Chapter Three: Claire
1087 Words
The next morning, Ethan awoke with a dull throb behind his eyes and the faint memory of a warm hand catching his fall. He rubbed his temple as the sun slipped between the gaps of the penthouse curtains. Something about the night lingered—like the final notes of a song fading on the wind. Not the music, nor the drink, nor the glint of crystal chandeliers, but her.
That waitress.
He didn’t know her name. But her voice had stuck with him, sharp and concerned, refusing to coddle or bow under the weight of his name. That alone made her unforgettable.
He showered, dressed, and went about his day as if nothing had changed. But something had. He caught himself staring out the window during meetings, his mind drifting. Marcella, sharp as ever, noticed.
“You good, boss?”
“I’m fine,” he replied, eyes distant.
That evening, Ethan returned to the Velvet Room. Alone. Sober.
The hostess recognized him but didn’t fawn. She offered the same booth in the back. He accepted.
An hour passed. He pretended to review financial reports on his tablet while his eyes scanned the room. The music was different tonight—a soft piano trio humming through the air.
Then she appeared.
She wasn’t in uniform this time. A soft blue dress hugged her figure, modest but elegant. Her auburn hair was tied in a loose bun again, and her hazel eyes scanned the room until they met his.
He stood.
“You followed me?” she asked, arching a brow.
“No,” he said, then smirked faintly. “I came back hoping I’d see you again.”
She folded her arms. “Why?”
“Because you’re the first person in a long time who told me the truth… without blinking.”
She studied him. “You were drunk. You barely remember me.”
“I remember enough,” he said. “Like how you weren’t afraid to care.”
She hesitated, then sat across from him. “So, what? You want to thank me with a drink?”
“No,” he said honestly. “I want to know your name.”
Her lips curled slightly. “Claire.”
“Claire,” he repeated, as if trying it on his tongue. “Beautiful name.”
She shook her head. “Flattery won’t work on me.”
“Then tell me what will.”
Claire sighed. “A genuine conversation. One where you don’t use your charm or your wallet. Just… be a person.”
He blinked, surprised. It had been years since anyone asked that of him.
Every girl he was introduced to by his friends were obviously after his wealth, they were desperate, he noticed that at every first meeting.
So he nodded.
And for the first time in ages, Ethan Blackwood had a real conversation. It was relieving, felt half emptied of a burden. He never knew he needed that until that evening.
He has been so disclosing with his feelings ever since he got divorced, not even to his friends, the press that were always requesting for an interview or even to His executive assistant. His heart has always been heavy.
They talked about music. Claire loved jazz. He confessed he never had time for hobbies but once played the piano as a child. She told him about her younger sister, Emma, whom she was raising after their parents died in a car crash. He shared that he’d lost his father too in a plane crash, and that the business world was his only therapy.
Claire didn’t pity him. She listened.
Their words danced back and forth like an elegant waltz—guarded at first, then freer. Hours passed unnoticed. By the time they left the booth, the club was nearly empty.
Ethan offered her a ride. She declined.
“I walk. It clears my head.”
“At this hour?” he asked, glancing at the clock.
“I live nearby. And I carry pepper spray,” she added with a mischievous glint.
“Can I walk you?”
She paused. “You sure you don’t have an empire to manage?”
“It’ll survive the night.”
So they walked. Quiet streets. Cold air. City lights casting long shadows. He offered her his coat halfway through, and for the first time, she accepted something from him. He was surprised but didn't utter a word.
At her building’s stoop, she turned to him.
“Thanks for tonight,” she said.
“I should be thanking you,” he replied.
Claire hesitated, then added, “Most guys like you… they don’t come back. They don’t listen.”
“I’m not most guys,” he said.
“No. You’re not.”
And then she went inside.
Ethan stood there for a full minute before walking away.
The next few weeks became a quiet rhythm of stolen moments. A coffee together before her shift. A text at midnight. An occasional walk home. There were no declarations, no promises, just a fragile thread growing stronger with each conversation.
Nights after nights, day after day—their closeness deepens slowly. The bond between them became tight, it was beginning to seem like they've known eachother for a long time. But Ethan wants things to happen naturally between them, he wants to give it time, he never wanted something out of desperation or lust this time. He wanted love. A true natural feelings between them.
Marcella noticed the change first. She would always be the first to notice, her level of sensitivity is high and Ethan believes she is the right choice for a position like executive assistant.
“You’re humming,” she said one morning.
“I am not.”
“You are. And you smiled in the elevator. Twice.”
Ethan didn’t deny it. He simply replied, “Some things are changing.”
But change never comes without consequence.
One rainy evening, Claire arrived late for their usual walk. Her eyes were red.
“What happened?” Ethan asked.
“Emma got into a fight at school. She’s… she’s struggling.”
He guided her into a quiet café, letting her vent. He didn’t offer solutions. Just listened.
When she finished, she asked, “Why do you keep showing up?”
“Because you matter,” he said.
And there, in the middle of the quiet café, she reached across the table and took his hand.
It wasn’t a grand gesture. But to Ethan, it was everything.
- Writer
