Chapter 5: Gilded Cages

The Windsor townhouse loomed like a gilded tomb. Rain lashed its limestone façade as Clara followed Mrs. Davies through foyers haunted by childhood ghosts. 

Eleanor Windsor descended the marble staircase, arms outstretched. "Darling! You finally grace us!" Her embrace felt like cobwebs. The Chanel suit hung loose on her gaunt shoulders, eyeshadow cracking over hollowed cheeks.

The decay startled Clara. The woman who'd once banished her to the servants' quarters for "tracking mud" now clung like a drowning swimmer.

"Work consumes me, Mrs. Windsor."

Eleanor's smile didn't touch her eyes. "Call me Eleanor, sweetheart. We're family."

Clara knew Eleanor Windsor despised her. During her years with the Windsors, she'd overheard Ethan complain to Eleanor countless times: "Mom, arranged marriages are ancient! Why should I marry that random orphan?"

"I know, darling." Eleanor would coo. "My handsome son deserves someone from our league."

The Morgans' fatal collision had orphaned Clara at eleven. Her father's dying act—liquidating Morgan Holdings—split the proceeds: half in trust for Clara, half "gifted" to the Windsors for her upbringing.

With those funds, Ethan's father, Charles Windsor, expanded the family business—then grew so disdainful of parentless, connectionless Clara that he treated her like mold on his caviar.

Tonight's "family dinner" reeked of desperation. Rumors swirled: Windsor stock had plummeted 62% after failed investments.

Dining Room - 7:30 PM

Charles rose stiffly. "Clara. Good of you to come."

"Mr. Windsor."

Her gaze snagged on Ethan. He thumbed his phone, offering a curt nod.

Martha served coq au vin—Clara's favorite since childhood. The scent tugged at buried memories, But high school exiled her to the kitchen with Martha after Ethan snapped, "Must I smell her cheap shampoo at meals?"

Eleanor shattered the silence. "Seeing anyone, dear?"

"No."

"Perfect!" Eleanor's smile sharpened. "Ethan's single too. Childhood sweethearts reuniting—so romantic!"

Clara's fork froze. Romantic?

Ethan remained mute—a damning confirmation. The Windsor Group's crippling financial crisis had forced him to grovel before the very person he'd once reviled.

Charles shot Eleanor a warning glare, turned to Clara with concern in his eyes. "You're too thin. Overworked at Hartwell Enterprises?"

But the gambit was laid bare: We need Hartwell's influence and your remaining trust shares.

Hartwell.

Sebastian's ghost haunted her even here. The name ignited phantom pain between her thighs. She gripped her chair.

"We should talk." Ethan rose abruptly, cutting short her train of thought.

In the cigar-scented gloom, Ethan cornered her by leaded windows. Rain streaked the glass like prison bars. "You see their play." 

"Get to the point, Ethan."

His hand grazed her wrist. "Consider a trial arrangement."

Clara laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. "Arrangement?"

"Marry me. Save Windsor Family. Your remaining Morgan shares could—"

"Stop." Clara's voice could cut crystal. "The girl who followed you like a lost puppy died when she found you fucking Serena in her bed."

Ethan flinched. "I was young! Blind to what mattered." He grabbed her wrist. "You've changed. Grown... exquisite." His thumb brushed the pulse at her inner wrist—where Sebastian's Burberry tie had left bruises.

Revulsion coiled in Clara's gut. "You need three things: my shares, Hartwell's bailout, and a womb to breed Windsor 2.0. I'm your trifecta."

His grip tightened. "Is that so terrible? We have history!"

After Clara parents' deaths, she'd clung to the Windsors as family—until reality shattered her trust. Shredded bags, torn homework, empty wallets—they ignored it all. Attorney Richard's guardianship of her inheritance was the only bulwark against the Windsors' greed.

She'd been a fool to offer second chances. Every act of trust was trampled. But Clara now saw through their lies—learned while they feasted and she starved.

Half the Morgan shares? More than enough to repay their "kindness" for every kitchen supper eaten alone.

"My loyalty to your family," Clara hissed, "ended in those messed-up days."

Ethan recoiled as if slapped.

"The Morgan money repaid your 'charity.' We're square." She turned.

His voice broke. "Clara—"

A phone buzzed. Sebastian Hartwell's name blazed on her screen.

Relief flooded her. "Excuse me."

Back in the dining room, she grabbed her purse. "Urgent work matter. Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Windsor."

Eleanor materialized in the doorway, trembling. "Clara, reconsider! We sheltered you—"

"Sheltered?" Clara's laugh shattered the pretense. "Your 'shelter' was a gilded cage where I learned hunger hurts less than pity."

The townhouse door slamed.

Charles Windsor's fist clenched. Eleanor whispered, "She couldn't know... about the crash?"

Charles watched Clara vanish into the night. "Impossible. That investigator's dead."