Steam kissed Clara's bare skin, shrouding the room in a ghostly veil as she stepped out of the shower.
She carefully braced herself against the cold tile wall. The ache in her ribs pulsed like a dull drumbeat, a reminder that every movement demanded caution.
She grimaced, wrapping a towel around herself loosely, being extra careful over the bruised part of her skin.
Although she felt better, the mirror across from her reflected a stranger… pale from days of bed rest, hair damp and tangled, shoulders drawn tight from guarding her side.
She sighed softly, fogging the glass. "This is progress. Clara we can do this" she murmured, though even to her own ears, her voice lacked conviction. "I don't know how, but we're going to these clothed on."
Her gaze drifted toward the bedroom door. She could call for Cyra again. He'd been so patient earlier, careful and calm when he helped her out of her clothes. She remembered his touch, feather-light and how he focused intently on not hurting her. Still, she'd felt the tension in his hands, sensed the restraint in his steady breath.
She had nearly turned to him then, almost—without thinking—pressed her lips to his. The thought alone sent a hot flush up her neck.
"Nope," she whispered, shaking her head, damp strands clinging to her cheeks. "Not doing that again."
She shuffled out of the bathroom, every step deliberate, and made her way toward the open suitcase Emily had sent over. It sat by the bed like a treasure chest, packed neatly with folded clothes and her personal essentials.
Clara's chest loosened just seeing it. She'd been wearing the same dress for days, and it had begun to feel like part of her skin. They idea of fresh clothes made her almost giddy.
Propping herself against the bedframe, she rifled through the neat stacks, her good arm doing most of the work. Her fingers hovered over a soft, loose dress which the waist and neckline wide enough to shimmy into. Relief softened her features. If she stepped into this, she could avoid lifting her arms over her head.
"Perfect," she breathed, a small smile curling her lips.
The tile was cold under her feet, the dress silky beneath her fingers as she eased one leg, then the other, into its hem. Clara clenched her jaw against the flare of pain in her rib.
She inched it upward, wincing as her injury protested every movement. Twice she froze mid-motion, pausing to breathe through the ache.
"Almost there," she muttered, determination threading her voice.
Finally, she managed to tug the straps over her shoulders, the hardest part.
When the soft fabric fell into place, she leaned back against the bedframe, a tired laugh slipping out of her. Victory.
She spotted a brush on the dresser, but the thought of raising her arms long enough to untangle her hair was exhausting. Instead, she twisted the damp strands into a loose, messy bun, with one hand, securing it with clumsy fingers and a claw clip.
Her reflection in the mirror wasn't glamorous, but there was a spark of pride in her tired eyes. She was dressed. She'd done it herself.
It had taken her nearly twenty minutes being that each movement needed to be deliberate and careful. By the time she slid on a pair of slippers, her breathing was heavier than she liked to admit. Still, a small thrill ran through her chest. Independence!
She cracked the bedroom door and peered down the quiet hallway. "Cyra?" she called softly. No answer. Clearing her throat, she tried again, louder this time. "Cyra?"
From somewhere deeper in the house, his voice drifted back, smooth and calm.
"We're in here, darling."
Clara blinked. We? Curiosity sparked in her chest. Maybe Natalia was back. The thought warmed her slightly—Natalia's steady presence had become a comfort. She hated to be a bother to her but was happy she was there.
Leaning on the wall for balance, Clara began her slow journey down the hallway. The house was quiet, filled with soft afternoon light, but every step felt like crossing a marathon. She'd barely made it a few feet when a shadow appeared at her side.
Clara startled, clutching her rib in reflex, but the tension melted when she saw Natalia's familiar face.
"You walk too quietly," Clara said with a breathless laugh.
Natalia's lips curved into a half smile, her sharp features softened by the expression.
"Old habits," she replied lightly, her voice carrying the faintest hint of warmth Clara had grown fond of. Offering her arm, she added, "Cyra sent me to fetch you. He's busy with someone at the moment."
Clara took the arm gratefully, leaning some of her weight against Natalia. "Thanks. I was starting to feel like a lost child wandering around here."
A soft chuckle escaped Natalia. "Understandable. This place is a maze." Her eyes flicked down, taking in Clara's slow, stiff movements with a trace of concern.
"You're pushing yourself today."
"I'm dressed and upright," Clara said with a faint smile. "That's a win in my book."
"Yes," Natalia agreed softly, though her gaze carried a quiet insistence. "You are dough and need to be more strong. But careful, hm?"
Clara rolled her eyes affectionately. "I'll being careful."
Natalia's expression was unreadable, but she either way she didn't argue. She simply adjusted her pace to match Clara's, her steady presence making the walk feel less daunting. The silence that followed wasn't awkward. Natalia had a way of filling space with calm, speaking only when necessary.
"So, Cyra's interviewee is here already?" Clara asked as they turned a corner.
"Yes," Natalia said. Her voice was thoughtful, but there was something unreadable beneath it. "A potential addition to the staff."
Clara's brows rose. "He's been at this all day. He doesn't waste time."
A glint of amusement touched Natalia's eyes. "No. He doesn't. When he decides something needs to be done, it's done."
Natalia hesitated, then spoke again, her voice quieter. "Before we get there, there's something you should know."
Clara tilted her head. "Okay…"
Natalia slowed her steps slightly, still guiding Clara. Her eyes softened, but a subtle weight entered her expression. Clara's stomach tightened instinctively.
"I don't want to surprise you," Natalia said gently. "But this woman he's meeting… she isn't just another candidate."
Clara frowned. "What do you mean?"
Natalia's gaze flicked forward, then back to Clara, assessing her reaction. She leaned closer, her perfume—a soft, smoky scent Clara couldn't name—brushing over her senses.
"She was his fiancée."