Clarie looked down, her hands clenched at her sides. "No. I don't."
He leaned even closer, his breath brushing her cheek. "One thing you should understand," he interrupted, his eyes narrowing, "whether you were a replacement or not, I don't care. But you are now Alexander Sterling's wife. And you will act like it."
His fist clenched slightly against the wall. The sound made her flinch.
Clarie's lips trembled. "I am sorry."
Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?" he demanded.
Clarie slowly nodded.
His gaze lingered on her one last time before he pulled away sharply, turning his back to her.
He didn't say another word.
He stormed out of the room with the door closing with a soft, echoing click behind him.
Clarie stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached up, clutching her collarbone as if she could calm the ache inside her.
She slid down against the wall and pulled her knees up, the silence now screaming louder than his voice had.
That night, no matter how tightly she curled beneath the covers, sleep never came.
Only tears did.
And the growing knowledge that marriage, to Alexander Sterling, was not a sanctuary…
…but a cage lined with expectation, silence, and stormclouds.
The morning light filtered through the lace curtains in faded gold, but the warmth didn't reach Clarie.
She had barely slept.
Her head throbbed with a dull ache, her body still cold from the plunge into the pool and the haunting memory of Alexander's words the night before. They rang like echoes in her skull, bouncing against the bruises she didn't show.
Clarie wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and walked down the grand staircase with careful steps. Every inch of the mansion still felt foreign. Too grand. Too quiet. Too watchful.
She entered the kitchen quietly, hoping to avoid any interaction. Miley had probably stepped out, and Clarie didn't want to trouble anyone. All she needed was water. Maybe something warm to ease her nerves.
She reached for a glass and turned on the faucet. As the cool water poured, she held the glass to her lips with trembling fingers, her reflection distorted in the ripples.
Suddenly, a sharp voice cut through the stillness.
Eleanor Sterling stormed in, her heels striking the polished floor like thunderclaps. She was dressed immaculately in her morning ivory silk robe, her neck heavy with pearls that clashed with the venom in her eyes.
Clarie straightened instinctively. "Good morning, Mrs Sterling."
"Don't 'good morning' me," the woman snapped. Her heels clicked across the polished floor as she approached like a judge ready to deliver a sentence. "You really think you can walk into this house, wear our name, and parade around like you belong here?"
"What do you--- ?"
Before she could finish, the sound of a sharp slap sliced through the room.
Clarie's head jerked to the side as Eleanor's palm struck her cheek. The glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the marble floor.
Clarie's skin burned. Her lips parted in shock, her hand instinctively rising to cradle the sting.
"How dare you!" Eleanor seethed. "How dare you humiliate us like that? At a party filled with dignitaries and partners! You made a spectacle—falling into the pool like some soap opera heroine."
"I didn't fall—" Clarie whispered, her voice cracking.
"You're a substitute," Eleanor hissed. "Let's not forget that. You're not here because you're special. You're here because your little whore of a stepsister ran away. You are a stand-in. Nothing more."
Clarie's heart pounded, the words stabbing deeper than the slap had.
She kept her gaze down, refusing to let the tears fall in front of this woman.
"You should've had the decency to stay invisible. To stay silent. But no, even that was too much for you."
"I didn't mean for it to happen," Clarie murmured, each word trembling on her tongue. "I wasn't trying to draw attention."
"Oh, don't play the innocent card with me," Eleanor spat. "In this house, innocence is weakness. And weakness has no place beside Alexander."
There was a pause, then a cruel smile curled Eleanor's lips. "Don't get comfortable, Clarie. When the time comes, you'll be discarded. Just like a placeholder always is."
She turned and swept out of the kitchen with a final glare, her perfume lingering in the air like a ghost.
Clarie stood alone, frozen, the sound of the broken glass crunching beneath her slipper as she shifted slightly. Her cheek throbbed, but it was the weight of the words that crushed her more.
She bent down silently to pick up the shards, careful not to cut her fingers.
Miley appeared at that moment, halting in the doorway. "Clarie!"
Clarie quickly stood, trying to hide her face. "It's fine."
"Your cheek," Miley gasped, seeing the red mark. "Who—?"
"I said it's fine," Clarie whispered firmly, but not unkindly. "Please just bring me a broom."
Miley stared at her, torn between obedience and outrage. "Yes…"
As Miley moved away, Clarie stood still, one hand on the counter to steady herself.
The mansion was full of chandeliers, glass, and silk. But it cut sharper than any knife she'd ever known.
And still, she swallowed her pain.
Because no matter how cruel the house, she had promised herself—she would not be driven away.
The rest of the morning passed in a haze. Clarie stayed in her room, not because she was hiding, but because the stillness there allowed her space to breathe.
Her cheek still ached faintly, and when she touched the red imprint Eleanor had left behind, she flinched—not from pain, but from the weight of it. The wound wasn't just physical. It was a message, loud and clear:
She didn't belong.
But Clarie had known that from the start.
The Sterling mansion was beautiful. Breathtaking. But beneath its grandeur was a labyrinth of sharp edges, stares heavy with judgment, and words meant to bruise in silence. It wasn't a home; it was a gilded cage.
And yet, Clarie hadn't broken.
She stood by the large window now, arms wrapped around herself, watching the late-morning sun stretch across the gardens. The pond, where she had nearly drowned the night before, sparkled mockingly in the light—as if the humiliation had been washed away.
But Clarie remembered every second of it. The chill. The laughter. The panic.
The silence from Alexander.
Her husband hadn't said a word to her afterward. No scolding. No concern. Just a cold, unreadable gaze and then retreat—like a man dismissing a nuisance rather than a wife.
But that was fine.
She hadn't expected warmth. Not from him. Not from his family. Not from this place.
Still, she would not run.
A knock tapped gently on the door.
Clarie turned as Miley peeked in, holding a silver tray. "Clarie, you haven't eaten."
Clarie smiled faintly. "I'm not very hungry."
"Still… just a little." Miley stepped inside, placing the tray on the small table near the window. On it sat a bowl of warm porridge, buttered toast, and a cup of ginger tea. Comfort food.
Clarie's stomach churned at the sight, but she appreciated the gesture. "Thank you."