Eleanor then returned from the kitchen doorway, her gaze falling upon a pile of Alexander's freshly laundered shirts and suits, neatly folded and waiting to be put away. Without a word, she picked up a few of them, her fingers delicately smoothing the fabric, and then turned to Irani, another housekeeper who had just entered the room. "Irani," Eleanor instructed, her voice still unnervingly calm, "take these to the laundry room. Ensure they are pressed and returned to Mr. Sterling's wardrobe by evening." Irani nodded and left, leaving Claire completely alone with Eleanor.
Claire watched, her eyes wide with disbelief. She was utterly gasped in shock when, after Irani had gone, Eleanor walked over to the small, discreet wet bar in the corner of the sitting room. With precise movements, Eleanor selected a delicate teapot, filled it with water, and placed it on the electric kettle to boil. She then picked out two teacups, a small plate of biscuits, and began to prepare tea. For them. For Claire and herself. The matriarch of the Sterling family, preparing tea for her daughter-in-law, after the morning's accusations and the family's cold dismissal. It was an act so utterly out of character that Claire could only stare, dumbfounded.
Eleanor poured the tea, the gentle clinking of porcelain the only sound in the room. She placed a cup in front of Claire, then took her own seat opposite her, her gaze finally settling on Claire's face. "Dr. Chen will come today," Eleanor said, her voice still calm, almost detached, as if discussing the weather. "He will check your legs again." There was no sympathy, no warmth, but a clear, undeniable directive. Claire could only nod, still reeling from the surreal turn of events, her mind struggling to reconcile this quiet, almost attentive Eleanor with the furious woman who had accused her just days ago.
Claire slowly sipped her tea, the warm liquid doing little to thaw the chill of discomfort that settled over her. The silence in the elegant sitting room was heavy, broken only by the soft clinking of the teacups. Eleanor sat opposite her, her gaze unwavering, her expression still unreadable. Claire felt as though she were under a microscope, every breath, every subtle movement scrutinized. The act of Eleanor preparing tea for her, while unsettling, also felt like a fragile opening, a moment where the usual Sterling defenses might be lowered.
Taking a deep breath, Claire decided to seize the opportunity. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but firm. "Mrs. Sterling," she began, her gaze meeting Eleanor's, "I didn't push Delilah."
Eleanor's hand, holding her teacup, paused mid-air. She slowly, deliberately, placed the delicate porcelain cup back onto its saucer on the polished coffee table. The sound was soft, yet resonated in the quiet room. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, remained fixed on Claire. "I know," Eleanor stated, her voice calm, utterly devoid of surprise or accusation.
Claire swallowed dryly, a sudden rush of bewilderment washing over her. The unexpected response left her momentarily speechless. "H-how do you know?" she stammered, her composure momentarily slipping. The thought of Eleanor actually believing her, after Alexander's fury and Delilah's accusations, was disorienting. Eleanor didn't offer an immediate answer. Her gaze drifted slightly, a distant look in her eyes as if recalling something from the past. "Martha won't lie," she finally said, her voice softer now, almost reflective. "She has been with me since the day I married into the Sterling family. She knows the value of truth in this house."
Claire felt a slight flush of fluster creep up her neck. Martha's quiet loyalty, her unwavering care, now made perfect sense. Eleanor trusted Martha implicitly, and if Martha had reported Claire's burns, and perhaps hinted at the true sequence of events, Eleanor would believe her. It was a strange, unsettling validation.
But the brief moment of understanding quickly dissolved as Eleanor's expression hardened, her eyes snapping back to Claire with a cold, piercing intensity. The earlier calm vanished, replaced by a steely resolve. "However," Eleanor continued, her voice dropping, each word precise and weighted with authority, "this is not the first time I am saying this, Claire. You cannot ruin my son, and I will never let you." Her gaze was unwavering, a direct, chilling threat. "If you cannot be a good wife to Alexander, if you cannot uphold the dignity and expectations of the Sterling name, then don't try to ruin him." Eleanor leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a low, chilling command. "After he comes back... divorce him."
The words hung in the air, stark and brutal, stripping away any pretense of polite conversation. It was an ultimatum, delivered with cold, unyielding finality. Claire sat perfectly still, like a doll, her face devoid of expression, her eyes showing no emotion, her lips unmoving. No words escaped her. Inside, a storm raged – pain, betrayal, the weight of an impossible expectation. But outwardly, she presented a blank canvas, a silent, unyielding defiance that Eleanor, for all her sharp perception, could not penetrate. The tea, once a symbol of a fragile truce, now tasted like bitter ashes in her mouth.
That night, sleep was a distant, elusive comfort for Claire. Her legs, though bandaged and medicated, throbbed with a dull ache, but it was the relentless churning of her mind that kept her awake. Eleanor's words, sharp and final, echoed in the darkness: "After he comes back... divorce him." The ultimatum presented a stark choice: break free from this gilded cage, or remain trapped within its suffocating confines.
The thought of leaving everything behind, of simply running away, was terrifying. Where would she go? What would she do? Her life had become inextricably linked with the Sterling name, a name that now felt both a shield and a prison. She was confused, her thoughts a tangled mess of pain, anger, fear, and a desperate longing for something she couldn't quite define. The hours crawled by, each tick of the grandfather clock in the hall a reminder of the inevitable return of Alexander, and the decision she would have to face.
Days blurred into a quiet routine of recovery. It had been a full week since the incident. Under Miley's diligent and tender care, Claire's legs had healed remarkably well. The angry redness had faded, the last of the large blisters had scabbed over and fallen off, leaving behind sensitive, new pink skin. She could walk without much discomfort now, though a faint scar remained as a permanent, unwelcome reminder. Miley, ever attentive, ensured her meals were nourishing, her medication on schedule, and her spirits, though fragile, were maintained.
Despite the physical healing, the emotional weight of her situation lingered. The manor, without Alexander, felt less oppressive, but still empty. Boredom, a luxury she hadn't anticipated, began to set in. One afternoon, seeking a small measure of peace, Claire ventured into the meticulously manicured garden. She found solace in the simple, rhythmic act of harvesting the last of the summer roses, their velvety petals and sweet fragrance a welcome distraction from her troubled thoughts.
She was still in the garden, a basket of fragrant blooms beside her, when Miley's voice, hushed with a hint of urgency, reached her from the back door. "Mrs. Sterling! Mr. Alexander just arrived home!"
Claire's hand, poised to snip another rose, froze. Alexander was back. The moment she had dreaded, yet simultaneously anticipated, was here. The ultimatum. The accusations. The cold indifference. A tremor went through her, but then, a strange resolve settled over her features. She would not hide. She would not cower.
Slowly, deliberately, Claire took her time. She finished gathering the roses, carefully placing them in the basket. She brushed the specks of soil from her dress, smoothed her hair, and then, with a quiet dignity, walked back into the house. She didn't rush to greet him. Instead, she walked directly to the grand living room, the very room where she had been left in agony just a week prior. She stopped in the center of the room, near the large marble fireplace, and stood there, perfectly still, her back straight, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She waited. As if a wife, patiently waiting for her husband's return. A silent, defiant statement.
A few moments later, the heavy thud of the front door closing echoed through the manor, followed by Alexander's decisive footsteps. He entered the living room, his presence immediately filling the vast space with his formidable aura. His eyes, cold and sharp, swept across the room, and then landed on Claire.
He saw her standing there, poised and still. His gaze, swift and analytical, immediately dropped to her legs, assessing her recovery, no doubt noting the absence of the prominent bandage, perhaps even the slight stiffness in her posture. His eyes lingered for only a fraction of a second, then lifted to her face, but his expression remained utterly unreadable. There was no warmth, no relief, no concern.
Without a word, Alexander came slowly into the room, his movements deliberate. He didn't approach her, didn't offer a greeting, didn't even acknowledge her presence beyond that initial, cold glance. He simply walked to a plush armchair opposite the sofa, the one he often occupied, and sat down, his silence a heavy, suffocating blanket that enveloped them both. The reunion was not one of warmth or reconciliation, but of chilling formality, a silent battle of wills already underway.