Chapter 6: Claire POV
The morning sun barely filters through the mansion's heavy curtains, but I'm already awake, sitting at the kitchen island with a coffee I haven't touched. Ethan's footsteps echo before he appears, dressed in a crisp suit, his face unreadable. He doesn't sit, just leans against the counter, his gray eyes fixed on me.
"We need to set some ground rules," he says, his voice clipped, all business. "This marriage is public only. You'll act as my wife at events, meetings, whatever I need. But privately, we keep our distance. Separate lives, separate rooms."
I nod, my throat tight. "Got it. Anything else?"
"You'll move into the mansion," he says, like it's a done deal. "It's easier for appearances. Pick any suite you want."
"Alright," I say, forcing my voice steady. "I'll handle the logistics. What about tonight's after party?"
He hesitates, then nods. "You'll come. Carter Enterprises needs a united front. I'll have a stylist send dresses."
"Okay." I sip my coffee, hiding the sting of his coldness. He's grieving Sophia, I remind myself. This isn't about me.
He grabs his keys. "I'm heading to the office. You know my schedule?"
"By heart," I say, pulling out my phone. "Board meeting at ten, lunch with the investors at one, and I'll prep the after party talking points by three."
He almost smiles. "Good. I'll see you tonight."
He's gone before I can respond, the door clicking shut. I exhale, my hands shaking as I text my landlord to break my lease. Moving into the mansion feels like stepping deeper into a role I'm not sure I can play.
By afternoon, I'm neck-deep in Ethan's calendar, coordinating his meetings from the mansion's study. My phone buzzes, Emily again. I brace myself and answer.
"Claire, are you insane?" she snaps, not wasting a second. "You're living with him now? This isn't a game. He's going to crush you."
"I know what I'm doing," I lie, pacing the room. "It's temporary, Em. Just until the media storm dies down."
"Temporary?" She laughs, bitter. "You've been in love with him for years. You're not walking away from this, and you know it."
A memory hits me, sharp and unbidden, two years ago, staying late at the office, Ethan poring over contracts while I ordered takeout. He'd looked up, exhausted, and said, "Claire, you're a lifesaver." I'd lived on those words for weeks, replaying them in my head, building a fantasy he'd never know about. Emily's right, I've been devoted too long to quit now.
"I'll be fine," I say, cutting the memory off. "I have to go. Party prep."
She sighs. "Just… don't lose yourself, okay?"
I hang up, her words lingering as I dive back into work. By five, a stylist arrives with a rack of gowns. I pick a deep emerald one, sleek but not flashy, and slip into it, ignoring the way my reflection feels like a stranger.
The party's at the Plaza, a glittering sea of chandeliers and power players. I'm at Ethan's side, my arm looped through his, playing the part of the perfect wife. He's a statue, his smile tight, his answers curt. The media's already buzzing, "Carter's Substitute Bride: Who Is Claire Lawson?", and I feel their eyes on me, dissecting every move.
"Mr. Carter, congratulations!" A balding investor, Mr. Hargrove, claps Ethan's shoulder. "And Mrs. Carter, a pleasure. You've got big shoes to fill."
I smile, ignoring the jab. "Thank you, Mr. Hargrove. I'm just happy to support Ethan."
He chuckles, clearly surprised. "Well, you've got charm. Ethan, you picked a good one."
Ethan's hand tenses on my arm, but he nods. "She's exceptional."
The word catches me off guard, and I glance at him, but he's already turning to another guest. I keep smiling, chatting with board members and their wives, deflecting questions about Sophia with vague pleasantries. Matthew Carter watches from across the room, his silver hair catching the light. When he approaches, I brace myself.
"Claire," he says, his voice low. "You're holding up well. Better than I expected."
"Thank you, Mr. Carter," I say, meeting his gaze. "I'm doing my best."
He studies me, then nods. "Keep it up. Ethan needs stability now."
It's not quite approval, but it's close. I nod, and he moves off, leaving me to sip my champagne and scan the room. Daniel's by the bar, flirting with a redhead, but his eyes flick to me, his smirk knowing.
"Mrs. Carter," he says, sauntering over. "How's the wifely life treating you?"
"Save it, Daniel," I say, rolling my eyes. "I'm working."
"Oh, you're working it, alright," he says, leaning closer. "Ethan can't stop looking at you. Notice that?"
My cheeks heat, but I scoff. "He's just making sure I don't trip over my dress."
"Sure," he says, his grin widening. "Keep telling yourself that."
I turn away, focusing on a group of executives nearby. I join their conversation, laughing at their jokes, steering them toward Ethan's latest merger pitch. They're eating it up, and I catch Ethan watching me, his expression unreadable. For a second, I let myself believe Daniel's right, that Ethan's seeing me, not just the role I'm playing.
The night wears on, and I'm exhausted, my feet aching in heels I'm not used to. I'm about to slip away for a breather when a reporter corners us, her microphone thrust forward.
"Mr. Carter, any comment on Sophia Reynolds' disappearance?" she asks, her eyes gleaming.
Ethan freezes, his face a mask of ice. I step in, my voice smooth. "We're focused on the future, not the past. Ethan and I are thrilled to be starting this new chapter together."
She blinks, thrown, but recovers. "And Mrs. Carter, how does it feel to step into such a high-profile role?"
"Like coming home," I say, squeezing Ethan's arm. "Now, if you'll excuse us."
I steer him away, my heart pounding. He's still rigid, and I can feel the anger radiating off him. We're near the balcony doors when a man, tall, drunk, and vaguely familiar, stumbles into us, his drink sloshing.
"Carter!" he slurs, grinning. "Heard Sophia ditched you. This your backup plan?"
Ethan's fist clenches, and I act on instinct, stepping between them. "Excuse me," I say, my voice sharp. "You're out of line."
The man laughs, but Ethan's hand finds my waist, pulling me close. "Walk away," he says to the man, his voice low, dangerous.
The guy mutters something and stumbles off, but Ethan doesn't let go. His touch lingers, warm through the thin fabric of my gown, and I can't breathe. His gray eyes meet mine, and for a moment, it's just us, the party fading into noise.
"You didn't have to do that," he says, his voice softer now.
"I wanted to," I say, my voice barely audible.
His hand stays on my waist a beat too long, and I feel the weight of every unspoken thing between us. Then he steps back, clearing his throat. "Good work tonight, Claire."
I nod, my chest aching as he turns back to the crowd. Daniel's watching from the bar, his smirk gone, replaced by something almost sad. I look away, focusing on the next guest, the next smile, but Ethan's touch burns in my memory, a fleeting moment I know I'll replay until it hurts.