Mark’s POV
Mr. Kirkland’s 80th birthday was the sort of event that demanded perfection: flawless appearances, polite smiles, discreet nods of deference, and an ironclad control over one’s image. The kind of gathering where any slip could echo for years.
I arrived at the grand ballroom with Nina at my side, her rounded belly now impossible to miss. Eyes followed us as we walked in, whispers circling like small, invisible currents through the crowd, but I ignored them. My face stayed neutral, a mask of detachment, while every instinct screamed that something was wrong.
It wasn’t until my grandfather himself entered the room that I released Nina’s hand. Not just a patriarch of the family, Mr. Kirkland was a living legend in the business world—a man who had built an empire and demanded loyalty, but who had always treated me with the same careful, almost fatherly affection he reserved for family.
“Where is Clara?” he asked directly, his eyes locking onto mine.
I swallowed, keeping my voice steady despite the gnawing anxiety in my chest. “She’s… busy. She wanted to prepare something special for your birthday,” I said, forcing a confidence I didn’t feel. “She’ll be here later.”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze sharp and searching, and yet he said nothing more.
Two hours passed. The room was filled with the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the polite applause of guests greeting one another. But still, Clara hadn’t appeared. I kept my eyes on the doors, pretending not to care, but inside, my stomach knotted tighter with every passing minute. Where the hell was she?
Just as I was about to excuse myself and make a call, a young courier appeared in the doorway, carrying three carefully wrapped packages. His hands trembled slightly, either from the weight or the tension in the room, and his gaze flitted between me and my grandfather as if unsure whom to address first.
“Delivery for Mr. Kirkland,” he announced, voice polite but firm. “From Ms. Clara.”
My chest tightened. The mention of her name stopped every thought for a second.
I cleared my throat and said, “Give them to me.”
He hesitated. “I was instructed to deliver these directly to the Mr., sir. Her instructions were very specific.”
Of course they were.
I stepped aside, gesturing toward my grandfather. “Then do as she requested.”
Mr. Kirkland was midway through a quiet conversation with another board member when the courier approached. He nodded respectfully and said, “These are from Ms. Clara, sir. She sends her birthday wishes.”
The Mr. blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. “Why didn’t she deliver them herself? Where is she?”
The courier shook his head apologetically. “I’m only tasked with delivering these, sir. Nothing more.”
My grandfather’s brow furrowed, his expression heavy with disappointment. Still, he accepted the gifts with his usual measured grace, placing them carefully on the table beside him. His fingers lingered on one of the boxes, as though expecting it to speak for her, to offer an explanation she hadn’t given in person.
I stepped closer, trying to control the whirlwind of emotions swirling in my chest. “Do you want me to open them for you?” I asked, voice quiet.
“No. I’ll do it myself,” he replied, his tone gentle but firm.
The first package revealed an exquisitely embroidered tapestry. The craftsmanship was extraordinary—months of painstaking work, every thread chosen and placed with precision. I knew how much effort she’d poured into it; I had watched her fingers bleed as she labored over every stitch. The design was a celebration of longevity and legacy, a quiet, heartfelt gift meant to honor my grandfather. His eyes glistened as he lifted it out, tracing the delicate details with trembling hands.
The second package came next, wrapped in soft velvet. Inside was a set of heirloom jewelry—pieces that had belonged to my grandfather’s late wife, the very same set Clara had worn on our wedding day. My throat constricted as I stared at them. Why would she return something so personal? The weight of it pressed against me, and my palms began to sweat.
Then the third box sat there, silent and heavy. I couldn’t wait any longer. My hands moved before I could think, snatching it roughly from the courier’s arms. My grandfather gave me a sharp glance but didn’t stop me.
I tore the wrapping away, heart pounding, and froze.
The contents were unlike anything I could have expected. My face went pale, and my breath caught in my throat. My fingers trembled as I held the box, unable to process the sheer audacity and heartbreak in what Clara had sent.
It was impossible to look away.
