Chapter 3

When Claire returned to the city, the wheels of her suitcase rattled across the airport floor in a sharp, hurried rhythm.

Her sunglasses were still hooked into her hair. Her skin looked bright from the beach sun, and she carried herself with the restless energy of someone who didn’t believe the show was over yet.

Her supplementary card still wouldn’t go through. She hesitated—embarrassed for a heartbeat—then let irritation swallow it.

In front of the hotel front desk, she pulled out her own card and paid, quick and practiced, her smile never slipping. She even tossed a line to the people with her. “It’s fine. He’ll calm down and turn it back on.”

What bothered her wasn’t the money. It was that Julian hadn’t followed the script she expected—he hadn’t restored the card, hadn’t replied to her messages, and hadn’t done what he usually did: explain, smooth things over, make it easy for her to stay confident.

So she came back for one reason: an answer.

She took a cab straight to Ashford Group headquarters. She didn’t even go home first. She kept the suitcase with her.

The building’s glass façade was clean as ice.

Claire walked up with steady steps, as if the doors should have opened for her by default.

She pressed her badge to the reader.

Beep.

The screen blinked and flashed a red notice: Access denied.

Claire frowned and tried again, harder.

Same result.

She looked up at security, her tone clipped. “Open the door. The system’s glitching and I’m in a hurry.”

The guard checked the screen, then her badge. Polite, but unmoving. “Sorry, ma’am. Your access isn’t valid today. Please register as a visitor at reception.”

“A visitor?” Claire repeated like she’d heard a joke. “A visitor? Do you even know who I am?”

The guard didn’t argue, only repeated the process. “Please go to reception. Or contact your internal point of contact.”

Claire pulled out her phone, scrolled to Julian’s name, and called.

It rang, then went straight to voicemail.

Her mouth tightened for a moment, then her expression reset into certainty—as if telling herself he was busy, and he wouldn’t really ignore her.

She turned to reception and gave her name.

The receptionist’s smile didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened with recognition. “Claire Morgan? One moment, please.”

Seconds later, an HR manager in a dark suit stepped out of the elevator, with someone from Legal behind him.

Both wore the same neutral, professional expression—neither friendly nor hostile—like they were here to execute something already decided.

“Claire,” the HR manager said, “please come with us to a meeting room.”

Claire hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and let out a cold laugh. “Where’s Julian? I want to see him. He’d better have a reasonable explanation for this.”

The meeting room door closed. People passed in the hallway outside the glass, but no sound carried in.

A folder sat on the table with the group’s letterhead on the cover. Beside it lay a printed notice. Claire glanced at it but didn’t sit; she stayed standing at the table like she was the one conducting the meeting.

The HR manager spoke plainly. “Based on the reputational risk created by your recent public statements, and the fact that you refused to cooperate with the company’s request for clarification, the group has decided to terminate your internship. Legal will also preserve evidence related to the dissemination and initiate an internal review.”

“Terminate?” Claire scoffed. “On what grounds? When did I refuse to cooperate? I said it was just a speech—stage language—and you took it literally. Did you even ask Julian?”

The legal representative slid another document toward her, voice calm. “We’re acting under the external communications and confidentiality clauses you signed at onboarding, and the business losses already incurred. Mr. Ashford has instructed us to proceed through standard process.”

Claire’s eyes flickered at the words “standard process,” like they’d hit a nerve. She immediately turned her anger onto the HR manager. “Fine. You people are really good at saying things now. Just wait—when I’m back, you’ll be the first person I fire. Remember what you said to me today.”

The HR manager didn’t flinch. He pushed a receipt form across the table. “Please sign to acknowledge receipt. We’ll collect your personal items and notify you when to pick them up, per policy.”

Claire didn’t sign.

She tossed the pen onto the table and turned to leave, yanking the door open hard enough to make it slap.

Someone in the hallway glanced over. Her heels clicked faster, as if she wanted the sound to wake the building.

She called Julian as she walked. No answer—voicemail again. Jaw tight, she sent a message: Are you done yet? Call me back.

Delivered. No reply.

In the lobby, she stood in the middle of the open space and dialed again—three times, back-to-back.

Same result every time.

Her expression darkened, but she clung to a single conclusion: Julian was forcing her to fold. He was punishing her for not taking his call. He was using her as an emotional outlet. If she could confront him face to face, everything would return to normal.

She went straight to the apartment she’d been living in.

The hallway outside the door was quiet. She stood there, took out her key, inserted it—wouldn’t turn.

She paused, tried again. Still nothing.

The lock had been changed.

Claire’s first reaction wasn’t fear. It was anger.

She turned and called building management, almost barking the words. “I live here. I can’t get in. Send someone to open the door—now.”

The manager’s tone was courteous, trained to stay distant. “Ma’am, may I have the unit number?”

Claire gave it. There was a brief pause as if they were checking the system, then the response came evenly. “This unit is registered under Mr. Julian Ashford’s name. He previously allowed you to stay temporarily, but we don’t have any lease contract under your name. This morning we received instructions that Mr. Ashford is no longer providing the residence. The lock has been changed, and your access has been revoked.”

“What are you talking about?” Claire’s voice jumped. “I’ve lived here for months. This is my home.”

The manager didn’t rush. “Your personal belongings have been packed and sealed in our ground-floor storage room. You may collect them at any time, and we’ll assign staff to assist. Beyond that, we can’t open the unit for you.”

After the call ended, Claire stood in the hallway, silent for two seconds.

Her sunglasses slid down slightly from her hair. She pushed them back with two fingers.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t shake. She simply realized, all at once, that this was no longer something she could explain away as a tantrum.

She pulled out her phone and called Julian again.

Once. Twice. Three times.

She started sending voice messages, words spilling fast, like she was trying to hold her own control in place. “You changed the lock? Really? Is that necessary? Call me back—right now. Don’t take it too far.”

No reply.

She switched to text, sharper, closer to a threat. “This is going to look bad. What exactly do you expect me to tell people?”

Then she called again. Voicemail.

This time, the panic finally surfaced—not the soft kind that asks for help, but the frantic kind that comes from losing the ground you assumed would always be there. She was used to Julian’s restraint, used to him absorbing the mess, used to pushing problems into the category of he’ll handle it.

Now she was outside the door, outside the system, outside his world.

Her finger hovered over her contacts. She scrolled down and found a number labeled Assistant. She drew a breath and hit call.

The moment the line connected, she spoke without preamble. “I want Julian. Now.”

Matthew’s voice was calm. “Ma’am, Mr. Ashford can’t take calls at the moment. He’s on his way to a meeting—he’s on a plane and won’t receive your messages.”

“Can’t take calls?” Claire bit out. “He’s avoiding me. He’s punishing me because I didn’t pick up his call earlier!”

Matthew didn’t argue. He delivered the message in the same steady tone. “He asked me to tell you: whatever you were before, whatever you thought you were becoming—starting from the moment you hung up on the beach, it’s over.”