Morning came too early.
The sky outside was the color of watered-down milk. I hadn't really slept; too many thoughts were pacing around in my head. I sat by the window in the old chair that leaned slightly to the left, elbows on my knees, watching the street below come alive. The bread seller is shouting. Someone is arguing with a cab driver. The smell of rain is still hanging in the air.
Our plant on the sill was drooping. I made a mental note to water it, then forgot.
I heard the kettle click behind me, then her bare feet padding across the floor.
"Coffee," Clara said, putting the mug into my hands. She always made it stronger than I did, dark enough to bite. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"I didn't," I said, blowing on the coffee. "Was too busy thinking about what kind of spectacular failure I'll be today."
She gave me that look—half exasperation, half affection—and then climbed right onto my lap, legs curling under her like it was her favorite chair in the world. The coffee nearly sloshed over the edge.
"Clara," I said, laughing quietly, "you're going to spill this."
"Then drink faster."
I did. She smelled like soap and something warm—our blanket maybe, or the faint scent of cinnamon from last night's tea. Her hair brushed my chin. For a while, we didn't talk; we just listened to the city hum through the thin glass.
Then she said, "You're thinking about him again, aren't you?"
I nodded. "It's like trying not to think about a bruise. The more you ignore it, the more it aches."
She looked up at me, eyes soft but steady. "So what now?"
"I'll go to Harlow Industries today," I said. "Your favorite villain. My father's old rival. They'll love the irony."
She blinked. "You're serious?"
"Completely. They've been trying to steal our business since I was fifteen. Maybe now I'll help them."
That made her smile, just barely. "They won't care who your father is?"
"I'll make sure they don't find out."
She nodded slowly. "Good. Because you're too smart to sit here worrying about him."
I smiled back at her. "What about you?"
"Mrs. Graham downstairs," she said, picking at the cuff of my shirt, "she owns that diner around the corner, remember? She said she's looking for help on weekends. I could try it."
I raised an eyebrow. "You, working in a diner?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, pretending to be offended.
"You'll scare all her customers. They'll fall in love with you and forget their meals."
She laughed and pushed my shoulder lightly. "Shut up. I can handle a diner."
"I know you can," I said quietly. "I just don't like you needing to."
Her expression softened. "We both need to. It's just until things get easier."
I touched her cheek. "You always make it sound like they will."
"They will," she said, and kissed me lightly before getting up. "Now go shave. You look like an artist who lost his muse."
By the time I got to Harlow Industries, the morning had turned sharp and sunny. Their building stood like a mirror—glass and metal, everything my father loved about business but with better taste.
The receptionist looked up when I stepped inside. "Good morning. Do you have an appointment?"
"Ethan Vale," I said, before realizing the name might still carry poison here. "I mean—Ethan. Just Ethan. I'm here for the logistics coordinator position."
She typed something, frowned slightly, then smiled. "Interview with Mr. Anders. Conference Room Three. Sixth floor."
The elevator ride felt endless. My reflection in the polished steel doors didn't look like the man I used to be: same face, just quieter around the eyes.
Mr. Anders was in his forties, sleeves rolled up, tie loose. He stood when I entered, offered a handshake that didn't crush, didn't test—just met mine and held it.
"Ethan, right? Sit down."
"Thank you."
He flipped through my résumé, whistling softly. "You worked for Vale Logistics?"
I tensed. "Briefly. I worked there for a month."
His eyebrow lifted, but he didn't push. "Why leave?"
"Morale differences," I said. "And I don't mean the kind that fit in therapy."
He chuckled, not unkindly. "Fair enough. We don't mind people with a past, as long as they can show up and work."
"I can show up," I said. "I'm good with systems, scheduling, and keeping things running. I don't need a corner office, just a desk and a chance."
He leaned back in his chair. "We've got more applicants than desks, you know."
"I figured," I said. "But none of them will work harder."
Something in the way he looked at me made me think he believed that. He nodded slowly, closed the folder.
"Let's try you out for a month," he said. "See if we fit each other."
For a second, I didn't breathe. "You mean—?"
"Yes, Ethan. You're hired. Probationary period, standard rate. You can start tomorrow if you want."
I stood, shaking his hand again, this time with both of mine. "You won't regret it."
"Everyone says that," he said, smiling. "Just prove it."
By the time I got home, the sky had gone orange. I found Clara in the kitchen, flour on her nose, hair tied up in a way that made my chest ache a little.
"I got it," I said.
She turned, confused. "Got what?"
"The job."
Her mouth fell open, then curved into the kind of smile that could light a room. She ran to me, threw her arms around my neck, and I swear I felt the weight of every bad day lift a little.
"Ethan, that's amazing!"
I buried my face in her shoulder. "You didn't even ask what it pays."
"I don't care," she said, pulling back just enough to look at me. "You did it. We're okay."
"Mrs. Graham still wants help at her diner?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said. "She told me to come by tomorrow."
"Then maybe," I said, smiling, "we're both starting over."
She reached up, brushed a bit of dust off my jacket, eyesbrightenedt with pride. "Look at us, Mr. and Mrs. Ordinary."
"Ordinary's underrated," I said. "It's quiet. It's real."
She nodded, pressed her forehead against mine. "Then let's be real for a while."
And for a long moment, we just stood there—our little kitchen smelling of flour and hope, the city noise fading to a hum outside the window—like the world had finally, finally stopped trying to break us.
The bell over the door rang, a soft jingle that barely rose above the sizzle of oil and the low hum of lunch-hour chatter. Clara wiped her hands on her apron, her hair coming loose at the sides, and called out, "Be with you in just a minute!"
She was balancing three plates of sandwiches on one arm, a trick Mrs. Graham had taught her, when she felt it—the silence. Not real silence, but the kind that follows someone important into a room.
The kind that turns heads.
Clara glanced up and froze.
It took her a moment to recognize the woman. The same sharp cheekbones, the expensive perfume that didn't belong anywhere near frying oil, the coat that probably cost more than Clara's yearly rent.
Mrs. Margaret Vale.
Ethan's stepmother.
She was standing by the counter, her eyes moving around the place like she was afraid of catching something. Mrs. Graham, kind soul that she was, hurried over to greet her. "Ma'am, table for one?"
Margaret's voice was smooth and distant. "No. I'm here to speak with your waitress. Clara Vale."
Mrs. Graham blinked. "Clara? You know her?"
"Yes," Margaret said simply, and turned her gaze toward Clara again.
Every muscle in Clara's arms felt tight. She set the plates down, murmured something to Mrs. Graham, and wiped her hands again, though they were already clean.
"Mrs. Vale," she said, quietly. "What are you doing here?"
Margaret smiled, polite, brittle. "Could we sit somewhere more… private?"
Clara led her to the booth in the back corner. The vinyl seat creaked as Margaret sat, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. She didn't order anything. She just opened her purse, slowly, deliberately, and took out a slim envelope.
Clara stared at it.
"I'll be direct," Margaret said. "Ethan won't listen to reason. But you… you might still have some."
Clara folded her hands in her lap. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"I think you do." Margaret pushed the envelope forward. "There's enough in there for you to start over somewhere else. A new life. Somewhere far away. Divorce him quietly, and you'll never have to worry about money again."
Clara didn't touch the envelope. "You came all the way here to bribe me."
"I came to offer you mercy," Margaret corrected, her tone clipped. "Do you really think he can give you anything? You've seen the life you're living. The job. The apartment. He was never meant for this, and you're dragging him down further every day."
Clara bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted iron. "He's happy."
"Happy?" Margaret gave a short, cold laugh. "He's surviving, dear. That's not the same thing. You can't build a future on pity and pride."
The words stung, but Clara didn't flinch. She met the older woman's eyes. "You think money fixes everything, don't you?"
"It fixes most things that matter," Margaret said.
"Then you've never loved anyone."
For the first time, the stepmother's expression faltered. Only for a second. Then the mask came back. "I loved him enough to want better for him."
Clara leaned forward, her voice low but steady. "Better isn't always richer. And I'm not leaving him."
Margaret's hand tightened around her purse strap. "You'll regret this."
"I already regret wasting five minutes on you," Clara said softly, standing. "If you're not ordering anything, I'll need this table for customers."
The bell above the door jingled again a moment later. Margaret Vale left without another word, perfume lingering like smoke in her wake.
Clara stood still, staring at the untouched envelope on the table. She picked it up, not to keep it, but to drop it straight into the trash bin behind the counter. Her hands were shaking, but her heart felt steadier than it had all day.
Mrs. Graham noticed. "Everything all right, dear?"
Clara smiled—small, tired, but real. "Yeah. Just took out the trash."
I heard her keys before I heard her voice. The lock clicked twice, the way it always did when she was distracted.
"Clara?" I called from the kitchen.
She didn't answer right away. Just set her bag down on the counter and leaned against it like the air had been punched out of her. Her apron was still tied crooked at the back, and there was a streak of flour on her wrist.
"Hey," I said quietly, wiping my hands on a towel. "Rough day?"
She looked up, and for a second, I thought she'd cry. But she didn't. She just smiled the way people do when they're holding too much inside.
"You could say that."
I pulled out a chair for her. "Sit. Tell me."
She sank into the chair, elbows on her knees, head bowed. "Your stepmother came to the diner today."
Everything in me went still. "Margaret?"
"Yeah." Her voice was soft, flat. "She offered me money. Said I should leave you. Get a divorce."
I felt the words like a slow burn up my spine. "She what?"
"She said I was dragging you down." Clara's fingers twisted in her apron. "That you were meant for better things."
I leaned against the table, jaw tightening. "She actually came there? To your workplace?"
Clara nodded. "Middle of lunch rush. Sat in the corner like she owned the place."
I closed my eyes for a second. The image of Margaret Vale, in her tailored coat, sitting under the buzzing diner lights and judging every tile on the floor—it made my blood boil.
"What did you tell her?" I asked.
She looked up at me then, eyes fierce through the hurt. "That she's never loved anyone in her life. And that I'm not leaving you."
My chest ached, proud and furious at the same time. I crouched beside her, resting my hands on her knees. "You shouldn't have had to face her alone."
"I'm fine," she said, shaking her head. "Just… angry. And tired. She looked at me like I was dirt, Ethan. Like she couldn't believe you'd choose me."
I swallowed hard. "She doesn't get to understand it. She's never known what love is. She only knows what power looks like."
Clara brushed a thumb under her eye. "She said I'd regret staying."
I took her hand. "If anyone's regretting something, it's her. She has all that money and not one person who'd sit with her when she's sick. Not one who'd bring her coffee in the morning. Not one who'd fight for her."
Clara gave a faint, tired laugh. "You always say things like that."
"Because they're true."
She leaned forward, forehead against my shoulder. For a while, we just stayed there—quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant noise from the street.
After a minute, I said, "Next time she shows up, you call me. I don't care if I'm in a meeting or halfway across the city."
"I can handle her," she murmured.
"I know," I said, wrapping my arms around her. "But you shouldn't have to."
We stayed like that, her hand resting over my heart, mine in her hair. I could still smell the faint grease from the diner, the coffee, the city clinging to her. All the ordinary things that made her ours.