamed asparagus, and wild rice, accompanied by a glass of sparkling water. It was a meal designed for sustenance, not indulgence.
"Mr. Sterling," Brenda began, her voice smooth and professional, "Your flight details. Your private jet departs tomorrow at 10 AM. You will be out of the city for a week to attend the Global Tech Summit in Geneva." She placed a sleek, leather-bound ticket folder beside his plate. "All arrangements are finalized."
Alexander gave a brief nod, his gaze already drifting towards the food. "Excellent. Thank you, Brenda."
Brenda, however, didn't immediately turn to leave. She paused at the doorway, her hand on the frame, as if remembering something. She turned back, her expression neutral. "Oh, and Mr. Sterling," she added, her voice carefully modulated, "Mrs. Sterling went for a checkup today with Miley. Dr. Chen confirmed her physical recovery is progressing well. She recommended continued rest and light activity for another week."
Alexander paused, his fork hovering over his plate. The mention of Claire, and the doctor's report, brought back the image of her tear-streaked face, the raw pain in her eyes. He felt a flicker of something he couldn't quite name – not concern, he told himself, but perhaps a pragmatic acknowledgment of her condition. A healthy wife was a less complicated wife. He resumed eating, his expression impassive. "Good," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotional investment. He gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod.
Brenda seemed to interpret this as a cue to continue. "Should I instruct Miley to pack your personal effects for the week, Mr. Sterling?" she asked, referring to his travel bag.
Alexander paused again, his fork lowering slowly to the plate. His gaze drifted towards the large, empty side of the bed in the master suite, then to the closed door of his study. His mind, usually so clear, felt... fragmented. He was leaving for a week. Claire was back. Alone. With his family. The thought, for some reason, brought a strange, unfamiliar hesitation. He considered his mother, a woman of formidable will and sharp intellect, who had always maintained a certain distance from the family's more unsavory business dealings, yet held immense sway within the Sterling household. She had a way of seeing things, of cutting through pretense.
He hesitated, the silence in the room stretching, filled only by the soft clinking of his fork against the plate. Brenda and Noren remained perfectly still, waiting. It was an uncharacteristic pause for Alexander.
Finally, he spoke, his voice lower, almost a murmur, as if the words were pulled from him against his will. "Call my mother," he commanded, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the walls of his study. "Tell her... tell her Claire is back. And that I'm leaving tomorrow. Ask her to... look in on her."
Brenda's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a fleeting flicker of surprise crossing her usually impassive face. Mr. Noren, too, seemed to register the unusual request, a subtle shift in his posture. Alexander rarely involved his mother in such domestic matters, especially not regarding his wife. It was an admission, however slight, that he was not entirely in control of this situation, or perhaps, that he sought a different kind of influence.
"Yes, Mr. Sterling," Brenda replied, her voice regaining its professional composure, though a hint of curiosity lingered in her tone. "Immediately." She turned and exited the study, her footsteps soft on the plush carpet.
Mr. Noren remained, his gaze thoughtful. Alexander, however, had already turned back to his dinner, his face once more a mask of rigid control. The brief moment of hesitation, the unexpected command, had passed. But the weight of the silence in the room, and the unspoken questions it contained, lingered.
Claire learned from Miley that Alexander was out of town for a week, away on a business trip, a fact that brought a strange mix of relief and renewed hurt.
These past three days, Claire had focused on her recovery. She had been resting, sleeping well, and eating the nourishing meals Miley meticulously prepared. Miley, indeed, had been a quiet guardian angel, taking care of Claire with the utmost attention and a tenderness that Claire hadn't expected from anyone in the Sterling household. Every day, without fail, Miley would gently clean Claire's legs, carefully apply the prescribed medicine, and ensure Claire took her pain medication and antibiotics on time. Under Miley's diligent care, the angry red patches on Claire's legs had begun to heal. Soon enough, the agonizing blisters scabbed over, and within these three days, some of the scabs had even started to fall off, revealing new, sensitive pink skin beneath.
Claire was also more bright after Sasha's visit. Sasha had been a whirlwind of fierce loyalty and blunt comfort, her presence a much-needed antidote to the stifling atmosphere of the manor. She called daily, checking in, offering distractions, and reminding Claire that she wasn't alone.
But then, on the afternoon of the third day, a surprising and unsettling visitor arrived. Claire, resting in the sun-drenched sitting room, felt a jolt of shock when Miley announced Eleanor Sterling. Claire's heart immediately began to pound, bracing herself for the harsh words, the veiled accusations, or the cold disdain she had come to expect. She instinctively tensed, preparing for another verbal assault.
Eleanor entered the room, her elegant figure silhouetted against the light from the hallway. She was dressed impeccably, as always, her expression unreadable. Claire braced herself, but to her astonishment, Eleanor remained silent. Instead of launching into a tirade, Eleanor merely cast a sharp, assessing gaze around the sitting room, then slowly, deliberately, walked towards the kitchen doorway, peering inside. She seemed to be checking its immaculate order, her eyes scanning every surface.
"Miley," Eleanor finally said, her voice calm, devoid of its usual cutting edge, "please go to the city. There are a few specific items I need from the boutique on Fifth Avenue. And pick up some fresh, organic produce from the market. Take your time." The instruction was clear: Miley was to leave the house, leaving Claire and Eleanor alone.
Miley, accustomed to Eleanor's commands, nodded and quietly exited. Claire sat still on the sofa, like a doll, utterly bewildered by this unexpected turn of events. What was going on?