Chapter 3

Claire's POV

A knock at my door interrupted my thoughts. I wrapped myself in a robe and found Nathan, my half-brother, leaning against the doorframe.

"You shouldn't save that girl," he said without preamble.

I pulled him inside. "How do you know about that?"

Nathan, the fifth child and William's acknowledged illegitimate son, smiled thinly. "I know everything that happens in this house. Alexander is panicking."

"The girl deserves care."

"She's nobody. Why risk getting involved?"

I studied Nathan's face. Despite our different mothers, we'd always been closer than Alexander and I. He understood the ruthlessness required to survive in our family.

"Sometimes doing the right thing is also the smart thing," I said.

Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you care about 'right'?"

I turned away, staring out at the manicured grounds of our family estate. A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the wintry air. This place consumed people, hollowed them out until nothing remained but ambition and calculation.

"I'm going to the hospital," I announced.

"Why?" Nathan looked genuinely confused.

"To meet this Daniel Brown."

At Seattle Memorial, I stood outside the ICU, watching through the glass as a tall man with military-short hair held the hand of a pale, unconscious young woman. The machines around her beeped steadily, the only sign she was still alive.

Daniel Brown. Up close, he was even more imposing than at the charity auction. His broad shoulders were hunched now, his face a mask of grief and rage.

When he turned and saw me watching, those ice-blue eyes narrowed. He released his sister's hand and strode toward the door.

My heart raced as he approached, his gaze locked on mine. Every instinct told me to retreat, but I stood my ground.

"You're Claire Stanton," he said, voice low and controlled. "I saw you at the auction with Victoria Reynolds."

"I'm here about your sister."

His jaw tightened. "What do you have to do with Sarah?"

The corridor suddenly felt too small, the air charged between us. Up close, I could see the faint scar above his right eyebrow, the stubble darkening his jaw. My skin tingled with awareness.

"The car that hit her belongs to my family," I said.

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "So you're here to what? Buy me off? Make this go away?"

"No, I'm here to help."

Daniel stepped closer, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "People like you don't help people like us without wanting something in return."

I swallowed hard, suddenly very conscious of how close he stood, the heat radiating from his body. For the first time in years, I felt off-balance, my careful control slipping.

"What I want," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady, "is to make sure your sister gets the care she needs."

"Mr. Brown," Emily started, her voice measured, "we've reviewed the details of the accident. While the legal complexities are being sorted out, our primary concern is your sister. We are prepared to offer immediate compensation for her care."

Daniel's jaw tightened, his arms crossed over his chest. Even in a simple black jacket and jeans, he looked imposing, like a wall I couldn't push through. "I understand what you're saying," he said, his tone low and clipped. "But no thanks. You can leave now."

"Daniel, think about Sarah. Long-term treatment isn't cheap. This could help."

His gaze snapped to me, sharp and unyielding. "I'll figure out a way to take care of her myself."

I held his stare, my fingers brushing the edge of my tailored blazer. Frustration bubbled inside me, but I kept my voice smooth. "I admire your resolve. But pride won't pay hospital bills." I slid my business card toward him. "When you change your mind—and you will—call me. Just know, by then, things between us won't be so... friendly."

He picked up the card, his rough fingers lingering on it for a split second before tearing it in half. "Get out of this hospital, Ms. Stanton. I don’t need your games."

I stood frozen, his words cutting deeper than I’d expected. My chest tightened—not with anger, but with something else, something I refused to name. He turned and strode away, the hospital room door closing with a heavy thud behind him.

I glanced at Emily, her face pale, eyes wide with uncertainty. “Ms. Stanton, what do we do now?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Let’s go,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. I grabbed my coat, and we headed for the elevator.

The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped inside. As they closed, sealing us in the small, mirrored box, Emily turned to me, her hands fidgeting.

I adjusted the cuff of my sleeve, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "We wait. He'll come to me."

Later that day, in the back of my chauffeured sedan, the leather seat cool against my legs, I stared out at the rainy Seattle streets. Emily's concern replayed in my mind, but I brushed it aside. Daniel would break. They always did. Still, my fingers tapped restlessly on my knee, a nervous habit I hadn't indulged in years. Why did I care so much about his next move?

Days passed, and I buried myself in work. But every quiet moment, my thoughts betrayed me. My attention would drift from spreadsheets and contracts to the memory of his defiance, the unwavering dignity in his posture even when asking for help. I hated how my carefully constructed walls seemed to crumble just thinking about him, how my usually steady hands would pause mid-task, betraying a distraction I couldn't afford. During meetings, I'd catch myself missing key points, my mind reconstructing the contours of his face instead of focusing on profit margins. This wasn't just inconvenient—it was dangerous.

It was late, nearly dusk, when Emily called. "Ms. Stanton, Daniel Brown is here. He's been waiting in the lobby for hours."

My pen halted mid-signature, a drop of ink bleeding into the contract beneath it. A rush of anticipation replaced the afternoon's tedium so quickly it left me momentarily disoriented. "Bring him to my office."