The Inheritance Clause

Chapter 2: Gilded Cage

Thornhill Manor was not a house; it was a monument to obscene wealth and an eternal marble floor reflecting the crystal chandelier the size of a small car. Silent staff in immaculate uniforms floated through the cavernous rooms like ghosts. In the grand foyer, Anya's single battered suitcase looked blasphemous.

Evelyn's personal assistant, a pinched spindly woman called Ms. Finch, took a good look at Anya's torn jeans and faded band t-shirt with hardly-disguised horror. She said, "Your... quarters, Mrs. Thorne," and trotted off heading with heavy disdain before taking Anya up majestic stairs to an entire wing secluded from Liam's medical suite.

Palatial: all silk and antique furniture, even an empty walk-in closet bigger than Anya's old loft. "Dinner is at eight, and formal attire is required," declared Ms. Finch before she disappeared.

Pressed against the cold, lead-paned window, alone, Anya stared out. Below, manicured gardens unfurled toward a private lake. The reflection returned to her-staring, pale-widely eyed-trapped there. Ten million dollars. Six months. She could endure anything for six months.

Dinner was stifling in a dining hall which could seat fifty people. On one end of the table long enough for a joust, Evelyn picked from a poached salmon.

"From now on, Mrs. Thorne, you will take care of Liam every day," began Evelyn without foreword. "You will read for him, hold his hand, and look appropriately distressed and devoted." The press will get very limited access, soon, and it has to be all-smooth.

"And if he wakes up?" Anya asked as she pushed food around her plate. The knife of Evelyn scraped on fine china. The doctors believe that possibility is . . . remote. Concentrate on the role. Your first public performance is tomorrow. A charity luncheon for the Thornwood Foundation. I trust you can manage not to spill soup on yourself?

The barb hurt Anya remembered the last Thornwood event she had attended with Liam early in their ill-fated marriage. She felt out of place, then too.

Anya was led into Liam's private medical suite, alone under the supervision of a nurse who did not say a word. This did not look so much like a hospital room but rather like a luxury spa, save for the machines surrounding the bed, the soft beeps that were the sounds of the room.

Everything about Liam was impossibly still, his face was paler than pillows, stark against his skin-dark lashes. The powerful CEO who had so coldly dismantled her career now looked fragile. Vulnerable. The sudden twinge in Anya's chest had not been affection for him but rather the sharp, unwelcome ache of recognition. This was the man she had once, foolishly, loved.

Hesitantly, she drew up a chair close. The nurse handed her a leather-bound volume of Keats. "Reading can sometimes help, Mrs. Thorne," the nurse murmured kindly and left.

Anya opened the book, her throat tight. "Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art," she began, her voice trembling. She was reading love and constancy, words that tasted like ash in her mouth. Her gaze kept straying to Liam's face, trying to find a flicker, any sign of the ruthless intelligence beneath.

She reached out, fingers hovering over his hand resting on the crisp sheet; the memory of his touch was once electric, but felt dangerous now. Could he sense this fraud sitting beside him?

And suddenly his index finger twitched.

Anya froze, her breath caught. She stared, heart hammering.

Nothing.

Just a trick of the light, or a random neural misfire. Anya expelled a shuddering breath and lowered her hand without touching him.

&Quot;Rest, Liam," she whispered, the lie thick on her tongue. She closed the book. &Quot;The performance begins tomorrow."

Upon standing to leave, she glanced back. For a second, in the shadows of the monitor light, she could swear his mouth tightened. Just for a little bit.

Impossible.