Her posture is professional. Her voice isn’t.
“She hasn’t left her mother’s side,” Claire says quietly.
I stop walking. The world keeps moving around me, assistants, executives, polished shoes on marble floors, but my body stills.
“And Emily?” I ask.
Claire blinks once, as if she didn’t expect me to ask.
“She’s going to class,” she says. “Ms. Bennett made her.”
I smile at that. She is predictable in her care for the people she loves.
Lucy Bennett doesn’t collapse. She doesn’t crumble. She holds everything up and breaks in pieces so small no one sees them fall.
The image hits me hard enough that my hand curls into a fist at my side.
My smile drops and I clear my throat.
“Has Lucy eaten?” I ask, the words coming out flat.
Claire’s mouth tightens. “What do you think?”
I swallow irritation I don’t deserve to feel.
“Send food,” I say. “To the hospital. And to Emily. Something of substance.”
Claire nods, like she already has. Like she was waiting for me to say it out loud so she could forgive me for not saying it sooner.
“And Claire,” I add.
She pauses.
“Make sure it’s not… excessive. Nothing that makes it look like a show.”
Claire’s gaze sharpens. “You’re worried she’ll push back.”
I don’t answer.
Because yes.
Because I don’t know how to give without making it look like ownership.
Because I don’t know how to care for someone like Lucy without making it a contract.
Claire nods once and walks away.
By Thursday, Lucy’s edits have become a conversation.
A negotiation.
A war fought with tracked changes and carefully phrased communication.
Lucy: Define the exit clause. If we separate before children, it must be mutual agreement unless breach occurs.
Lucy: I would like to add to the List breaches. Emotional abuse. Public humiliation. Infidelity.
She is relentless. And the worst part is: the more she pushes, the more I find myself… adjusting. Not just for legal clarity.
