"You misunderstand, Julian," I said, my voice dangerously soft as blood continued to seep from my sleeve. "I'd hate for my blood to stain your Armani."
Julian's expression turned thunderous.
"Bring the models back," I instructed Hannah.
The three women crept back in, trembling. One of them said timidly, "Miss Ashworth, my mother is a nurse, I can help you with the wound on your hand..."
"That won't be necessary," I cut her off. "Taking care of Mr. Thorne is your only duty."
I lifted my chin, motioning for them to approach him. "Help Mr. Thorne out of his jacket and prepare him for bed."
The nearest model reached out a trembling hand to undo the cufflink on Julian's shirt.
"Don't touch me!" Julian slapped her hand away. The woman staggered back.
He turned to me, his eyes burning with fury. "If you're so determined to play this game, why settle for cheap imitations? Why not just bring Chloe back!"
A sharp pang went through my heart.
Then I smiled.
It was the flawless, empty smile of Miss Ashworth.
"Of course. Whatever you want, Julian."
Julian stared at me, astonished. He clearly hadn't expected me to agree so readily.
He stared at me for a long moment, then spun on his heel and stormed out of the room.
"Father! Father!" Caleb chased after him from the doorway, shouting, but Julian didn't stop.
His footsteps faded down the hall.
Caleb returned, dejected. He was holding a delicate gift box, which he handed to Hannah.
"They're the pistachio macarons you used to love," he said, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Mom, why are you pushing him away? You're tearing this family apart!"
My gaze fell to the box, and I felt the corner of my mouth twist into a sneer.
Pistachio macarons. I used to love them.
Until Chloe accidentally ate one and had a severe allergic reaction, nearly dying from anaphylactic shock.
Julian, furious, had purged the entire kitchen of every nut-based ingredient.
"As long as Chloe lives in this house, there will be no nut products on this estate!" he had roared at the head chef.
And now Caleb was bringing them to me, trying to win me over.
"Get out," I said, my face a cold, blank slate.
"Mom..." Caleb looked at me, wounded. "Don't you want this family anymore? The Thorne Group needs you! Dad and I—we know we were wrong! We’ll do anything to make it up to you. Please, Mom, I’m begging you, just stop this..."
I ignored him and waved a hand at the bodyguard by the door.
"Mr. Caleb, it is time for you to leave. The lady requires her rest."
"Mom!" Caleb tried to protest, but the bodyguard had already escorted him out, politely but firmly.
The room was quiet again. Hannah had already led the models away.
I was finally alone.
A wracking cough echoed in the vast room.
I raised my handkerchief to my mouth. When I pulled it away, it was stained crimson.
Caleb asked if I still wanted this family.
That was a dream I could never have again.
I just wanted to die in peace.
Julian's madness threatened to drag down the entire corporation, endangering my father's business. If not for that, I would have stayed on the East Coast, in the house where I grew up, and quietly waited for death.
Two days later, a familiar, tinkling laugh echoed from the driveway.
I sat by the window, watching as Julian personally helped a woman out of a red Tesla.
Chloe was back.
She was as beautiful as ever.
Her long chestnut hair gleamed in the California sun. Her green eyes were bright with tears.
She sagged against Julian’s chest, the very picture of practiced fragility.
The memory hit me like a physical blow.
It was a year ago. I was pregnant with our second child. I had come back early from an architects' summit.
I wanted to surprise Julian. I slipped quietly into his private studio.
It was a space he had designed especially for me. Every detail was to my liking.
On the sofa in the center of the studio lay the cushions we had bought on our honeymoon.
But what I saw was Julian and Chloe, locked in a passionate kiss on that very sofa.
Their clothes were disheveled. I could see the angry red marks of his passion on Chloe's neck.
I rushed out, screaming, exposing their sordid affair for all to see.
In the ensuing chaos, a sharp pain shot through my abdomen. I felt a warm stream run down my legs.
The baby... my baby...
"Julian..." I instinctively reached for his hand, desperate for help.
But he stormed right past me to cradle Chloe, who had conveniently fainted from the "shock."
"Call the family doctor!" he roared at the servants who came running. "Get a doctor for Chloe!"
Blood. So much blood.
Consciousness frayed, and in the growing haze, I felt my life spilling out of me. I felt my child being washed away in the crimson tide.
The doctor came too late.
I had hemorrhaged. I had miscarried.
The doctor's verdict was even crueler: carrying another child to term would be nearly impossible.
For two whole weeks, I drifted in a stupor.
In my lucid moments, I heard the maids whispering outside on the terrace.
"The master sent Miss Vance to Europe overnight..."
"To that gorgeous place in Switzerland. Didn't want her to be 'inconvenienced' in the slightest."
"It was bound to happen, wasn't it? Ten years. Did they really think no one knew?"
"Ever since that charity gala ten years ago, Miss Vance has had him wrapped around her little finger. At first, he was hesitant because she's his stepsister in name, but then..."
"Then, they were at it almost every time the missus was away on business. All the servants knew. Only the missus was kept in the dark."
Ten years.
A full decade.
I cried until my body ached and my tears ran dry, soaking the pillow.
When I regained some strength, I went to a secluded corner by the sea cliff and planted a small Japanese maple tree.
It was the only grave my lost child would ever have.
Then I went to confront Julian.
"I want a divorce," I said, my voice eerily calm. "And I'm taking Caleb with me."
"Mother!" Caleb rushed in, his face a mask of disbelief. "What are you talking about?"
"It's normal for a man with Dad's status to have women on the side," he blurted out, each word a dagger in my heart. "And Chloe's always been nice to me! She grew up here, of course she doesn't want to leave! Why are you making such a big deal out of this, Mom? It’s not like your position is threatened."
I froze.
I couldn't believe these words were coming from my eighteen-year-old son.
"Caleb! Do not be disrespectful to your mother!" Julian feigned a scolding. Then he turned to me. "Claire, a divorce is out of the question."
My voice trembled. "Caleb... you knew. About your father and Chloe. You've known all along, haven't you?"
Caleb fell silent.
But his silence was all the confirmation I needed.
Even my own son had chosen their side.
That night, I flew back to my father's home on the East Coast.
From then on, I was no longer the brilliant architect I once was.
I became silent, withdrawn. I would sit on the beach for an entire afternoon in winter, letting the biting wind chill me to the bone.
Pneumonia.
Then, pulmonary fibrosis.
The day the doctor confirmed my diagnosis, my father held me and sobbed.
"Claire, my poor daughter. You've suffered too much."
It wasn't until news came that Julian's madness was threatening the stability of the corporation that I agreed to return.
I was dying anyway.
This was the last thing I could do for my father.
The memory shattered, leaving me back in the cold present.
Chloe was standing on the balcony of the master bedroom. It used to be my master bedroom.
I had been moved to the desolate coastal lighthouse cottage.
She saw me passing below and called out, "Throw whatever tantrum you want, Claire. Julian and I grew up together. He will always choose me."
She stroked the Cartier bracelet on her wrist. A deliberate taunt.
That was supposed to be mine.
A wedding anniversary gift from Julian.
Nausea churned in my stomach, but my expression remained a placid, unreadable mask.
I ignored her and continued walking.
"Claire!" Julian's voice cracked behind me.
I stopped.
He came up to me, pointing to the recently emptied cloud album on my phone and the rare edition books I had sold.
"Why did you delete all this?" he demanded, his voice laced with pain. "These are our memories!"
I turned to face him, my eyes empty.
"Mr. Thorne," my voice was glacial. "Some memories are a burden. Far too heavy to carry."
