CHAPTER FOUR
790 Words
Clara
Clara Moreau woke before the light, as she always did, her mind already arranging the day into clean, manageable pieces. The villa was quiet, obedient at this hour. She liked it best this way—before voices intruded, before needs arose.
She rose from bed and crossed to the window, pulling the curtain aside. Snow lay pristine across the grounds, untouched, flawless. It pleased her. Order pleased her.
Behind her, Ethan shifted, the mattress dipping slightly. He did not wake. He rarely did anymore when she moved. Clara studied his reflection in the glass—the line of his jaw softened by sleep, the faint crease between his brows that never quite disappeared. Even at rest, he looked burdened.
She frowned.
That crease was new.
Downstairs, the house was already stirring by the time Clara joined the family for breakfast. Staff moved efficiently, trays appearing, chairs pulled out. The children tumbled in noisily, shedding coats and complaints.
And there she was.
Nina stood near the table, helping the youngest with a scarf, her face soft with patience. She wore a simple dress, nothing remarkable, and yet the room seemed to adjust around her presence.
Clara’s eyes narrowed slightly.
She watched Ethan enter moments later. Watched the way his gaze found Nina without effort, without permission. Watched the way his mouth softened before he caught himself.
Clara set her napkin on her lap with deliberate calm.
“So,” she said brightly, “what’s the plan for today?”
The children answered at once—sledding, cocoa, the big hill near the trees. Nina laughed, trying to organize the chaos.
Ethan said nothing, but his eyes stayed on Nina.
Clara reached across the table and touched his wrist. Not gently.
“Ethan,” she said. “Did you hear me?”
He blinked. “Sorry. What?”
Her fingers tightened briefly before she withdrew them. “Focus,” she said softly. “It’s rude to drift.”
His jaw clenched. “I’m here.”
Are you? she thought.
Later, Clara found her mother in the sunroom, sipping tea and reading messages on her phone.
“The caregiver,” Clara said, seating herself opposite. “Where did you find her?”
Miss Moreau glanced up. “She came recommended. Good references. Why?”
“She’s familiar,” Clara said carefully. “To Ethan.”
Miss Moreau raised a brow. “Is that a problem?”
“It could be.”
Her mother studied her for a moment longer, then shrugged. “She’s staff. Don’t give her more significance than she deserves.”
But Clara already had.
That afternoon, she watched from the balcony as Nina and the children played in the snow. Ethan stood nearby, close enough to join, far enough to pretend he wasn’t watching.
The distance between them was thin. Charged.
Clara’s fingers curled around the railing.
She remembered the first time she had seen Ethan—sharp-eyed, out of place, hungry for more than he could name. She had liked that about him. The way he looked at her as if she were a door he hadn’t known existed.
She had opened it.
She descended the stairs and stepped into the cold, heels sinking slightly into snow.
“Nina,” she called.
The girl turned, startled.
“Yes, Mrs. Moreau?”
Clara smiled. “You don’t need to call me that. Clara is fine.”
“Clara,” Nina echoed.
“I wanted to remind you,” Clara continued lightly, “that we value discretion here. Privacy is very important to my family.”
Nina nodded. “Of course.”
“And boundaries,” Clara added, her gaze flicking briefly to Ethan. “Especially with the children.”
“Of course.”
The answer was perfect. Too perfect.
That night, as the house settled and the children slept, Clara lay awake beside Ethan. He faced away from her, shoulders tense even in stillness.
“Do you know her?” Clara asked into the dark.
His breath caught. Just barely.
“We grew up in the same town,” he said.
“How quaint.”
He turned toward her then, eyes shadowed. “It was a long time ago.”
Clara reached out, tracing the line of his chest. “The past has a way of resurfacing,” she murmured. “But you know where you belong.”
He did not answer.
Clara withdrew her hand.
She stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, thoughts sharp and relentless. She had not clawed her way through life to lose what was hers to a girl who smelled of snow and humility.
Outside, the wind rose, rattling the windows.
Clara smiled to herself in the darkness.
She would not be surprised again.
- Writer
