Chapter 12 His sister's feelings
Clara’s POV
(Flashback To One Of The Family dinners)
They called it a family dinner, but it felt like a tribunal. The chandelier threw brittle light over my plate, turning every face into a mask. Father spoke in the same small, courteous tones he used for the boardroom, but the meaning behind his words was obvious: strength belonged to the men who could take it, and women had roles to perform.
I kept my hands folded in my lap the way Mother had taught me when she was still alive, though Mother was not mine by blood, she had been the first woman to show me that softness could be a form of stubbornness. Here, I learned quickly that softness would be used against you, polished into an accusation of weakness.
Across the table, my brothers bickered. Lucian, as always, sat as if the room were only a line of chess pieces. Gawin leaned back, smug and loud, playing his role like an heir who had been promised the throne at birth. Father smiled and watched, the way a chess player stares as opponents make their foolish moves. I tasted resentment like iron in my mouth.
“Clara,” Father said at one point, as if testing me, “what would you propose to increase our branch’s charity outreach? It might be good for public relations, with the shareholders watching.”
The question was polite, ceremonial. He knew I could manage programs and budgets. He knew I had the education. But it was a game: ask a woman to show competence, then reward the man when the idea was executed.
“Expand the vocational training,” I answered with a clear voice, playing along with him. “Partner with local colleges and set up mentorship programs. Measure outcomes quarterly so our donors -” I stopped, aware the room had gone silent not to hear the plan, but to measure my voice.
Gawin snorted and gulped down his wine. “That’s adorable. Charity for show. You want to run numbers, sister? Leave the heavy things to people who can stomach risk.” His smile was a blade, but I was used to it, so I dodged the blade easily.
Father’s lips twitched, just enough to show his interest. “A sound proposal. Lucian, thoughts?” The purpose was clear and not accidental. They wanted my work validated by a man. That was the way of life in the Smithfield's residence.
Lucian’s hand brushed the stem of his glass; his silence was a verdict. “Approve it,” he said finally, slow and indifferent. His voice carried more authority than any of the speeches Father made. The table’s attention shifted to him like moths to a dangerous flame.
When Lucian agreed, the praise for the plan would be recorded as his leadership. When he disagreed, my proposal would be dismissed as naïve. That was the family code.
After dinner, while the men debated shareholders and heirs in the study, I lingered at the dining table. The servants had withdrawn, leaving the house echoing with the tail-end of our conversation. I took my coffee slowly, letting the warmth caress the exhaustion in my chest. I had learned early that patience could be a weapon if used quietly.
Footsteps came down the hall. Fathers were gentle, but Gawin's steps were loud. When the door closed behind them, I rose and padded toward the library. Lucian was there alone, his shadow as still as a statue. He rarely smiled, and tonight his face looked pale under the reading lamp.
For a moment I considered not speaking. He was dangerous in the way that quiet things are; a blade wrapped in velvet. Then something in me decided I was tired of being a footnote.
“Lucian,” I called out to him softly, not wanting to announce myself like an intruder. He looked at me, his eyes cutting through the dim.
“You should not be up,” he said instead of asking how I was. His voice was quick, the only softness in it an old habit of courtesy.
“I could say the same for you,” I replied, because honesty being alone hurts more than silence in the house. “You left the table in a hurry.”
He studied me for a second, then set his cup down with a quiet clink. “It’s none of your business, sister.” He tried to return to the paper in his hand.
“It is,” I insisted. “Because I heard Father. He’s planning to give Gawin the company.” I forced the word out. “You will be asked to make concessions. To hand over what your mother built.”
The corner of his mouth, if one could call it a corner, tightened. “Let him test me,” he said, but there was something like steel beneath the phrasing. “He underestimates me.”
“And he underestimates me too,” I said. The confession felt dangerous. My fingers found the seam of my sleeve and tugged. “He thinks a woman cannot inherit. I cannot represent the company. That I should be a bride or a trophy, not a shareholder.”
Lucian’s eyes finally flicked up. For a bare heartbeat, the look he gave me was not the expressionless face but something raw. “Why are you telling me this? We were both born out of wedlock. I can't help you,” he said with a plain voice.
I knew he was going to say this. I was also aware that if I wanted to get allies, I had to offer them what they desired the most, or I could search for their weakness and exploit it.
Lucian acts like he doesn't have a weakness, but the truth is, we all do. We just never acknowledge it as our weakness. I spent several sleepless nights researching him and monitoring him closely. I was a stalker, the type you'd never doubt. And I found her, the girl he met years ago, she was waiting tables in a little town. Lucian went into hiding after his mother's death, and he crossed paths with the girl. The girl looked beautiful, and according to my source, he was still searching for him.
To get Lucian to fulfill my bidding, I know what I must do. I have to find the girl before he finds out.
What was her name again?….. something Magnus….