"A solution."
"That's what I do. You heard it before, I can’t help but solve issues. Even if it’s..." His voice trailed off, and he took another swig of his glass. "It wasn't love. It was more like an unspoken transaction. I offered stability and a chance to maintain her name within her elite circles despite her family’s declining fame. She offered a facade of a family. I thought it would be enough."
"When did you realize it wasn't?"
"On several occasions, for example, the day I came home and found Millie crying with a scraped knee. Victoria told her to stop being dramatic and walked away. Another day, when Millie wanted them to play together, Victoria shooed her away without giving her as much as a side glance." His voice went flat. "If she could leave my daughter bleeding and hurt, without being bothered..."
I felt really sorry for Millie, for him, for the whole tangled mess of grief and bad decisions.
"Millie told me," I said quietly, "the night she came to my apartment. That her aunt said you wouldn't care if she disappeared."
He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they glistened in the low light. "I'll never forgive myself for not seeing it sooner."
The sincerity in his voice made me want to offer him a comforting embrace, and I had to use all my might to fight it. Before I could stop myself, I was speaking.
"I understand. What it's like to feel disposable."
He looked up, waiting.
I shouldn't do this. This wasn't professional. But his eyes, his tired, honest, patient eyes, made it impossible to stop.
"My mother left when I was twelve. Just a note on the table saying she needed air." I wrapped my hands around the glass,grounding myself. "She came back six months later, but she was broken. And I spent years thinking that if I could just be good enough, helpful enough, I could fix her. Make her stay."
"Did it work?"
"She died when I was nineteen." The words came out steady, steadier than I felt. "So no. It didn't work. But I still catch myself trying to earn things that should just be given."
I failed to find the words to describe what happened with mom, but I could feel the distance between us collapsing into something more intimate. I became suddenly aware of how close our hands were on the granite countertop, of the way he was looking at me like I'd handed him something precious, fragile, and real.
"Claire..." He said my name with so much meaning, more than I ever could’ve imagined.
"Nathaniel." I didn't know why I said it back. All I knew was that in this moment, we were both suspended in time, electric, and full of possibilities I couldn't afford to explore.
Then something moved.
My eyes flickered past his shoulder, through the glass wall into the darkening garden. Near the hedgerow, a shadow. Or the suggestion of one. Too deliberate, too human-shaped, before it melted into the deeper darkness.
You're imagining things. You're exhausted and emotionally raw.
But my mother had taught me that sometimes the paranoia was justified.
The moment shattered. I slid off the stool, suddenly desperate for distance.
"I should go." My voice came out too bright, too forced. "Long day. I'm exhausted."
Confusion flickered across his face, maybe a trace of hurt. "Of course. I'll have Simon?—"
"No, I have my car." I was already moving toward the door. "I'll see you Saturday."
"Claire."
I paused at the doorway.
"Thank you," he said. "For today. For all of it."
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and left.
The night air slapped my face like cold water as I hurried to my car. My hands shook slightly as I started the engine, and not just from the chill.
