Clara's phone illuminated the twilight cab:
V.CHUANG >> Status report? Did the beast grant parole?
Her fingers trembled over the keyboard:
C.WINDSOR >> Denied. Exploring alternatives.
The response detonated instantly:
V.CHUANG >> Told you! That dragon hoards treasures. Even broken ones.
Clara pressed her forehead against the chilled window glass. Raindrops mirrored tears she wouldn't shed. Just survive until Saturday, she promised herself. Visit Green-Wood Cemetery. Tell them everything.
The memory struck like shrapnel—eleven years old, crushed beneath her mother's final embrace. Leather seats smelling of lavender perfume and iron-blood. The Chrysler's roof crumpling like origami.
"Cover your eyes, sweetheart." Mama's whisper against her ear. "Don't look at—"
Then—silence. Three days of ventilator hisses before Daddy followed Mama into the dark. Now Clara avoided high-collared blouses; the constriction resurrected that fatal embrace.
Should've died with them. The thought crystallized—sharp and shameful. No foster homes. No cafeteria bullies. No becoming Sebastian Hartwell's stress-relief toy. Just... peace.
Tap-tap-tap
She jolted upright. Sebastian loomed over her desk, Armani overcoat dusted with November rain.
"Status on Geneva briefs?"
His demand died mid-sentence. Clara's tear-streaked face glistened in monitor light—Venus de Milo shattered by barbarians. Sebastian's hand flew to his sternum, as if catching a bullet.
Pain? Reluctance? Trapped fury? His diagnostic mind raced. Why does this wound bleed?
"Apologies, sir." Clara swiped at her cheeks. "The Ritz-Carlton suite had reservation conflicts. Revised itineraries are emailed and..." She produced a Smythson dossier. "...hardcopy."
Sebastian took the file. His knuckles whitened. Blood roared in his ears—a primal dissonance.
"Dismissed," he stated.
Yet as she turned, the words erupted—volcanic and unbidden: "Dinner?"
Silence descended. Sebastian froze, appalled. Invitation? To nourishment? The concept felt alien as mercy.
Clara tilted her head—a sparrow hearing distant thunder. "Pardon, sir?"
"Nothing." He vanished into his office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle Degas prints.
Rolls-Royce Phantom purred through Manhattan's diamond district. Wu Yan monitored the rearview: Sebastian staring at raindrops chasing each other down tinted windows. Uncharacteristic. Dangerous.
Withdrawal symptoms? Sebastian dissected the anomaly. Two nights of Clara Windsor rewiring my reward pathways? The hypothesis sickened him.
They ascended serpentine roads toward Hartwell Manor—a Gilded Age monstrosity perched above the Hudson. Ten minutes through manicured labyrinths:
Topiary griffins snarling at twilight
Century-old oaks tortured into arthritic sculptures
Blood-red chrysanthemums spelling HARTWELL in botanical bravado
Groundskeeping costs alone could fund small nations.
Eleanor Hartwell awaited in the solarium. Moonlight silvered her Vera Wang twist-front gown as she sipped Fortnum & Mason Earl Grey. No glance spared for her heir.
"The prodigal returns," she remarked, cup hovering at lips.
"Mother." Sebastian collapsed onto a Biedermeier sofa, knees splaying.
Eleanor's teaspoon tinged against bone china—a dueling pistol cocking. "Posture."
He complied instantly. Only Eleanor commanded such obedience. The former Cecilia Chau—heiress to Hong Kong's opium-trade fortune—had bought her way into American aristocracy. Perfection was nonnegotiable.
"Father?"
"Pebble Beach Pro-Am. Golf and gossip."
"Grandfather?"
"Curating your bridal catalogue."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. Silas Hartwell's retirement hobbies:
Forging Renaissance manuscripts
Breeding endangered falcons
Pimping his grandson to bankrupt nobility
The front door groaned open. Silas entered, cheeks ruddy from cold. "Sebastian! How went the courtship? Bianca Ling possesses excellent childbearing hips!"
Sebastian's mind flashed to Clara's cheek—reddened by Bianca's strike. A growl vibrated in his chest.
"You unleashed that harpy?"
"Har—?"
"Had security eject her. Purchased TMZ exclusives on her hedge fund malfeasance."
Silas's cane clattered on marble. Eleanor laughed—a crystal chime. "Cease matchmaking, Father. My son prefers stock portfolios over partners."
"Prefer?" Sebastian muttered. Not entirely accurate.
Silas purpled. "No heir? You'd let Hartwell Dominion crumble?!"
Eleanor shrugged. "Impale him on your sword if you wish. Celibacy won't bleed out."
As Silas stormed upstairs, Sebastian attacked a Satsuma orange. Long fingers shredded rind—juice spraying his Charvet shirt cuffs.
Eleanor's teacup stilled. Her fastidious son... peeling fruit? The apocalypse neared.
Thud.
A peach-blossom pink tube rolled from Sebastian's pocket. Eleanor scooped it up. Label: GYNECOLOGICAL ANALGESIC - VAGINAL APPLICATION ONLY.
She arched a sculpted brow. "Genital injury?"
Sebastian snatched it back—Clara's hotel-room ointment. Forgotten contraband.
"Or perhaps..." Eleanor's smile turned surgical. "...gender reassignment?"
He pocketed the evidence as the butler announced dinner. Eleanor paused at the dining room threshold, her whisper colder than Hudson frost:
"Don't break your toy before I appraise it."