CLAIRE

Claire sipped her tea with perfect grace. She kept her spine straight, her eyes attentive, her mouth poised in a smile that had won over ministers and mothers alike.

But inside? She was unraveling.

Across the table, Caleb sat in moody silence. Not unusual—he wore sulking like a second skin—but tonight, he wasn’t sulking at her. He wasn’t glaring at Ethan either. He was watching Vivian.

Furtive glances. Quick and guilty. Not desire, not exactly—something meaner. Like envy, bottled and sweetened for court.

Claire hated it. Vivian had walked in and owned the room. Of course she had. That robe alone probably cost more than the Zhou estate’s annual tribute. Every movement was measured, every word shaped like a blade in velvet.

But she was Caleb’s sister-in-law. Why was he looking at her like that?

Then again, she thought bitterly, Caleb never had much discipline when it came to what wasn’t his.

Still, what scraped her raw tonight wasn’t Caleb’s wandering attention. It was Ethan’s.

She had been talking to him—really talking—for the first time in what felt like lifetimes.

She brought up something that actually mattered to her: merchant guild reforms, tiered licensing, enforcement clauses.

Dry to some. Not to him.

Or at least, not to the Ethan she used to know.

And for a moment—just a breath of one—he was there again.

The way he used to be. Bright, sharp-eyed, quietly intense.

The kind of man who listened so fully it made you feel smarter just for speaking.

She’d leaned in. Not physically. Emotionally.

Then Vivian spoke. Just one line, light as air.

Ethan turned.

Claire felt the temperature in her chest drop.

Then, like fate twisting the knife, in came Marissa Lin.

And the rest of the table seemed to forget Claire existed.

Marissa was exactly the kind of girl who made headlines in Path Icon reels.

Just eighteen. Built like a goddess drawn by a drunk artist—exaggerated in all the right places and barely aware of how dangerous she looked.

Or maybe too aware.

She bounced.

She laughed.

She brushed Ethan’s sleeve like she owned his affection.

And Ethan—

He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t lean in either. Typical Ethan. Measured. Polite.

But then again, his eyes did flicker to her chest.

Claire felt something sting beneath her ribs.

She forced a smile.

She had no right to be upset.

No right to feel anything at all.

But lately… lately the dreams had been getting worse.

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She didn’t know if “worse” was the right word. But they were stronger. Deeper.

Always the same feeling—like being wrapped in warmth just beyond the firelight.

A presence. Tall. Quiet. Steady. Watching her. Protecting her.

Sometimes there were fragments.

A pale blue glow.

The feel of hands catching her as she fell.

A voice—low, calm, and familiar in a way that didn’t make sense.

She never saw his face.

But she knew it was him.

Every time she woke from those dreams, her pulse was racing.

Her throat tight.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, a truth she didn’t want to name:

It wasn’t Caleb.

It never had been.

It was Ethan.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself.

Dreams mean nothing.

But dreams didn’t make your breath catch at the sound of a voice.

Dreams didn’t twist your stomach when someone else laughed at his joke.

Dreams didn’t make you jealous.

She clenched her jaw, stared at the tea in her cup, and forced herself to breathe.

He’s not your boyfriend, she reminded herself, brutally.

He’s your husband’s brother.

And no matter what dreams said, no matter what memory whispered...

That made all the difference.

Claire smoothed her robe and placed her teacup on the saucer with delicate finality.

She had to leave.

Not dramatically. Not hastily. Just… quietly. Gracefully.

The way women like her did when they’d overstayed dignity’s welcome.

Everything about the evening had shifted.

Vivian was glowing beneath the polished mask of nobility, basking in the attention of Ethan’s mother like she’d always belonged.

Marissa had turned the dining table into her personal stage, all bouncing charm and flattering gasps.

And Ethan—

He sat there, still and steady, as if none of it surprised him.

As if none of it bothered him.

As if she weren’t even there.

Claire angled slightly toward Margaret Zhou, preparing to offer a polite smile and some excuse about needing to check on a servant or send a message home—

But Caleb spoke first.

Loud enough to make everyone pause.

“Marissa,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “it’s been a long time since I visited your family estate. Perhaps I could stop by during next season’s bloom week? I remember you always hosted an excellent evening procession.”

Claire froze.

Not because he’d spoken—but because of how he said it.

Too confident. Too familiar.

The kind of voice that wanted everyone at the table to hear.

Marissa blinked. Smiled.

And completely changed temperature.

“Oh,” she said sweetly, “I don’t think that’s necessary. Our guest list has been a bit… selective lately.”

The room went quiet.

Then Vivian, without looking up from her chopsticks, murmured:

“Ah. The value of discernment.”

Claire couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or scream.

Caleb looked like he’d swallowed a live coal.

But Marissa, never missing a beat, turned back toward Ethan—her Ethan—and batted her lashes with a force that should have been classified as an arcane technique.

“Actually,” she said brightly, “Ethan, you studied at the academy longer than anyone expected, didn’t you? I heard your research into legacy-bound constructs was so advanced the elders tried to seal your notes.”

Claire’s heart skipped.

She remembered that. She’d read those notes. Helped him organize them.

Ethan didn’t even blink.

“That was a long time ago.”

“But still,” Marissa pressed, “you were always so brilliant with energy harmonics. Would you consider visiting the academy sometime? Maybe giving a short lecture to the advanced class? Even just a demonstration.”

Claire waited for him to deflect. To change the subject. To show some humility. To look at her.

Instead, Ethan nodded once. Calm. Polite.

“If the headmaster approves, I’d be happy to.”

Claire felt the breath leave her chest.

He wasn’t hers. Not in any way that mattered.

And it didn’t matter how many papers they’d written together, how many nights they’d shared tangled in thought—and maybe more.

It didn’t matter if she dreamed of him or remembered the exact weight of his laugh in her hands.

He had moved on.

And now, apparently, so had she.

Claire rose with perfect poise.

“I should return to the guest quarters,” she said to no one in particular. “It’s been a long day.”

Margaret gave her a warm smile and patted her hand. No one else stopped her. No one asked her to stay.

She didn’t look back. Not at Ethan. Not at Marissa. And certainly not at Caleb.