Clare POV:
A few days later, they reappeared. This time, they came to my interior design studio. My sanctuary. The place I had built from the ground up, fueled by my own talent and hard work, not by Elliot's family money.
They walked in wearing matching outfits. White linen shirts, designer jeans, and custom sneakers. It was a stark contrast to Elliot's usual formal attire. He never wore casual clothes when we were together. I had once suggested we get matching shirts for a vacation, and he had dismissed the idea, saying it was "too childish" and "not his style." Now, he embraced it for Haylee. The visual served as another cold reminder of his indifference to my desires.
Haylee's eyes swept across the studio, taking in the elegant furniture, the curated art, the architectural models. Her expression shifted from casual disdain to genuine surprise. She clearly hadn't expected my small boutique studio to be so successful, so polished.
"You actually work here?" Elliot asked, his voice laced with confusion. He looked around with a bewildered expression. He couldn't grasp why I would bother. "Clare, I gave you more than enough money in the divorce settlement. You never needed to work again."
He was referring to the divorce three years ago. I had insisted on my fair share of our marital assets, not because I needed his money, but because I deserved it. He had handed it over without a fight, dismissing it as a small price to pay for his freedom and his "game."
I paused my conversation with a client, my pen still hovering over a design sketch. I turned to face them, my expression carefully blank. My gaze met Elliot's, cold and distant.
"I enjoy working, Elliot," I stated, my voice even, steady. "It has nothing to do with you or your money."
He merely frowned, his confusion deepening. He still believed I was angry, playing a part. He couldn't comprehend genuine independence or passion for work. He saw my drive as a personal affront to his generosity.
Haylee, ever the performer, stepped forward, her hands clasped delicately in front of her. "Clare, darling, it's so nice to see you. Elliot has told me so much about your new little business." Her tone was sickly sweet, a thin veil over the mocking intent in her eyes.
"Haylee," I responded, my voice flat, betraying no emotion. "It's a successful studio, not a 'little business.'"
Her smile tightened. She had expected me to bristle, to show some weakness. My calm indifference clearly unnerved her.
At that moment, Elliot's phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then excused himself, stepping outside to take the call. It left Haylee and me alone in the sleek, modern space.
The facade dropped instantly. Haylee's sweet smile contorted into a triumphant, predatory smirk. Her eyes, usually wide and innocent, narrowed with malicious glee. She leaned in, her voice now a low, venomous hiss.
"Don't play games, Clare," she warned, her gaze raking over me with disdain. "Elliot is back for you, yes. But don't think for a second you've won. He's only doing it out of a misguided sense of duty. You know Elizabeth despises you. You'll never be her daughter-in-law again."
She stood taller, looking down at me as if I were a common insect. "She wants me. She always has. I'm the one who belongs in the Fields family, not some middle-class girl who had to chase after Elliot. He'll take you back, because he's a good man, but you'll still be an outsider. A placeholder."
She paused, watching my face for any sign of a crack. When she found none, her lips twisted further. "And before you even think about it, you'll sign this." She pulled a folded legal document from her designer handbag and slapped it onto my clean glass desk. "Just standard procedure, darling. To protect the family assets."
I didn't touch it. I didn't even look down. I kept my eyes locked on hers, my voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear.
"You've been waiting three years to be the official Mrs. Fields, haven't you, Haylee? And yet here you are, delivering legal threats on behalf of a woman who still doesn't know you exist as anything more than Elliot's childhood friend."
Her face twitched—a tiny crack in the porcelain mask.
"You think you're so close," I continued, each word measured, cold. "But Elliot doesn't even know yet. About the pregnancy I terminated. About the man I married the day he left. About the son who calls another man Daddy."
I smiled—not with warmth, but with the quiet satisfaction of holding every card while she held none.
"So please. Leave the document. I'll add it to my collection of evidence."
