The Study
The Bellamy estate study smelled of old leather, scotch, and secrets. A fire crackled in the hearth, though the night was mild, the flames throwing long shadows against shelves lined with books Claire had never seen her father read.
Richard Bellamy sat behind the massive oak desk, a fortress of order with neatly stacked papers and a crystal decanter half-empty at his side. He didn't rise when she entered. He rarely did.
"Claire." His voice was steady, clipped. "You've been to see him."
She closed the door quietly, standing tall as if she were still on parade. "Yes. I saw the prototype. I saw him."
Richard leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "And?"
Claire hesitated, searching for the right words. Her father's gaze was a scalpel—sharp enough to cut her open if she faltered. "It's… real. Unstable, dangerous, but real. He's building something with nothing, and somehow it breathes."
Richard's jaw tightened. "Dangerous men always breathe louder than the rest. It doesn't make them visionaries. It makes them threats."
Claire stepped closer, heat rising in her chest. "He's not a threat. He's—" She stopped herself. The word fragile hovered on her tongue, but she swallowed it. "He's human. More human than most of the polished liars you invite to this estate."
Richard's eyes narrowed. "And you think humanity is strength? I've spent a lifetime burying men who led with their hearts instead of their heads. I won't see my daughter blinded by sentiment."
---
The Clash
Her hands clenched at her sides. "That's all you ever see when it comes to me, isn't it? Weakness. Something to protect, to hide behind walls."
His voice rose, sharper. "Because you are my daughter! And if you think I'll watch you walk into fire without building walls around you, then you don't know me at all."
The words struck her like a blow. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the fire's crackle. Claire's voice trembled when she spoke again. "No, Father. I know you. I've always known you. You build walls because you don't know how to hold people. Not me. Not Mother."
Richard's face hardened, but a flicker of pain crossed his eyes at Eleanor's name. "Don't," he said quietly.
But Claire pressed on. The years of silence, of playing the obedient daughter, cracked. "You think I didn't see? You were there in the hospital, but you weren't. You barked orders at nurses, scolded doctors, but you never sat with her the way I did. You never cried. Not once. And when she died, you buried yourself in work and left me with ghosts."
Richard rose from his chair abruptly, his glass shattering against the hearth as it slipped from his hand. "You think I didn't love her? That I didn't break with her? Do you know what it's like to lose your heart and still have to walk around carrying the weight of an empire? Do you?"
Claire's throat tightened. She had never seen him so raw. For a moment, he looked less like the titan of industry and more like a man undone.
---
The Emotional Rollercoaster
Her voice softened, though her eyes still burned. "All I wanted was to know you loved me too. Not the empire. Not the walls. Me."
Richard's shoulders sagged. He turned away, staring into the flames. His voice was rough, low. "I built everything to protect you. And the more I built, the further away you went. You think I don't see that?"
Claire's chest ached. For the first time, she felt the truth beneath his armor: not indifference, but fear. Fear of losing her the way he had lost Eleanor. Fear that love itself was weakness.
She took a step closer, her voice breaking. "Then stop protecting me like a prisoner. See me. Hear me. That's all I've ever wanted."
---
Michael's Name
Richard turned back to her, his mask returning, though cracks remained. "And this boy, Rivers. Do you think he sees you? Or does he see another flame to fuel his madness?"
Claire's lips parted. Images flashed in her mind: Michael hunched over his chalkboards, trembling before the glow of his prototype, whispering as though speaking to death itself. Do you believe I won't destroy myself giving it to them?
"He doesn't hide," she said finally. "He doesn't build walls. He burns. And maybe that's dangerous. Maybe it will consume him. But at least it's real."
Richard's gaze was heavy, searching her face. His voice dropped, almost a plea. "That kind of fire doesn't warm, Claire. It consumes."
Her heart pounded. She wanted to argue, to fight, but instead she whispered, "Maybe I'm tired of the cold."
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