The Windsor townhouse loomed like a gilded tomb. Rain lashed its limestone façade as Clara followed Mrs. Davies through foyers haunted by childhood ghosts. Portraits of Ethan at regattas, ski trips, and Oxford graduation mocked her from mahogany walls—a shrine to privilege she'd never occupied.
Eleanor Windsor materialized in the drawing room, arms outstretched. "Clara, darling! You've vanished from us!" Her Chanel suit hung loose on gaunt shoulders, eyeshadow cracking over hollowed cheeks.
The decay startled Clara. The woman who'd once banished her to the servants' quarters for "tracking mud" now clung like a drowning swimmer. "Work consumes me, Mrs. Windsor."
Eleanor's smile didn't touch her eyes. "Call me Eleanor, sweetheart. We're family."
Since when? Clara remembered Eleanor hissing to Ethan: "That orphan's trust fund won't last forever. Stop letting her shadow you."
FLASHBACK
Fourteen-year-old Clara hunched in the kitchen pantry, icing a swollen eye. Ethan's laughter echoed from the pool where Bianca Sterling lounged in his arms. Mrs. Davies pressed a cold compress to Clara's cheek.
"Don't provoke Miss Sterling, love."
Clara whispered, "I didn't—"
"Doesn't matter." The housekeeper's eyes held pity. "Blood always wins here."
END FLASHBACK
Dinner reeked of desperation and truffle oil. Arthur Windsor carved the coq au vin with forensic precision. "Heard Hartwell dismantled Sterling Maritime. Ruthless, even for him."
Ethan scowled at his iPhone. "You watched Bianca's downfall?" Jealousy roughened his voice. Still addicted, Clara noted.
"Mr. Hartwell handled negotiations." She avoided his gaze, focusing on the Degas forgery behind Arthur's head—a perfect metaphor for this family.
Eleanor's fork clattered. "Such a coincidence you work for him." Her painted-on smile widened. "Speaking of connections... any suitors, darling?"
"None."
"Perfect!" Eleanor beamed. "Ethan's unattached too. Childhood sweethearts reunited!"
Clara's champagne flute froze mid-air. Ethan—who'd pinned "ORPHAN TRASH" notes to her dorm door at Wellington—now studied her like a distressed asset. Arthur shot Eleanor a warning glare, but the gambit was laid bare: We need Hartwell's influence and your remaining trust shares.
Pelvic pain spiked as Clara remembered Dr. Vargas' diagnosis. Tissue trauma. Sebastian's ghost haunted her even here.
"We should talk." Ethan rose abruptly.
In the library's cigar-scented gloom, Ethan cornered her by leaded windows. Rain streaked the glass like prison bars. "You see their play." His finger traced her jaw—a mockery of tenderness. "But it's not just shares. Father's company..."
Clara recoiled. "Bianca bankrupt you already?"
His laugh was bitter. "She was a symptom. Windsor Capital's bleeding out." He stepped closer, whiskey breath fogging the cold pane. "Hartwell respects you. A word from you could—"
"Stop." Clara's voice could cut crystal. "The girl who followed you like a lost puppy died when she found you fucking Bianca in her bed."
Ethan flinched. "I was young! Blind to what mattered." He grabbed her wrist. "You've changed. Grown... exquisite." His thumb brushed the pulse at her inner wrist—where Sebastian's Burberry tie had left bruises.
Revulsion coiled in Clara's gut. "You need three things: my shares,
Hartwell's bailout, and a womb to breed Windsor 2.0. I'm your trifecta."
His grip tightened. "Is that so terrible? We have history!"
"History?" She wrenched free. "Let's revisit: You laughed when Bianca's clique tore my scholarship essays. Called me 'charity case' at my parents' memorial. Told Vanity Fair I stalked you when paparazzi caught me crying outside your Brown dorm."
Ethan paled. "You're twisting—"
"Your parents took guardianship for one reason." Clara backed toward the door. "My father's shares funded Windsor Capital's expansion. They kept me just solvent enough to not sue—barely."
Her phone buzzed—Sebastian's contact blazing like a flare gun:
Hartwell: Report. Sterling Holdings liquidation figures.
Salvation. "My employer summons me."
Eleanor materialized in the doorway, trembling. "Clara, reconsider! We sheltered you—"
"Sheltered?" Clara's laugh shattered the pretense. "Mrs. Davies raised me. Your 'shelter' was a gilded cage where I learned hunger hurts less than pity."
Arthur's fist hit the mantel. "Those shares are Windsor property!"
"Prove it." Clara swept past them into the downpour. "Or ask Bianca how litigation against Hartwell ends."
The townhouse door slammed. Eleanor clutched Arthur's arm. "She knows. About the plane's maintenance logs..."
Arthur watched Clara vanish into a cab. "Impossible. The investigators were paid."
In the backseat, Clara opened her clutch. Beneath Sebastian's demand lay a faded Polaroid: her parents beaming before their Cessna. Mr. Davies had smuggled it to her after the funeral with three words: "Ask hangar B17."
Rain blurred the streetlights. Clara remembered the investigator's report: Windsor Capital skipped mandatory engine checks. Saved $300K. Doomed Flight 214.
Her phone lit with Ethan's plea: We can fix this!
She blocked him. Outside Hartwell Tower, Sebastian's penthouse glowed like a dragon's lair. One monster traded for another, she thought. But dragons at least burned you openly.
The elevator ascended. Clara touched the Polaroid's frayed edge. Sebastian sought annihilation. The Windsors dealt in slow poison.
Both would learn: Orphans made lethal survivors.