Claire's POV

My phone shattered the silence at 3 AM, its harsh ring slicing through my dreamless sleep. The sound dragged me from the void, and for a disorienting moment, I floated between consciousness and the darkness of my room. Seattle. Right. I was back in Seattle, two months after that charity auction in Boston—two months since I'd seen him.

"Hello?" My voice came out raw, thick with sleep.

"Claire, I need your help." Alexander's voice cracked through the speaker, trembling like a child's.

I bolted upright, instantly alert. My brother calling me was like witnessing a solar eclipse—rare and usually catastrophic. "What happened?"

"I can't... not over the phone. Can you come to the main house? Please?"

The naked desperation in his voice sent ice through my veins. In our family, vulnerability was a luxury none of us could afford. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

I threw on the first clothes I could find—designer jeans and a cashmere sweater that cost more than most people's rent—and grabbed my keys. The walk across our family estate felt different in the pre-dawn darkness, shadows stretching like accusations across manicured lawns.

Though I maintained my sanctuary in the east wing, Alexander haunted the main mansion like a ghost of Father's disappointments. Tonight, only his quarters blazed with light against the imposing darkness of the Stanton legacy.

He yanked the door open before my knuckles could touch wood, his face a canvas of panic—pale, eyes bloodshot and wild, designer shirt wrinkled beyond salvation.

"Jesus, Alex, you look like hell." I stepped into his domain, taking in his complete dishevelment. His usually perfect hair stuck up at impossible angles, and his hands trembled like autumn leaves.

"I really screwed up, Claire." He began pacing like a caged predator, each step radiating barely contained hysteria. "Dad's going to destroy me."

"Sit down and tell me what happened." I guided him to the leather couch.

Alexander buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. "I let Ben Adams borrow my car."

"Ben Adams?" The name tasted bitter. "That entitled sociopath whose father thinks diplomacy is a game?"

"Yeah. Not exactly borrow. I kind of... gave it to him."

Fire shot through my veins. "The limited edition Porsche Dad gave you for graduation? You gave it away?"

His nod was barely perceptible, like a confession to murder.

"Why would you do something so monumentally stupid?"

"Ben's father has political connections. I thought... I thought if I impressed him..." His voice broke completely.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, feeling the familiar ice-pick of a stress headache. "And?"

"Ben went racing tonight. He was drunk out of his mind. The car smashed into a guardrail on Rainier Mountain Road."

My heart stopped. "Is he alive?"

"Hospital. He'll live."

"Thank God." The relief lasted exactly three seconds before I caught Alexander's expression—guilt so thick I could taste it. "There's more, isn't there?"

With shaking hands, he showed me his phone. Social media posts painted a horrific picture—twisted metal that used to be a Porsche, paramedics working frantically, and a glimpse that made my blood freeze: a partially clothed young woman being loaded into an ambulance, her face obscured by blood and medical equipment.

"There was a girl with him," Alexander whispered, each word a small death. "She's dying, Claire. She might not make it through the night."

"Who is she?"

"I don't know. Some model, I think."

My fingers dug into the leather armrest hard enough to leave permanent marks. "You don't know her name?" The words exploded from me like bullets. "A girl is fighting for her life because of your stupidity, and you don't even know her name?"

"Claire, please." His eyes filled with tears—crocodile tears that had manipulated our mother for years. "We're all each other has. Mom abandoned us to 'find herself' in London, and Dad... Dad never wanted a son like me. You're my only real family."

The manipulation was so transparent it made me sick, but it was also true. We were prisoners in a golden cage of our father's making.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Can Richard make those posts disappear? If Dad sees them, I'm finished."

I pulled out my phone, speed-dialing my fiancé despite the ungodly hour. He answered on the second ring, alert as always.

"Claire? What's wrong?"

The concern in his voice almost made me feel guilty about catching him with Olivia weeks ago. Almost.

"I need a favor. Alexander's created a disaster."

I laid out the ugly details while Richard listened with the silence of someone calculating damage control.

"It's messy," he finally said. "Those photos are viral."

"Richard, please. You have connections that can make miracles happen."

His sigh carried the weight of political favors and expensive fixes. "Give me two hours."

"Thank you." I hung up and turned to Alexander, who looked like a man awaiting execution. "Richard will handle the digital footprint."

"What about the girl?" he asked, staring at his hands like they belonged to a stranger.

"You're going to find out who she is and ensure she gets the best medical care money can buy."

He shrugged with infuriating casualness. "Ben's family will take care of that."

I grabbed his arm with enough force to leave bruises. "No. This blood is on your hands. That girl is dying because you handed your car keys to a reckless drunk."

"Fine, whatever." He jerked away, rubbing his arm petulantly.

"And you're done with Ben Adams. Permanently."

Alexander's face twisted with defiance. "You don't control my life, Claire."

"I do when I'm saving your worthless neck." I stood, smoothing my sweater with violent precision. "Call me when you learn about the girl."

---

Two hours later, Richard's text arrived like absolution: Posts eliminated. Crisis contained.

But sleep remained elusive. I lay staring at my ceiling, thinking about the invisible chains that bound our family together—duty, reputation, and the suffocating weight of Father's expectations.

I wasn't saving Alexander out of love. I was protecting the Stanton empire, safeguarding my position as heir apparent. Father had always praised my "clear head" and "logical thinking." The truth was simpler and uglier: I was the most obedient, the perfect daughter who never caused scandals.

All to secure my golden throne.

At dawn, I called Emily, my assistant who never questioned my requests, no matter how unusual.

"I need information on a car accident victim. Female, early twenties, emergency admission last night."

An hour later, her voice carried grim news. "Sarah Brown, age 23. She's in intensive care at Seattle Memorial with severe head trauma. The prognosis is... not good."

"Medical expenses?"

"Basic insurance that won't cover extended ICU care. She's essentially uninsured for this level of treatment."

"Fix it. Tell the hospital money is no object. I want the best specialists, the best equipment, everything."

"Of course. There's something else—her brother arrived this morning. He's... demanding answers. Aggressively."

My pulse quickened unexpectedly. "Tell me about him."

Emily's research was thorough as always. "Sarah Brown, originally from rural Oregon. Came to Seattle chasing modeling dreams. Her brother is Daniel Brown, 30, former Navy SEAL. Multiple tours including UN peacekeeping missions in Syria and Somalia. Currently employed by Sentinel Security."

The phone slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers.

Daniel Brown. Victoria Reynolds' bodyguard from the charity auction. The man whose steel-blue eyes had awakened something I'd thought was dead and buried. The man whose presence had cracked the ice around my heart.

And now his sister was dying because of my brother's inexcusable stupidity.

Fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.