Chapter 11

Chapter 11
Clara's POV

After discussing the details of the proposal with Sarah, I went straight to the museum.

I walked through the museum doors. Hope had clung to me when I left her with Mrs. Kowalski. Her small fingers gripped my collar. I'd peeled them away gently, kissed her forehead, promised I'd be back before dinner.

The lobby was quiet. The staff moving through their routines. I took the elevator to the administrative floor. Found the Human Resources office tucked behind a frosted glass door.

Gloria Brennan sat behind the desk. Mid-forties. Reading glasses on a chain. She looked up when I entered and something flickered across her face. Not quite sympathy. More like discomfort.

"Ms. Hayes. Please sit."

I sat. Placed my bag on the floor. Kept my hands folded in my lap.

Gloria pulled a folder from her drawer. Opened it without meeting my eyes.

"There's been a change to your position."

The words landed heavy. Expected but still painful.

"What kind of change?"

"The board has requested a temporary reassignment. You'll be working with the archive department. Assisting with the French court fashion exhibition."

I kept my voice level. "Dr. Morrison hired me as chief conservator."

"And that position remains available. Once the board completes their review process."

"Review of what?"

Gloria's fingers tightened on the folder. "I'm not at liberty to discuss the details. But it's standard procedure for new hires with... complex backgrounds."

Complex backgrounds. The phrase hung between us like smoke.

"How long will this review take?"

"That depends on the board's findings."

Which meant it could take forever. Or until Eleanor Sinclair decided I'd been punished enough.

I stood. "Where do I report?"

Gloria handed me a key card. "Basement level three. Archive room seven. Someone will meet you there."

Nobody met me there.

I found the room myself. Down two flights of stairs because the elevator required different access. Through a hallway that smelled like old paper and neglect. The archive room was at the end. Small. Cold. Lit by a single fluorescent tube that buzzed like an angry wasp.

Twenty boxes lined the walls. Each one labeled in French. Eighteenth century court dress. Accessories. Undergarments. All waiting to be cataloged and transferred to the Sinclair Group's curatorial team.

A metal desk sat in the corner. One chair. A legal pad. A box of pencils. No computer. No phone line. No heat.

I set down my bag. Pulled out my phone. No signal.

Perfect.

I opened the first box. Silk taffeta. Hand embroidery. The kind of piece that belonged in a climate controlled case, not a basement that felt damp against my skin.

I pulled on cotton gloves. Started documenting. Item number. Description. Condition. Provenance when I could find it.

The work was good. Precise. But my back ached within an hour. The chair was too low. The desk too high. I kept shifting position, trying to ease the strain.

Now I was just tired. Different kind of tired. The kind that came from fighting every day and knowing the fight was far from over.

At noon I went upstairs. The staff cafeteria was crowded. Lunch rush. I grabbed a sandwich and looked for a place to sit.

I saw them immediately. Three conservators from yesterday. Sitting at a table near the windows. One of them glanced up. Saw me. Said something to the others.

They all looked down at their phones.

I stood there holding my tray. Watching them pretend I didn't exist.

I could walk over. Force them to acknowledge me. Make them uncomfortable.

Or I could find an empty table. Eat alone. Save my energy for battles that mattered.

I chose the empty table.

The sandwich tasted like cardboard. I ate it anyway. Needed the fuel. Kept my eyes on my phone. Checked messages. Nothing urgent. Just Leo asking how my morning went.

I typed back. Fine. Talk tonight.

Someone laughed at the conservators' table. I didn't look up.

At six I finished cataloging forty pieces. My notes were thorough. Professional. Better than anything the Sinclair Group would get from their own team.

I loaded the documentation onto a cart. Pushed it toward the main gallery. The reception was already underway. Champagne. Catered appetizers. People in expensive clothes celebrating the exhibition launch.

I wheeled my cart through the crowd. Felt eyes follow me. Heard whispers.

"That's her."

"The one fighting the Sinclairs."

"I heard she tried to trap him with a baby."

I kept my face neutral. Professional. Like I couldn't hear every word.

Alison Ross stood at the transfer station. Sinclair Group's chief curator. We'd worked together when I was Julian's assistant. She'd been warm then. Asked my advice on acquisitions. Invited me to gallery openings.

Now she looked at me like I was a stranger.

"Ms. Hayes." Her voice was crisp. Cold. "I need to inspect these before we accept transfer."

"Of course."

She pulled out her phone. Started photographing each item on my list. Asked questions designed to undermine my expertise.

"Are you certain about this condition assessment?"

"Yes."

"We'll need to verify that."

"I documented everything according to standard protocol."

"The Sinclair Group has its own standards."

Standards I'd helped write. But I didn't say that. Just stood there while she photographed my work like I was a suspect.

Her assistants whispered behind her. Loud enough to hear.

"She used to work directly for Mr. Sinclair."

"Must be awkward now."

"I heard she's living in Brooklyn. Can you imagine?"

Alison signed the transfer form. Handed it to me without a word. Turned away like I'd already disappeared.

I pushed the empty cart back to the archive. Locked the door. Climbed the stairs.

Outside the air was cold. February wind cutting through my coat. I pulled out my phone.

Unknown number.

You were followed today. Black coat. Works for Eleanor. Be careful.

I looked around. Saw nothing suspicious. But I felt it. That prickling awareness of being watched.

I walked fast. Three blocks to the subway. Down the steps. Through the turnstile. Onto the platform.

A man in a black coat stood at the far end. When I looked at him he turned away.

I got on the train. Sat near the door. Watched him through the window. He stayed on the platform.

The train pulled away. I watched the station disappear. Thought about Hope. About Mrs. Kowalski's apartment. About how many people Eleanor had watching me.

My phone rang. Leo.

"Where are you?"

"Subway. Heading home."

"Sarah needs to see you tonight. Can you come to my place after you get Hope?"

"What happened?"

"They filed motions. Lots of them. Sarah wants to go through everything."

I closed my eyes. "I'll be there by eight."

Mrs. Kowalski had Hope fed and ready for bed. I paid her. Thanked her. Locked my door. Installed the new security system Leo had brought over.

Hope reached for me. I lifted her. Breathed in her smell. Baby shampoo and milk.

"Nobody's taking you," I whispered. "I promise."

At Leo's apartment Sarah spread papers across the dining table. Motions. Petitions. Legal documents that all said the same thing.

Eleanor wanted Hope.

"They're claiming you're unfit," Sarah said. "Citing your flight to Paris as evidence of instability. Your current employment situation as proof of financial insecurity."

"I have a job."

"As a temporary archive assistant. Not exactly what you were hired for."

"That's Eleanor's doing."

"I know. But we need to prove it." Sarah pulled out another document. "They've also filed a motion to restrict your custody pending the hearing. Supervised visitation only."

My hands went cold. "They can't do that."

"They can try. We'll fight it. But Clara, you need to understand what you're up against. Eleanor has unlimited resources. The best lawyers money can buy. Political connections. Media influence."

"What do I have?"

Sarah looked at me. "The truth. And a very good attorney."

I wanted to believe her. But I'd spent too long running to think truth was enough.

"What do we do?"

"We document everything. Every instance of harassment. Every attempt to undermine your employment. Every threat." She pushed a folder toward me. "And we file our own motion. Harassment. Abuse of process. Tortious interference."

"Will it work?"

"It'll make them uncomfortable. Which is a start."

I left Leo's apartment at ten. Hope asleep in her carrier. The streets were quiet. Cold. I walked fast, checking over my shoulder every few blocks.

At home I locked the door. Set the security system. Put Hope in her bassinet.

But alone was exactly how I felt.