Chapter 10: Claire POV
The study's silence is deafening after I set Sophia's photo back on Ethan's desk, its worn edges a silent accusation. His voice, "It's nothing. Just… old", cuts deeper than I expected, and the hurt in my chest is raw, unstoppable. I brush past him, my steps quick through the foyer, ignoring his call of, "Claire, wait." For the first time since I became his assistant, since this sham of a marriage began, I don't stop. I climb the stairs, lock my bedroom door, and collapse onto the bed, my hands trembling. I've been his shadow for years, but that photo proves I'm still just a stand-in.
A knock at the door pulls me from my spiral. "Claire, please," Ethan says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "Can we talk?"
"No," I snap, my tone sharp enough to surprise even me. "Leave me alone, Ethan."
There's a pause, then the sound of his footsteps fading. I press my palms to my eyes, Emily's warning, "He's going to crush you", echoing like a drumbeat. Last night, his touch, his whisper of my name, felt like a promise. But that photo, tucked away but clearly cherished, tells me he's still hers. I curl into the blankets, willing sleep to come, but my mind replays every moment, his defense of me at the press event, "She's my wife, and you'll respect her," and the way his hand lingered. It's not enough, not when Sophia's ghost is still in his heart.
The dining room is lit by soft evening light, and I'm setting plates for dinner, hoping routine will steady me. Ethan appears, his tie loosened, his gray eyes cautious. He sits, watching me as I pour wine, and the silence is heavy, like we're both waiting for a bomb to drop.
"Claire," he starts, his voice low, "about the photo, "
"I don't want to talk about it," I cut him off, my voice cold, final. I set the bottle down harder than I mean to, the clink echoing. "Let's just eat."
His jaw tightens, but he nods, picking up his fork. We eat in silence, the roasted chicken tasting like ash. I've never shut him down like this, not in five years of fetching his coffee, fixing his schedules, or stepping into his wedding. The power of it scares me, but so does the hurt driving it. He tries again, his tone softer.
"I didn't mean to upset you," he says, setting his fork down. "It's just a photo, Claire. It doesn't mean anything."
I stand, my chair scraping the floor. "It means enough for you to keep it." I grab my plate, heading for the kitchen. "I'm done for tonight."
"Claire, " he calls, but I'm already gone, my bedroom door locking behind me again. I lean against it, tears burning my eyes. Emily was right, I'm in too deep, and I'm losing myself.
Morning comes too soon, the mansion's quiet pressing on me like a weight. I'm up before dawn, pulling on a sweater and jeans, my phone buzzing with Emily's latest text: Meet me at the café. Now. I scribble a note for Ethan, "Out. Back later.", and slip out, the city waking as I drive to SoHo. The café's warm, smelling of espresso, and Emily's waiting in a corner booth, her auburn hair tucked under a scarf, her brown eyes sharp.
"You look awful," she says, sliding a latte across the table. "What happened?"
I grip the mug, the heat biting my palms. "I found a photo of Sophia in his desk. He's still holding onto her, Em. After everything."
She leans forward, her voice fierce. "I told you he'd break you. He's got a track record, Claire, Sophia was his world, and you're just the replacement. Why are you still there?"
Her words hit like a slap, but a memory surfaces, clear and painful, my first year as Ethan's assistant, staying late to rewrite a presentation he'd botched. I'd worked until 2 a.m., my eyes burning, just to hear him say, "Claire, you're a miracle," the next morning. He'd rushed out, oblivious to the way I'd clung to those words, my heart already his. Those sacrifices, unnoticed but constant, are why I can't walk away, even now.
"I love him," I say, my voice breaking. "And… something happened, Em. The other night, we… we slept together. For the first time."
Her eyes widen, and she leans closer, a grin breaking through her scowl. "Okay, whoa. You're burying the lead here. Details, Claire. How was it?"
I blush, glancing around to make sure no one's listening. "It was… incredible," I admit, my voice low. "He was so gentle, so… present. He said my name, not hers, and it felt like he really saw me. Like I wasn't just a substitute."
Emily's grin widens, and she nudges my arm. "Go on, sis. Was he all intense CEO in bed, or what? Spill the gossip."
I laugh, despite myself, the tension easing. "He was… both. Intense, but soft too. Like he cared. His hands, Em, they were everywhere, and I just… I melted. It was like a dream."
"Damn," she says, fanning herself dramatically. "Sounds like a dream I'd sign up for. But then what? You're glowing one minute, and now you're a mess over a photo?"
My smile fades, and I sip my latte. "Exactly. It was perfect, but then I found that photo, and it's like Sophia's still in the room with us. I don't know if he's over her."
Emily's face hardens. "That's why you need to get out. You're stronger than this, Claire. Remember who you were before him, before you were fetching his coffee and wearing his ring."
"I don't know who that is anymore," I say, my fingers tightening on the mug. "But he's changing, Em. He defended me at a press event yesterday. Some reporter called me an opportunist, and he shut them down. Said I was his wife, like it meant something."
"That's not love," she says, reaching for my hand. "It's duty. A photo of his ex? That's where his heart is. You're not his rebound, Claire. Promise me you'll protect yourself."
"I'm trying," I say, squeezing her hand. "I just need time to figure this out."
We talk more, about her new art project, our mom's latest gardening obsession, anything to ease the tension. But Ethan's shadow lingers, and as we hug goodbye, Emily whispers, "Don't let him erase you."
Back at the mansion, I'm restless, avoiding the study, the dining room, anywhere Ethan might be. I curl up on the living room couch, scrolling through Twitter to distract myself. The headlines are a mixed bag, "Claire Lawson: The Graceful Mrs. Carter" next to "Carter's Convenient Bride?" I skim the comments, some praising my poise at the gala, others tearing into my "sudden rise." I'm about to close the app when a tweet stops me cold: "Sophia Reynolds spotted in NYC. Trouble for the Carters?"
My breath catches. I click the link, my fingers clumsy, but it's just a grainy photo of a blonde woman, not clear enough to confirm. Still, the words burn, Sophia, here, now. I toss the phone onto the cushion, standing to pace, my heart hammering. Ethan's at the office, unaware, and I'm here, unraveling over a rumor that could be nothing. Or everything. I press my hands to my face, the hope I'd clung to fraying, and wonder if I've been a fool all along.