Claire seethed in silence, her annoyance etched on her face. The phone, still warm from the recent call, remained clutched in Alexander's hand, a symbol of his intrusive control. The limousine glided silently through the night, the dead silence in the car amplifying the tension between them.
Suddenly, Alexander's cold voice cut through the quiet. "Pull over the car, Mr. Hart."
The driver, Mr. Hart, responded instantly. Without a word, he smoothly steered the limousine towards the curb, bringing the powerful vehicle to a soft, almost imperceptible halt. Claire tensed, confused by the abrupt command. What was happening now?
Before she could even voice her thoughts, Alexander tossed her phone onto her lap with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He then opened his door and stepped out of the car, his movements as fluid and decisive as ever. Claire watched him, utterly bewildered, as he walked around the front of the limousine. Her confusion deepened when Mr. Hart, the driver, also got out, leaving the driver's side door open.
Alexander didn't hesitate. He simply slid into the driver's seat, his long legs stretching, his hands immediately gripping the steering wheel. The shift in position, the unexpected assumption of control, was jarring. He looked at Claire, his dark eyes sharp and unyielding through the rearview mirror.
"Come up," he commanded, his voice devoid of warmth, a clear, unspoken order for her to move to the front passenger seat.
Claire stared at him, her mind racing. Why? What was the meaning of this? She remained still, a swirl of questions in her eyes.
"Don't make me say twice," he said, turning his head slightly, his gaze piercing. His tone was low, dangerous, a clear warning that her hesitation was wearing thin his already limited patience.
Claire blinked, the unspoken threat clear. She quickly pushed open her door and slid out of the backseat. Her legs still ached slightly, but she ignored the discomfort, moving swiftly to the front passenger side. She opened the door and settled herself into the seat, the leather cool beneath her. The air in the front cabin, closer to Alexander, felt even more charged with his intense presence.
With a soft click of the door, Alexander smoothly engaged the gears, and the powerful car started to move. Claire glanced out the window as they pulled away from the curb. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw Mr. Hart, the driver, standing alone on the side of the road, a solitary figure illuminated by the dim streetlights, watching them drive away.
A knot of concern tightened in her stomach. "Is it okay to just leave Mr. Hart like that?" she asked, her voice tinged with genuine confusion and worry. It seemed careless, almost cruel, to abandon a member of his staff like that.
Alexander glanced at her, a fleeting look that was cold and dismissive, as if she had asked the most profoundly stupid question he had ever heard. He didn't dignify her concern with a verbal response. His gaze simply returned to the road ahead, his face a rigid mask, leaving Claire to grapple with her unanswered question and the unsettling implications of his silent, controlling power.
But Claire, despite the implicit warning in his previous look, couldn't let it go. Her conscience pricked her. "Shouldn't you call him?" she asked again, her voice softer this time, but laced with a quiet insistence. "Mr. Hart. To make sure he has a ride home."
In a moment that stole Claire's breath, Alexander's hand, still on the wheel, tightened almost imperceptibly. Without a word, he slammed his foot on the brake. The powerful limousine lurched to an abrupt, jarring halt, throwing Claire forward against her seatbelt. The sudden stop was violent, a clear expression of his growing irritation.
He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes, previously fixed on the road, now bore into hers, cold and piercing. His voice, when it came, was a low, dangerous growl.
"Why don't you go and look for him if you are that worried, Claire?" The question was a sharp, cutting blade, stripping away her concern and exposing it as a naive, almost foolish sentiment. It was a challenge, a reminder of the vast power imbalance between them, and the futility of her small acts of defiance.
Claire flinched, her eyes widening. The sheer weight of his question, the unspoken implications, pressed down on her.
Alexander held her gaze for another long moment, his face rigid. Then, a subtle change occurred. The sharp edge in his eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, replaced by a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher – perhaps contemplation, or even a fleeting hint of amusement. He closed his eyes briefly, a short, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips. When he opened them, the intense coldness had receded, replaced by a strange, almost curious quality.
"Did I ruin your mood?" he asked, his voice surprisingly softer, almost a murmur, yet still devoid of genuine warmth. The question was unexpected, so far removed from his usual demeanor that Claire blinked, her mind struggling to process it.
"Huh?" she asked, genuinely bewildered, her earlier fear slowly giving way to confusion.
A faint, almost imperceptible laugh escaped Alexander's lips. It was a dry, humorless sound, a mere breath of air, yet it was the most genuine expression of amusement she had ever witnessed from him. His lips curved slightly at the corners, and his eyes, though still distant, held a new, analytical glint.
"I underestimate you, Claire Hayes," he stated, his voice low, almost contemplative.
Claire took a deep breath, steeling herself. Now was the time to be direct, to reveal why she was at the restaurant, to explain the unexpected company. "Okay," she began, her voice a little steadier now, pushing past her lingering fear.
"I was just having dinner with Sasha. My friend. And...." She paused, her eyes flickering towards his, anticipating his reaction, then continued, "And maybe Zane came to have dinner... he saw us and joined our table." She blurted it out, the name hanging in the charged air between them.
Alexander's rigid posture stiffened further. He gave her a long, sharp glance, one filled with a silent, simmering fury that made the air in the confined space of the car.
At that exact moment, a jarring, insistent ring vibrated violently. She snatched it up, her fingers fumbling, and saw her stepmother's name flashing on the screen. A cold dread seeped into her bones. Her stepmother only called in emergencies.
She answered, bringing the phone to her ear with a trembling hand. A frantic, choked-up voice, thick with tears, assaulted her. "Claire! Your father! He's... he's in the hospital! Florine Hospital! It was sudden... a heart attack... Oh, Claire, it's bad!"
The words hit Claire like a physical blow. Her father. Hospital. Heart attack. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, clattering onto the floor of the car. Her face drained of color, and her eyes, previously wide with fear of Alexander, now filled with a different, more profound terror. She turned to Alexander, her face tear-streaked, her voice a choked whisper.
"Dad," she gasped, the word barely audible. "Dad's in the hospital." The rigid mask of Alexander's face, previously sharp with anger, seemed to slightly cool down as he registered the pure, unadulterated fear and pain in her teary face. His gaze softened, a fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker of genuine concern crossing his features.
"Please," Claire begged, turning her entire body towards him, her hands instinctively reaching out, though she didn't touch him. Her voice was raw, pleading. "Please, Alexander, go to Florine Hospital. Now." Her eyes, swimming with tears, implored him, a desperate plea for help that transcended all their unspoken resentments.
Alexander took a single, deep breath. Then, with a quiet, decisive motion, his foot remained firmly on the accelerator, and the roaring engine continued its furious pace.
They arrived at Florine Hospital with a screech of tires, the car pulling up directly to the emergency entrance. Alexander, without a word, was out of the driver's seat in an instant, moving with a speed and efficiency Claire hadn't seen from him before. He opened her door, his hand gesturing for her to follow.
Claire stumbled out, her legs still aching, her mind a dizzying blur of fear. The sterile, brightly lit hospital corridor was a stark contrast to the opulent world she had just left. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, cold and unwelcoming. Alexander strode ahead, his presence commanding, parting the few staff members in their path with his sheer aura of authority.
He led her directly to a private room, its door slightly ajar. Claire's breath caught in her throat. She pushed the door open tentatively, her gaze immediately falling upon the figure lying still on the hospital bed. It was her father. His face was pale, almost translucent against the white pillow, and an IV drip snaked into his arm. A profound wave of tenderness and terror washed over Claire, rendering her momentarily breathless.
On the other side of the bed, her stepmother, Evelyn, sat hunched in a chair, her face tear-streaked and blotchy, clutching her husband's hand. She looked up as Claire entered, her eyes red-rimmed but registering a flicker of relief.