Chapter 88
Claire's POV
The grandfather clock struck nine, its deep chimes echoing through the living room of the Stanton estate. Father stood up abruptly, his hand shaking slightly as he placed his brandy glass on the side table. The amber liquid sloshed against the crystal, nearly spilling over.
"I'm retiring for the night," he announced, his voice lacking its usual commanding presence.
I watched him closely, noticing how the Hannah situation had aged him almost overnight. His shoulders hunched forward, nothing like the straight-backed titan of industry who'd intimidated boardrooms for decades. Even his steps seemed heavier as he moved toward the doorway.
"Father, are you feeling alright?" I asked, unable to keep the concern from my voice.
He paused, not turning to face me. "Just tired, Claire. We'll discuss the Reynolds account tomorrow."
As he disappeared down the hallway, I felt a strange tightness in my chest. The William Stanton I knew never left business discussions unfinished, especially when they involved potential deals worth millions. His footsteps faded, each one less steady than I remembered.
I lingered in my seat, running my finger along the rim of my untouched wine glass. The burgundy liquid caught the light from the fireplace, casting ruby shadows across the antique coffee table. Father's vulnerability unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. Since I was a child, William Stanton had seemed indestructible—a force of nature rather than a man. Seeing him diminished made my own mortality feel suddenly, uncomfortably real.
With Father gone, the tension between Nathan and me filled the room like a physical presence. He'd been watching me all evening, his gaze following my every movement with an intensity that made my skin crawl. The conversation we'd just had—his probing questions about Daniel, his too-casual mentions of my "reckless behavior"—had left me feeling exposed.
"I think I'll make some tea," I announced, standing abruptly. I needed space from Nathan's scrutinizing eyes.
He didn't respond, just watched me leave with that unsettling half-smile that never quite reached his eyes.
The kitchen was dim, illuminated only by the small light above the stove. I filled the kettle and set it on the burner, the click-click-click of the ignition breaking the silence. The familiar routine was soothing—one of the few normal things in my increasingly complicated life.
"Running away from our conversation?"
I gasped, nearly knocking over a mug as I spun around. Nathan stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the hallway light. My heart pounded so hard I could feel my pulse in my throat.
"Jesus, Nathan! You followed me?" I snapped, my hand pressed to my chest as if I could physically slow my racing heart.
He stepped into the kitchen, his hazel eyes reflecting the soft light. "We weren't finished talking. You can't just walk away when things get uncomfortable." His gaze swept over me, lingering a second too long, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The kettle whistled, its high-pitched scream matching my internal tension. I turned to remove it from the heat. As I poured the steaming water over my tea bag, I felt Nathan's presence behind me, too close for comfort. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper—enveloped me, making the small kitchen feel even more claustrophobic.
"Let me help," he said, reaching around me for a mug. His arm brushed against mine, and I flinched, spilling hot water on my hand.
"Shit!" I hissed, jerking my hand away. The burn was sharp and immediate, sending waves of pain up my arm.
Nathan immediately grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the sink. He turned on the cold water and thrust my hand under the stream. The pain subsided under the cool flow, but Nathan's grip remained firm, his fingers pressing into my skin with unnecessary force.
"You need to be more careful," he murmured, his thumb tracing small circles on my inner wrist. Something about his touch felt wrong, possessive in a way that made my skin crawl. His breath was warm against my ear, carrying the faint scent of the mint mouthwash he always used.
I pulled my hand away, trying not to show how unsettled I felt. "It's fine now. Thanks."
He leaned against the counter, studying me with those unnerving eyes. His gaze was clinical, as though I were a specimen under glass. "How's your bodyguard doing? I didn't see him tonight."
The casual way he asked made me instantly suspicious. There was an undercurrent to his question, a subtle accusation. I busied myself with my tea, adding a sugar cube and watching it dissolve in the amber liquid. "Daniel's fine. He drove me here and then went home."
"Daniel," Nathan repeated, letting the name hang in the air between us. His tongue clicked against his teeth when he said it, like he was tasting something unpleasant. "You two seem... close."
I kept my expression neutral as I added a splash of milk to my tea, watching the cloud of white swirl and expand in the hot liquid. "He's good at his job."
"Maybe too good," Nathan suggested, his voice dropping lower. He moved slightly, blocking my path to the door. "Have you considered replacing him? I know someone who—"
"No," I cut him off sharply, then softened my tone when I saw his eyes narrow. "It's too much hassle to break in someone new. Besides, after the accident, I trust his abilities."
Nathan's eyes narrowed slightly. The kitchen light cast shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones. "Trust is a rare commodity for you, Claire."
I sipped my tea, using the moment to gather my thoughts. The liquid burned my tongue, but I welcomed the distraction. "Is there something you want to say, Nathan?"
He stared at me for a long moment, his gaze moving from my eyes to my neck where I knew a faint mark still remained from Daniel's mouth. His lips pressed into a thin line before he shook his head with a small, unsettling smile. "No. Nothing at all."
I watched him leave, my stomach knotted with unease. The sound of his footsteps retreating down the hallway did nothing to lessen the tension that had gathered in my shoulders. Something wasn't right with Nathan. He'd always been protective, but lately, it felt different—darker somehow.
Back in my room, I examined the old-fashioned lock on my door with skepticism. These vintage doors in the Stanton estate were more for show than security—Father had always insisted on maintaining the mansion's "historical integrity," which meant original hardware throughout. I turned the brass key anyway, knowing full well these locks could be opened with minimal effort by anyone who grew up in this house. Nathan and I had learned to pick them as children, sneaking into each other's rooms for midnight adventures.
I leaned against the door, exhaling slowly. The solid wood felt reassuring against my back, a flimsy barrier between me and whatever game Nathan was playing. My phone felt heavy in my hand as I typed out a simple message to Daniel: "You there?"
I waited, staring at the screen for ten minutes, fifteen, twenty. No response. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, tempted to send another message, but I deleted the first one instead. The blue glow of the screen illuminated my face in the darkened room, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Whatever was happening between Daniel and me needed to stay private, especially with Nathan acting so strangely.
I headed to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as the shower warmed up. Steam filled the room, fogging the mirror and creating a cocoon of warmth. Under the hot spray, I examined my body—bruises and marks from Daniel's hands and mouth still visible on my skin. A purplish mark bloomed just above my right breast, another at the crook of my neck. My fingers traced them gently, remembering how they got there.
The water cascaded over me, washing away the stress of the day but not the memories. Daniel's back had been marked too—long scratches from my nails as he moved inside me. I could still feel the ridges of his muscles under my fingertips, the heat of his skin against mine. I closed my eyes, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through me at the memory. My fingers unconsciously drifted to the mark on my chest, and I found myself smiling.
After my shower, I wrapped myself in a plush bathrobe and was towel-drying my hair when I heard a knock at the door. I froze, listening. Water dripped from my hair onto the carpet, each drop seemingly amplified in the silence.
"Claire? Are you awake?" Nathan's voice filtered through the door, soft but insistent.
I hesitated, then called out, "Yes, just got out of the shower." The words stuck in my throat, coming out more breathless than I intended.
The door handle turned, and to my horror, it opened despite the lock. Nathan stepped inside, holding a steaming mug. The hallway light silhouetted him, making it hard to read his expression.
"What the hell?" I clutched my robe tighter, acutely aware of how exposed I was. "I didn't say you could come in! And I locked that door!"
"I knocked," he said simply, as if that explained everything. He closed the door behind him, cutting off the escape route. "These old locks never worked properly. You know that." He held out the mug. "I brought you some chamomile tea. It helps with sleep."
"You could have waited for me to open the door," I said, backing away slightly. The carpet was damp under my bare feet, making me feel off-balance.