Clarie stood near the ornamental garden wall, her fingers wrapped around a delicate champagne flute. The soft glow of fairy lights danced across the surface of the pool beside her, and the scent of lavender from the planters mixed with the faint aroma of imported cigars and perfumed cologne drifting from the dinner party crowd.
She took a small sip, trying to calm the ache that nestled itself deep in her chest. The wine was dry and sharp—just like the cold stares she had been enduring all evening.
"What an eyesore."
The voice hit her like a slap from behind.
Clarie turned slowly. Standing a few feet away, wearing a glittering silver gown that clung to every curve, was Delilah Sterling—Alexander's cousin, and self-declared queen of the house.
Delilah's perfectly arched brow lifted in smug satisfaction as she took in Clarie's surprised expression.
"I mean, really," Delilah continued, letting her eyes rake over Clarie from head to toe. "That shade of green? Bold choice. Makes you look... sickly."
Clarie held her glass tighter. "It's just a dress."
Delilah stepped closer, a sweet but venomous smile curling her lips. "And yet you're swimming in it like a little girl playing dress-up." She leaned in. "Tell me, did the maid help you put it on?"
Clarie's shoulders stiffened, but she said nothing.
"I suppose it doesn't matter. Pretty gowns can't change your blood." Delilah tilted her head mockingly. "It's still borrowed, like everything else you have."
Clarie's eyes flickered, but she refused to rise to the bait.
Seeing her silence, Delilah stepped even closer, their proximity nearly brushing. "You're quiet, aren't you? Maybe because you know you don't belong here. Alexander might be married to you—but everyone sees the truth. You're nothing more than a placeholder."
"Move," Clarie said softly, trying to walk past her, keeping her voice steady.
But Delilah's hand shot out and stopped her.
"Don't pretend you're above all this." Her smile grew cruel. "If you didn't want to be seen, maybe you should've stayed in the shadows where you came from."
Clarie stepped sideways, trying again to pass.
But Delilah moved faster.
A sudden push.
Not hard—but perfectly timed.
Clarie's heel twisted awkwardly on the slick stone beside the pool's edge. The world spun. Her wine glass slipped from her grasp and shattered somewhere behind her.
And then—cold.
Icy water swallowed her whole as she plunged into the deep blue of the pool.
Gasps erupted from every direction.
Chatter stopped. Music faltered. Guests turned as the splash echoed across the courtyard like a gunshot.
Clarie surfaced with a gasp, soaked to the bone, her emerald gown dragging against her body like seaweed. Her long brown hair clung to her face, her eyes wide with shock, her breath coming in short bursts as she tried to stay afloat.
"Oh my God!" Delilah shrieked, putting on a face of horror as she clutched her chest. "She slipped! Someone—help! Please!"
Alexander heard the splash from across the garden, his head snapping in the direction of the commotion. His eyes widened when he saw Clarie flailing in the water, guests surrounding the pool in hushed horror.
He took a step forward, fists clenched.
But before he could move, someone else did.
Zane Harrington.
He appeared almost out of nowhere, tossing aside his blazer. Without hesitation, he dove into the pool.
The water exploded again as he reached Clarie. "I've got you," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her and kicking them both to the edge.
Clarie coughed and gasped, gripping the cold tile.
Miley rushed to them, her uniform wet at the hem as she bent beside her. "Are you alright?" She immediately took off her shawl and wrapped it around Clarie's shoulders.
"Please, this way," she said firmly, guiding her away from the staring eyes.
"Delilah, what happened?" one of the guests asked with a raised brow.
"She slipped!" Delilah said again, her eyes wide and innocent.
Eleanor twisted her lips in distaste. "Oh, Lord. What a spectacle," she muttered under her breath. Then she snapped her fingers at her assistant. "Brenda, make sure she's driven home immediately. She's soaking the marble."
Alexander remained still at the edge of the garden, jaw clenched, hands buried deep in his pockets. His expression unreadable.
His wife had just been humiliated. Thrown into a pool like she was nothing more than a joke.
And Zane had saved her.
Alexander's eyes found Daliah's across the crowd. She looked away quickly, her confidence faltering for the first time.
He turned and walked back inside.
Behind the scenes, Clarie sat in the backseat of the estate car, drenched, shivering, and silent. Miley hovered beside her, trying to dry her hair with a towel.
Clarie eyes stared blankly ahead, water droplets tracing lines down her cheek—tears or pool water, it was hard to tell.
The night was cold.
And lonelier than ever.
The mansion was quiet as Clarie returned, her soaked clothes long replaced with warm pajamas. The chill of the water still lingered in her bones. Miley had guided her straight to bed, bringing a cup of warm water and rubbing her back like an old friend.
"Are you okay, Clarie?" Miley asked gently, concern lining her voice as she handed her the steaming cup.
Clarie gave a weak nod, her voice too tired for words. She drank slowly, her hands curled around the heat, as if she could absorb its comfort through her fingers. Then, without another word, she slid under the thick duvet.
Miley dimmed the lights and quietly exited the room.
The air was warm from the hot water bottle Miley had tucked under her blanket earlier. Clarie had drifted into sleep the moment her head hit the pillow, worn out from the events at the party—the whispers, the mockery, the sharp eyes, and most of all, the cold plunge that still clung to her bones.
But it didn't last long.
A dull throb in her head dragged her back to the surface hours later. She stirred beneath the covers, blinking at the shadows pooling in the corners of the room. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed softly. It was past 1 a.m.
The sky outside the window was painted in indigo, and the room was veiled in darkness—except for a single warm halo that bloomed when she clicked on the bedside lamp.
Clarie gasped, her breath catching in her throat.
"Oh my God—"
Alexander—sitting silently in the armchair by the window. His arms were crossed, his frame rigid, his eyes unreadable as they pierced straight through her.
Clarie's heart leapt in her chest. Her hand instinctively pressed to it as she sat up straighter.
When… when did he come in?
Why hadn't she noticed?
"Why so surprised?" Alexander's voice was calm, but there was a chill in it. He stood up, unfolding from the shadows like a figure drawn from a dream—or a nightmare.
He took slow, deliberate steps toward her, his presence commanding and unnerving.
Clarie swallowed hard, adjusting herself awkwardly under the blanket, trying to straighten her posture, her nightgown clinging to her arms.
He stopped just in front of the bed, towering over her.
"Didn't Hayes teach you how to carry yourself with a shred of dignity?" His voice was sharp now, filled with quiet fury.
Clarie looked up, stunned. His words struck something in her chest, but she remained composed. Her hands folded on her lap, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm sorry."
Alexander let out a dry laugh and moved closer, circling the bed like a predator.
"Sorry?" he repeated coldly. "Sorry for what?"
She hesitated. "I didn't mean to cause a scene…"
He stopped in front of her again, his eyes gleaming under the lamp's light. "And yet, there you were. Soaking wet, flailing in the middle of the pool like a soap opera actress."
Clarie's mouth opened slightly, a defense ready to escape—but she thought better of it.
She slid her legs off the bed and stood, but before she could move, he was in front of her again, closing the distance. Her back met the wall with a soft thud. She froze, breath hitching.
His gaze was intense. Angry. Frustrated.
"You think this is a joke?" he asked, voice low, dangerous. "You think people didn't notice how ridiculous it looked? That Zane had to save my wife?"
Clarie flinched slightly. "I didn't ask him to—"
"But he did." Alexander leaned in, placing his hand against the wall beside her head. "And people are already talking."