Claire Ashley POV:
I don't know how I left that hotel from hell. I wrapped myself in the bedsheet, hailed a cab, and gave the address I once called home.
The driver's eyes in the rearview mirror were filled with a mixture of pity and curiosity, but I was numb. I didn't care.
Standing before the elegant oak door of the Mann residence, I felt a wave of dizziness. My key was still in my ruined clutch, but my hand wouldn't move. Was I still welcome here?
I took a deep, shuddering breath and used my trembling hand to open the door.
Jefferson was on the sofa. His mother, Sharon Mann, sat opposite him, delicately holding a coffee cup.
Seeing me, Jefferson frowned, his eyes filling with disgust.
Sharon looked up. For a long moment, she simply stared at me—at the sheet wrapped around my body, the tear tracks on my face, the red marks on my neck. Then, to my utter shock, she set her coffee cup down gently and stood.
"Claire." Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. "My God. What happened to you?"
I opened my mouth, but no words came. I had braced myself for contempt, for another lashing. Not this.
"It was a setup," I finally managed, my voice cracking. "Someone drugged me last night. Someone took those photos and sent them to TMZ. I didn't—I would never—"
My legs buckled. Before I could hit the floor, Sharon was there, catching my arm, guiding me to the sofa. Her touch was warm, steady.
"Sit down," she said. "Breathe."
I stared at her, uncomprehending. This was not the Sharon I knew—the woman who had spent the last year treating me like a piece of furniture that had overstayed its welcome.
Jefferson stood up abruptly. "Mother, what are you—"
"Be quiet." Sharon's voice snapped like a whip. She turned back to me, her expression softening again. "Claire, tell me everything. From the beginning."
So I did.
I told her about the gala. About Falon handing me the champagne. About the flashes, the man, the pain. About waking up in that hotel room, about the photo, about Jefferson arriving with the reporters.
I told her everything I could remember, every shattered fragment.
Sharon listened in silence, her eyes never leaving mine. When I finished, she was very still.
"Let me make sure I understand," she said slowly, her voice dangerously calm. She turned to Jefferson. "Your wife—your wife—is telling me she was drugged and assaulted last night. And instead of helping her, you gave her divorce papers and watched the press devour her?"
Jefferson's jaw tightened. "Mother, that's not what happened. She's lying. The photos—"
"The photos." Sharon rose from the sofa and crossed the room until she was standing directly in front of her son. "You mean the photos of her unconscious? The ones taken from an angle no paparazzi could have gotten unless someone arranged it?"
I hadn't said that. I hadn't even thought of that.
Jefferson blinked. For the first time since I'd known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. "Mother, you don't understand the situation. She's been spinning stories since the hotel. She's desperate and she'll say anything—"
"A desperate woman doesn't walk into a room full of cameras covered in bruises and ask for a lawyer." Sharon's voice was ice. "She asks for her husband. The man who should have been protecting her."
She turned to look at me, and something in her expression made my chest ache. It wasn't warmth, not exactly. But it was something I hadn't seen in a year of marriage.
Belief.
"Why didn't you call me?" she asked. "Why didn't you come straight to the house instead of staying in that hotel?"
"I—I didn't know if I was welcome. I thought you would—" My voice broke.
Sharon sighed, and for a fleeting moment, she looked older, wearier. "You're a Mann, Claire. No matter what happens in this marriage, you are still family. I should have made that clear long ago."
I felt something loosen in my chest. A tiny flicker of relief, warm and fragile.
"Now." Sharon turned back to Jefferson. "I want the truth. Were you involved in this?"
Jefferson's face was a mask of barely contained fury. "Mother—"
"Answer me."
He glanced at me, then back at his mother. I saw him calculating, weighing his options. But before he could speak, Sharon held up a hand.
"Don't bother. I can see it in your face." Her voice trembled, but with anger, not grief. "I raised you better than this. Or I thought I did."
She turned her back on him and came back to me, taking my hand in hers. Her fingers were cool and smooth, the same hand that had never once touched me in warmth. But now she held on like I was something worth saving.
"Don't sign anything," she said firmly. "Not until we have all the facts. And I will handle the press myself."
"But… Jefferson already gave me the divorce papers." I reached into the folds of the sheet and pulled out the crumpled document.
Sharon's eyes flickered. She took the papers, flipped to the last page, and saw Jefferson's signature. Her lips twitched.
"Did you sign?" Her voice was tighter now.
"No." I shook my head.
She seemed to relax, then folded the papers and tucked them into her own pocket. "Good. I need to look over this carefully. You must not sign, do you understand?"
I nodded, but a faint unease slipped through me. Her reaction had been too quick, too focused on the document.
But Sharon had already put the warm smile back on her face. She patted my hand. "Go rest. I'll handle everything from here."
So I went upstairs.
At the turn of the staircase, I heard Sharon's voice from below, low and cutting through the silence.
"She hasn't signed. That agreement can't fall through. If she talks to someone else, we're in trouble."
My steps froze.
A chill shot up my spine.
I slowly turned my head to look back down.
