And Jonas sat alone in a bolthole with too many ghosts and the wrong woman pulling him across lines he couldn’t afford to cross.
He closed the laptop and sat in the dark until the radiator clunked, and the city’s night noises steadied his breathing again.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he’d put it back where it belonged, mission, leverage, nothing else.
Even if he didn’t believe it.
Chapter 5
Clara couldn’t stop thinkingabout him as she made her way home. The stranger in the museum had appeared from nowhere, tall, broad-shouldered, his presence filling the quiet gallery. At first, she’d thought he was another visitor, but when he spoke, his voice low and sure, it was different. He hadn’t asked questions like a curious tourist; he had stated facts, precise and layered, as if the manuscripts belonged as much to him as they did to the collection. A calculated intelligence settled behind his eyes.
And his eyes, those dark, steady eyes, had carried something else, something she couldn’t unsee. Pain. As if he’d walked through fire and carried the smoke with him still. It unsettled her that she could recognise it in a man she didn’t know. It unsettled her more that she wanted to unravel it, to soothe it.
Clara hung her coat by the door and moved automatically through her flat, the warmth and familiar scent of home surrounding her. Putting the kettle on, she reached for her favourite Winnie the Pooh mug, which Lena had bought her when she’d moved in here. She tugged the pins from her hair andrubbed her scalp, the ache a small reminder of how tightly she’d pulled herself together that morning.
The kettle clicked off, and she poured the water, watching steam curl into the air, before adding a splash of milk and removing the teabag. Clara wrapped her hands around the mug for warmth, the tea burning her tongue as she took a small sip. But the warmth didn’t touch the restlessness inside her. Walking through her small kitchen, she settled on the comfy sofa she’d bought when she’d moved into the flat just two years ago. With her legs tucked beneath her, she let her head fall back to the pale pink cushion.
This place was her sanctuary, her escape from the expectation of her family. High ceilings, intricately carved picture rails, and even an ornate decorative fireplace that had been restored to its former glory. Yet tonight it didn’t give her the calm she needed. That low level of anxiety she always seemed to carry beneath her breastbone tightened further as she let out a sigh to try and relieve it. Perhaps it was worse because she knew the end was coming. She’d have to leave this place and move in with Oliver and bow under the expectations everyone had of her.
She thought of the stranger’s voice again, calm and factual, but under it was something unguarded that pulled at her. The attraction had struck like a lightning bolt, eclipsing anything she’d ever felt before. Certainly, more than she’d ever felt with Oliver. The thought brought guilt, sharp and immediate. She was engaged. Promised. Bound by duty and choice.
Her phone buzzed.Oliver.
Clara pressed her lips together, then answered. “Hello?”
“Clara.” His tone was smooth, efficient. “We’re expected at dinner on Friday with my parents. Six o’clock sharp. Wear the blue dress, it’s Mother’s favourite.”
Her stomach tightened. “Oliver, I’ve had late nights at the museum all week. I can’t promise I’ll look like a debutante for inspection.”
A pause. His voice softened, but not kindly, rather measured and calculated. “I know you’re tired. But my mother values appearances. And remember, this dinner, this engagement, it all reflects well on you. On your parents. Without me, Clara, Sutton House would have been lost by now. You know that.”
Her chest tightened. The reminder slid between her ribs like a blade, sharp and deliberate. She hated that it worked. “You’re right,” she said quietly, though her free hand curled into a fist at her sides. Inside, anger burned. Hot anger at her parents for putting her in this position, at Oliver for wielding his help like a chain. But outwardly, she let it go. She always did.
Oliver hummed approval, then let warmth bleed into his tone. “That’s my girl. You work too hard, Clara. Let me take care of you. I don’t want you worrying about anything beyond your books and pretty gowns. You know how much I care for you.”
The words were practised, polished, slipping over her like silk. If she hadn’t known him for years, if she hadn’t heard the calculation beneath the charm, she might almost have believed him. Almost.
By the time the call ended, her tea had gone cold. Clara set the mug aside, restless, and drifted toward the kitchen. She pulled open a cupboard and stared at the neat rows of teas and China cups, her mother’s voice echoing in her head about refinement and proper choices.
With a small, defiant huff, she shoved them aside and reached for the bottle of passionfruit liqueur she’d bought with Lena on a whim. Fruity, fizzy, “crass,” her mother would have sniffed. Clara poured a generous splash over ice, topped it with soda, and carried the glass to the bathroom.
The bath filled quickly, bubbles scented with lavender and rose rising to the surface. She sank in, warmth lapping over her body, her muscles loosening under the heat. The first sip of the cocktail was sweet, sharp, the fizz tickling her nose. It felt like rebellion in a glass.
But the relaxation she chased never came. Instead, her mind replayed the stranger’s face. The weight of his gaze. The pain in his eyes mirrored something in herself. And under it, the unexpected pull of attraction, sudden, overwhelming, eclipsing anything she’d ever felt before.
Her thighs shifted beneath the water. Her breath shortened. Her hand slid lower, skimming her stomach, then dipping beneath the foam to where her body throbbed with need. She closed her eyes, imagining his hands instead of hers, broad, rough, certain.
A shiver tore through her, her lips parting in a soft gasp, then guilt struck hard. With a sharp intake of breath, Clara pulled her hand away, sitting up as bubbles slid down her flushed skin.
“No,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Stop.”
She climbed out, wrapping herself in a towel, as if fabric could erase what she’d almost done. She dressed quickly in soft pyjamas, tugging the drawstring tight, needing the comfort of control.
Her phone buzzed.Mother.
Clara pressed her lips together before answering.
“Darling,” Penelope Sutton cooed. “I spoke to Oliver this evening. He’s such a wonderful man, so attentive. We’re blessed you’ve found someone so perfect. Your father and I sleep easier knowing he’ll look after you and us.”
