The vast suite was her world now.
Clarie, as she had been known all her life—woke each morning to the hush of luxury. Sunlight seeped quietly through tall, sheer curtains, painting golden lines across the marble floor. The silence was thick, weighty, too perfect to be comforting. It echoed the hollowness inside her.
She was Mrs. Alexander Sterling.
A name that carried weight. Respect. Power.
And yet, to her, it felt more like a burden—a title she hadn't asked for, tied to a man who barely acknowledged her presence.
Clarie moved with quiet efficiency, her steps barely making a sound against the glossy floor. Habits from a life before—before the mansion, before the name, before the marriage—still clung to her like second skin. She straightened the sheets, fluffed the pillows, and checked the corners of the suite as if she were still a housekeeper rather than the lady of the house.
The walk-in closet was intimidating. Dozens of dresses hung like elegant ghosts, none of which felt like her. Clarie sighed and chose a soft pink dress. Simple. Safe.
As she descended the grand staircase, she felt like an intruder in her own home.
In the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator greeted her. She wandered in, opening drawers and cabinets, quietly searching for something—anything—that felt familiar.
Then came the hurried footsteps.
"Madam, what are you doing here?" Miley, the head maid, rushed toward her, panic flashing in her eyes.
Clarie blinked. "I was going to make breakfast."
"No, madam. Please," Miley said quickly, her voice laced with nervous urgency. "That is our duty. You mustn't trouble yourself."
Clarie gave her a soft, confused look. "But… I've always made breakfast."
Miley stepped in front of her just as she reached again for the refrigerator handle. "Please, madam. Sit down. I will prepare it at once."
Clarie's hands dropped to her sides. She stood there, awkward, misplaced in a room that no longer belonged to her actions.
She glanced around—the perfectly polished countertops, the array of imported spices, the team of silent staff who avoided meeting her gaze. This kitchen was pristine. Functional. Cold.
It didn't need her. Nothing here did.
Her throat tightened, but she swallowed the emotion, locking it behind practiced calm. She turned toward the dining room, but her steps halted when a low voice cut through the quiet.
"Is there anything wrong?"
Clarie jolted.
Alexander stood at the threshold, his dark hair damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling beneath a gray athletic shirt. He had clearly just returned from his morning run. The glint of his watch caught the light as he checked the time.
"I—I…" Clarie struggled for words. Her gaze dropped instinctively. "No. Nothing."
He raised an eyebrow.
She nodded slightly, fingers clutching the hem of her dress. "I thought I could make something."
Alexander's face remained unreadable. "There's Miley for that."
"I know."
He walked past her, silent, only the soft thud of his sneakers against the floor marking his presence. He stopped at the counter, uncapped a bottle of water, and drank.
Clarie stood there, unmoving, feeling more like furniture than a wife.
Alexander looked at her again, his eyes sharp. "Water."
She blinked. "Huh?"
"I said water," he repeated, voice calm but clipped.
"Oh." Clarie quickly turned, retrieving another bottle and handing it to him with both hands. Their fingers brushed for a moment—an electric flicker of contact—but he didn't seem to notice.
He drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and glanced at her again.
Claire lingered. She didn't know why. Maybe she expected him to walk away. Maybe she wanted him to say something more. Anything.
Then, without another word, Alexander turned sharply and walked away, disappearing into the hallway.
Clarie sat at the breakfast table, her fork idly pushing scrambled eggs around her plate. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and buttered toast wafted through the air, yet her appetite remained absent. Through the kitchen window, she caught a glimpse of Alexander stepping into a sleek black car, accompanied by a man in a tailored suit.
Miley, the head maid, approached with a gentle smile.
"Madam, is the breakfast not to your liking?" she inquired softly.
Clarie offered a faint smile, her eyes still fixed on the window. "It's not that, Miley. The food is wonderful. I just... I'm not very hungry today."
Miley nodded understandingly, her hands clasped in front of her apron.
"Does Alexander usually skip breakfast?" Clarie asked, turning her gaze toward Miley.
"Not typically, madam," Miley replied. "But when he's pressed for time, he often does. Miss Brenda usually ensures he has something on the go."
"Brenda? His assistant?"
"Yes, madam. She's been with him for several years."
Clarie paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "And the man who left with him just now?"
"That would be Mr. Hart, his driver. And there's also Mr. Noren, his special assistant, though he wasn't present this morning."
Clarie nodded slowly, absorbing the information. "Miley, please, you don't have to call me 'madam.' Just Clarie is fine."
Miley hesitated, a hint of surprise in her expression. "But you're the master's wife. It's only proper."
Clarie offered a genuine smile. "I appreciate the respect, but I'd feel more comfortable if you called me by my name."
Miley's smile widened, her demeanor relaxing. "As you wish, Clarie."
Clarie returned her attention to her untouched breakfast, the silence between them filled with unspoken thoughts. The grand kitchen, with its gleaming surfaces and state-of-the-art appliances, felt foreign—a stark contrast to the cozy kitchens of her past.
With the house enveloped in a serene silence, Clarie found herself gazing out of the large window overlooking the garden. The meticulously trimmed hedges and blooming flowers seemed almost surreal, a stark contrast to the turmoil within her.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Miley entered, "Brenda is here to see you."
Clarie turned, offering a faint smile. "Thank you, Miley. I'll be down shortly."
She took a moment to glance at herself in the mirror, smoothing the creases of her dress and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The reflection staring back at her felt like a stranger—poised, polished, and distant.
Descending the grand staircase, Clarie entered the sitting room where Brenda awaited. Dressed in a tailored suit, the woman exuded an air of professionalism and elegance.
"Good morning, Mrs. Sterling," Brenda greeted, extending a hand. "I'm Brenda, Mr. Sterling's personal assistant."
Clarie shook her hand, noting the firm grip. "Good morning," she replied, her voice steady despite the unease bubbling beneath the surface.
Miley entered with a tray, placing two glasses of freshly squeezed juice on the table. Brenda offered a polite nod of thanks.
"Mrs. Sterling, if there's anything you need, please don't hesitate to let me know," Brenda said, handing over a sleek business card. "My contact details are here."
Clarie accepted the card, her fingers brushing against Brenda's manicured nails. "Thank you."
Brenda's gaze drifted over Clarie's attire. "I hope the dresses in your closet are to your liking. I curated them based on current fashion trends."
Clarie's stomach tightened. So, Brenda had selected her wardrobe. The realization added another layer to the growing sense of displacement.
"They're lovely," Clarie said, forcing a smile. "I don't have a specific style, so I appreciate the selection."
Brenda's smile widened, seemingly pleased. "Excellent. Also, starting tomorrow, you'll be attending a cooking class. Please let me know your preferred time so I can schedule it."
Clarie's brow furrowed. "A cooking class? May I ask why?"
Brenda responded smoothly, "It's a tradition within the Sterling family. Master Arthur believes every Sterling woman should excel in culinary arts."
Clarie paused, choosing her words carefully. "Actually, I think that's not necessary."
Brenda looked slightly surprised. "Huh?"
Clarie continued, "I may not be familiar with Sterling-specific cooking styles, but I am quite proficient in cooking." She refrained from mentioning that cooking had been a daily necessity in her previous life—a skill honed out of survival rather than leisure.
Brenda hesitated, then nodded. "Understood, Mrs. Sterling."
After Brenda's departure, Clarie remained seated in the living room, her expression unreadable. The encounter had left her feeling more like an accessory in a well-orchestrated play than a participant in her own life.
Miley, who had overheard the conversation from the hallway, felt a pang of sympathy. Clarie seemed like a kind-hearted young woman, yet the weight of expectations and the confines of her new role were evident in her demeanor.