Chapter 5 - Fractures in the Glass
By 2:00 a.m., Luke was back in his bed, dead to the world, clutching the green frog with the broken leg that Ethan had finally retrieved from the closet box.
In the kitchen, the tea had grown ice cold.
Claire stood by the island, her hands wrapped around an empty ceramic mug, watching the rain continue its endless siege against the glass. The penthouse felt different now. The cold marble hadn't changed, the modern art hadn't moved, but the silence was no longer clinical; it was exhausted, hollowed out, and gentle.
Footsteps approached. Soft, barefoot.
Ethan walked into the kitchen wearing an old grey t-shirt and flannel lounge pants. His eyes were red, the skin around them swollen, but the rigid, predatory tension that usually lived in his shoulders had completely vanished. He looked human. He looked battered.
He walked to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of sparkling water, and opened it with a quiet *hiss*.
“He’s out,” Ethan said.
“He’s safe,” Claire replied.
Ethan leaned against the island, three feet from her, staring at the marble between them. “I haven’t cried like that since Aaron’s funeral. Not even then, actually. At the funeral, I had to manage the press. I had to manage Rebecca. I had to make sure the board didn’t panic and dump Mercer stock.”
“You shouldn’t have had to manage anything,” Claire said softly. “You should have been allowed to mourn your brother.”
Ethan looked at her. The lighting in the kitchen was down to a single under-cabinet strip, casting long, intimate shadows across the planes of his face.
“Why didn’t you quit?” he asked.
Claire blinked. “What?”
“The first night,” Ethan said, taking a step closer. “When you found Luke with the suitcase. I was arrogant. I was cruel to you. I treated you like an employee who had stepped out of line. Any other nanny would have called the agency, collected her termination fee, and walked out the door.”
Claire looked down at her empty mug, tracing the rim with her thumb. “Because I know what it looks like when a child thinks he’s disposable.”
Ethan was silent for a moment. “Tell me.”
Claire hesitated. She rarely talked about her own life; professional boundaries were the armor that kept nannies from losing their minds when contracts ended. But the boundary lines in this apartment had already been pulverized into dust.
“My mother was an artist,” Claire said quietly. “Brilliant, beautiful, and completely bipolar. When she was on an upswing, we had picnics on the roof and painted the kitchen walls yellow. When she went down, she disappeared for weeks. She would check into clinics or just rent cheap motel rooms in New Jersey, leaving me with twenty dollars and a box of macaroni.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“Every time she left,” Claire continued, “she told me it was because I was too demanding. That my needs were suffocating her art. I spent my whole childhood trying to be invisible, trying to need nothing, so she would stay. She didn't stay anyway. She overdosed in a hotel in Atlantic City when I was sixteen.”
Ethan stepped around the island. He didn't ask for permission; he closed the distance between them until he was standing right in front of her.
“You are not invisible, Claire,” he said, his voice deep, rough, and vibrating with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
Claire looked up into his gray eyes. They were wide, dark in the center, and fixed on her with a focus that made her skin tingle.
“I spent my life thinking the same thing,” Ethan murmured, his hand lifting slowly, hovering near her face before his knuckles brushed gently against her cheekbone. His touch was warm, slightly rough, and unbelievably tender. “I thought if I didn't need anyone, I couldn't be abandoned. My mother left because she wanted an Italian count. Aaron died because he was going to buy a toy. I thought need was a lethal defect.”
Claire’s breath hitched. She didn't lean away from his hand. If anything, she tilted her head slightly into his palm, feeling the steady heat of him.
“It’s not a defect, Ethan,” she whispered. “It’s the only thing that keeps us alive.”
Ethan looked at her mouth. For a long, suspended second, the universe shrank down to the space between their lips. Claire could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the clean scent of his soap and the raw, salt trace of his tears. She wanted him to kiss her—wanted it with a sudden, sharp ache that terrified her.
Ethan’s thumb brushed across her lower lip, his touch electric.
“You’re dangerous, Miss Rowan,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
“Why?”
“Because you make me want things that don't belong in a balance sheet.”
He didn't kiss her. He had too much control for that, or perhaps too much respect. But he didn't step back, either. He dropped his hand slowly, his fingers trailing down her jawline, down the side of her neck, before resting on her shoulder for one lingering beat.
“Tomorrow morning,” Ethan said, his voice returning to a steadier register, “I’m calling the admissions office at St. Augustine.”
Claire’s heart stopped. “Ethan—”
“I’m withdrawing the application,” he finished.
The relief hit Claire so hard her knees literally wobbled. She let out a breath that sounded half like a sob, half like a laugh.
“You are?”
“I am.” Ethan looked toward the hallway where Luke was sleeping. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m going to make terrible mistakes. I’m probably going to hire four more psychologists and ruin twelve more pairs of trousers in the bathtub. But he’s not going to Vermont. He’s staying here. With me.”
Claire smiled, a radiant, unguarded smile that lit up the dim kitchen. “With us.”
Ethan looked at her, his eyes dark and enigmatic.
“With us,” he agreed softly. “Now go to sleep, Claire. Before I forget that I’m your employer.”
May you like
Claire didn't answer with words. She simply stepped past him, her arm brushing against his chest, leaving the billionaire alone in the dark kitchen with the rain finally slowing to a gentle mist against the glass.
***
