Clara blinked at the ceiling, her mind foggy from sleep. The last thing she remembered was Cyra's steady presence beside her and his cool, calming hand brushing her hair from her face. Now the bed felt empty, the sheets were cool where he'd been.
Clara shifted carefully, instinctively bracing her side. To her surprise, the sharp, stabbing pain she'd grown accustomed to didn't come. It still hurt, a dull ache that protested her every breath, but it wasn't nearly as crippling as it had been days ago. The doctor had told Natalia it would be roughly six weeks before Clara could move comfortably again. Yet here she was, only a handful of days later, feeling… not whole, but better.
The clock on the wall read a little past one in the afternoon. She'd slept through the entire morning. Clara glanced around the bedroom. It was so empty and still. She felt a quiet loneliness and boredom pressing against her harder than the injury.
She exhaled slowly and pushed herself up, testing her strength. Her body felt foreign, weaker than she liked, but steady. She didn't want to lay in bed any longer. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing from the pressure in her side, she had gotten too confident in her movements and slowed down. She eased herself to her feet, one hand pressed lightly against her ribs, and took a slow step. The floor was cool beneath her bare toes. Clara moved slowly, one hand gripping the doorframe, then the next. She reached for the wall and made her way out of the bedroom, pausing every few steps to not exert herself.
The scent of coffee drifted down the hallway, and she followed it, stepping careful and strategically. When she finally reached the kitchen, she paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame for support.
Cyra stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, a neat stack of papers in front of him. He was reading intently, flipping through pages with practiced precision. Clara smiled slightly. He looked almost domestic like this.
He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and a faint smile curved his mouth.
"Clara," he said softly, his expression brightening. "You're up."
"Yeah." She lingered at the doorway, still using it for support. "I feel a little better."
He crossed over to her side without hesitation. "You should've called me," he said, though his voice was more gentle than scolding. He slipped an arm around her waist, steadying her as she walked the last few steps.
"I didn't want to be a bother," she said quietly.
"You never bother me." He guided her carefully to one of the stools at the island.
"Sit," he said simply and she did, relief waving through her body.
"Coffee?" he offered.
"Please."
He poured her a cup and set it in front of her, then leaned against the counter across from her, watching as she took her first sip.
"You must be starved?" his accent made everything sound so dramatic.
She shook her head. "Not really."
His gaze softened, but there was a quiet insistence in his tone. "You should eat something."
She shot him a look of warning. "I'm not hungry."
"I didn't ask if you were hungry." His gaze was steady, unyielding. "You've barely eaten in days."
Her lips parted in protest, but he'd already turned away, moving with purposeful grace. A moment later, he set a plate with a single muffin in front of her.
"Eat. Just something small to carry you over."
His eyes softer now. "—Please."
Clara sighed, irritation flickering slightly, but ultimately, he was right. She knew her body couldn't heal without some fuel.
"Fine. You're impossible."
"Correct," he said without missing a beat, pulling another stack of papers toward him.
She rolled her eyes but didn't answer. The muffin was soft and sweet, and even though she didn't want to admit it, her body was grateful for the food.
"What are you working on?" she asked after a moment.
He glanced up. "Interviews. Emily dropped off resumes this morning. More than I expected."
"Interviews for what?"
"Staff," he said simply. "I hired a groundskeeper today. Someone who can handle everything outside—the trees, hedges, the courtyard."
Clara raised a brow. "That was fast."
"I don't like hiring strangers every time something needs done. I'd rather have someone here. Someone we trust."
She nodded slowly, sipping her coffee.
"The courtyard should be kept pristine," he added, almost absentmindedly as he scanned a resume. "So I can take moonlit walks with you when you're feeling better."
Her heart gave a strange little flutter at his words, and wrapped her hands against her coffee while lowering her eyes, suddenly very interested in the swirling cream.
She busied herself with another bite of muffin.
"I still need a housekeeper," he continued, "— and a personal assistant. Natalia will be working closely with the assistant, so she'll have final approval. But I'll handle the vetting, like I promised."
Clara perked up. "I want to help," she said suddenly.
He paused, studying her. "Help?"
"I'm bored," she admitted, her voice soft but honest. "I've been laying in bed for days. I need something to do."
His brow furrowed. "You should probably be resting."
"I can rest later," she said, her gaze steady. "Please."
Cyra studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "That 'please' of yours is deadly you know. Ok fine, if you're sure you're feeling up to it."
"I am."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. Instead, he gave a slow nod.
"Fine. Get dressed. I have a few staggered interview appointments that I called earlier this morning who are stopping by this afternoon."
She slid off the stool carefully, testing her balance.
"Wait, wait," he said quickly, instinctively stepping forward to help her.
"I'm fine," she said, holding up a hand. "I think I can walk ok now. Just takes a little longer, that's all!"
He frowned but stepped back, watching her closely as she made her way toward the bedroom. She moved slowly, her fingers brushing the wall for support.
She felt his gaze on her back the whole way, a silent tether that made her feel steadier than she was.