Chapter 3
Claire’s POV
A knock at my door interrupted my thoughts. I wrapped myself in a silk robe and found Nathan, my half-brother, leaning against the doorframe with that familiar predatory smile.
"You shouldn't save that girl," he said without preamble, his voice carrying the casual cruelty I'd grown up with.
I pulled him inside, my bare feet silent on the marble floor. "How do you know about that?"
Nathan, the fifth child and William's acknowledged illegitimate son, studied me with calculating eyes. "I know everything that happens in this house. Alexander is spiraling—crying to Mother about reputation and consequences." His smile widened. "Pathetic, really."
"The girl deserves care."
"She's nobody. A model who spreads her legs for photographers. Why risk our family's position for trash?"
I felt something cold settle in my chest—not at his words, but at how easily they once would have rolled off my tongue. "Sometimes doing the right thing is also the smart thing."
Nathan's eyebrow arched. "Since when do you care about 'right'? You've crushed bigger people for smaller slights."
I turned away, staring out at the manicured grounds that had shaped me into something I wasn't sure I recognized anymore. "I'm going to the hospital."
"Why?" Nathan's confusion was genuine. "To throw money at them and make it disappear?"
"To meet Daniel Brown." The name felt strange on my lips—intimate, like a secret I wasn't ready to share.
At Seattle Memorial, I stood outside the ICU, my Louboutin heels clicking softly on the sterile floor. Through the glass, a tall man with military-precise posture held the hand of a pale, unconscious young woman. The machines around her created a symphony of beeps and whispers—the only proof she still fought to stay in this world.
Daniel Brown.
My breath caught as I watched him. He was even more devastating up close than at the charity auction, all controlled power and barely leashed intensity. His broad shoulders carried the weight of his vigil like armor, but I could see the cracks—the way his free hand trembled slightly, the exhaustion etched around his ice-blue eyes.
He didn’t remember me. Six months ago, in that dusty Somali compound, he’d been my salvation. But here, now, I was just another face, another threat to what he loved most.
When he turned and spotted me watching, those arctic eyes narrowed with suspicion. He released his sister’s hand with obvious reluctance and moved toward the door with the predatory grace of a man who’d learned to kill efficiently.
The door slid open. He stepped through and kept coming, slow, deliberate, until my back met the wall with a soft thud. One forearm slammed against the wall beside my head, caging me in; the other hand rose immediately after, rough fingers gripping my chin, forcing my face up to meet his furious gaze. His thumb pressed just beneath my lower lip—possessive, warning, scorching.
“You’re Claire Stanton,” he said, voice low and razor-sharp, breath brushing my mouth. “I remember you from the auction.”
Heat exploded low in my belly at the way he held me—trapped, inspected, judged.
“I’m here about your sister.”
His fingers tightened on my jaw, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who had all the power here. Or so he thought.
“What could someone like you possibly have to do with Sarah?”
“Someone like you.” The dismissal dripped venom and sent liquid fire racing along my spine. I didn’t pull away. Instead I leaned into his grip, letting my body brush his, letting him feel exactly what his contempt did to me.
“The car that hit her belongs to my family,” I said, voice steady even as my pulse thundered against his palm.
Something lethal flashed in his eyes. His body pressed closer, hips pinning mine to the wall, the hard evidence of his reaction unmistakable.
“So you’re here to what? Write a check? Make this inconvenience disappear?” His thumb dragged across my lower lip, slow, deliberate, as if testing how much I’d let him take.
I rose onto the tips of my heels, closing the last fraction of space until my lips almost grazed his ear. My hands came up—one sliding over the tensed muscles of his abdomen, the other curling possessively at the back of his neck.
“I’m here to help,” I whispered, letting every syllable feather hot against his skin.
His grip on my chin flexed; a shudder rolled through his frame.
“People like you don’t help people like us without wanting something in return.”
I smiled against his ear, then nipped the lobe—sharp, claiming—before soothing the sting with my tongue.
“What I want,” I breathed, nails scraping lightly down his nape, “is to ensure your sister receives the care she needs… and for you to know exactly who made that happen.”
For one suspended heartbeat, the corridor disappeared. There was only his ragged inhale, the thundering of his heart under my palm, and the searing knowledge that neither of us was walking away from this unscathed.
At that exact moment the elevator dinged. Emily hurried toward us, tablet clutched like a shield.
“Please take your hand off my boss!” she snapped, voice shaking but steady.
Daniel’s gaze flicked to her, something dangerous flashing across his face. Slowly—deliberately—he released me, but his thumb dragged across my lower lip before he stepped back. The brief contact burned.
Emily inserted herself between us, small but fierce. “Ms. Stanton came to help, Mr. Brown. That’s all.”
He ignored her, eyes locked on me again. “Help,” he repeated, tasting the word like poison.
I straightened my blazer, grateful for the armor of couture. “We’ll cover every medical expense. Specialists, rehabilitation, whatever Sarah needs. No strings.”
Emily slid the formal offer across the small waiting-room table.
Daniel didn’t even glance at it. “We’re not for sale.”
“This isn’t charity,” I said quietly. “It’s responsibility.”
I pulled my personal card from my clutch—thick ivory stock, only my private number—and held it out. “When you change your mind, call me. I’ll be waiting.”
For a moment he stared at the card like it might bite him. Then he took it, fingers brushing mine, and tore it cleanly in half. The pieces fluttered to the floor between us.
“Take your blood money and stay the hell away from my sister.”
The dismissal should have stung. Instead it felt like foreplay.
Emily gathered the documents, shooting me a worried glance. I gave her the tiniest nod. We left.
In the elevator she whispered, “He’s… intense.”
Intense didn’t cover it. My skin still tingled where he’d touched me. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his thumb on my lip.
Three days of silence.
I threw myself into work, but numbers blurred. In every boardroom I saw the scar through his eyebrow, the way his jaw clenched when he was furious. Men had always been easy. Daniel Brown was a locked vault, and I wanted in.
Late Thursday, Emily’s voice crackled through the intercom.
“Ms. Stanton, Daniel is in the lobby. He’s been waiting three hours.”
My pen clattered to the desk, leaving an ink comet across the contract. Three hours. In my cathedral of glass and steel, surrounded by security who probably profiled him on sight. Three hours of swallowing pride sharp enough to choke on.
“Send him up.”
I stood, smoothing my skirt, heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. The lipstick I reapplied felt like war paint.
The elevator chimed. Footsteps—measured, deliberate—echoed down the marble hallway.
He was coming.
And for the first time in years, I had no idea what happened next—only that I wanted it, whatever it was, more than my next breath.
