When the past walks in

It started with a subtle flirtation.

Clarice stood near Edward's desk in the study, carefully stacking a few reports he had asked her to file. The room smelled of cedar and old books, and Edward, as always, seemed too at ease in his tailored waistcoat, leaning back slightly in his leather chair with a brandy glass resting casually in his hand.

"You've organized everything to perfection again," he said, voice smooth, not even glancing at the folders. "I might start requesting more messes, just for an excuse to have you around."

Clarice tried not to react. She kept her face neutral, her fingers steady. "You requested efficiency. I'm delivering it."

He tilted his head, studying her with that quiet fondness he never quite masked. "You always do. But there's something about the way you move through this house. It makes the walls feel less...hollow."

She turned sharply toward the cabinet, pretending to sort the already-organized binders. "That sounds like sentiment. And we agreed not to indulge in that."

Edward's voice lowered. "We agreed to terms. Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the woman who signed them."

Clarice paused.

He was getting to her. Not just the words, but the way he looked at her, like she mattered beyond her title or her debt. Like she belonged in this house.

She hated that it was starting to affect her.

"I should check on Becca," she said quickly, her voice soft but clipped.

Edward didn't stop her. But as she turned to leave, she caught his eyes still watching her. She left without another word.

She found herself wandering toward the library, not expecting to find anyone inside.

But there he was.

Arthur.

Leaning against one of the tall bookshelves, arms crossed, one foot propped against the wall. His eyes flicked toward her the moment she entered.

Clarice hesitated. "I didn't know anyone was in here."

Arthur didn't answer. Just returned his gaze to the pages of a thick volume in his hand.

She stepped in further. "You always come here when you want to be alone?"

Still nothing.

Clarice glanced around the library, books lined every wall, aged and pristine. She remembered how Edward told her Helena used to love it. She chose a spot by the window and stood there, looking out.

"Your mother loved this room," she said quietly.

Arthur snapped the book shut.

"Don't pretend to know her."

Clarice looked at him gently. "I never said I did."

Arthur moved past her, but she turned slightly, stopping him without touching. "I don't want us to keep avoiding each other. We live under the same roof."

"You don't live here," he said sharply. "You're occupying. That's different."

She didn't flinch. "You think I'm here for your father's money?"

Arthur said nothing.

Clarice offered a small, tired smile. "You always assume people want something. What do you think I want, Arthur?"

He stared at her, his eyes like steel. "Power. Security. A piece of this estate."

She turned to the piano in the corner. "Do you still play?"

He blinked.

"You were always quiet, but your father spoke of your talent. Said you used to get lost in the music."

His jaw tightened. "You don't know anything about me."

"No," she said softly. "But I want to."

Arthur scoffed. "Save your kindness for your daughter."

And with that, he left, his footsteps echoing against the wooden floor.

The terrace had become a sanctuary.

Becca sat on the low bench surrounded by vines and flower pots. Albert was crouched beside the small herb garden, his sleeves rolled up as he gently teased a stubborn root from the soil.

"You're killing it," she said.

"I'm rescuing it," Albert corrected.

"By yanking it like you're pulling a tooth."

He gave her a look. "You want to do it?"

"Nope. I like having nails."

They shared a laugh.

It had started simply, a comment about the ivy creeping into the wrong bed. Then another. Then a whole afternoon digging, planting, and arguing over whether plants liked music. (Albert said no. Becca insisted Penny, the hibiscus, hummed when the wind hit her right.)

Now they were almost like friends.

"You know," Becca said, wiping sweat from her brow, "for someone who doesn't talk much, you're oddly opinionated about soil."

Albert shrugged. "Soil has depth."

She laughed. "Was that a pun?"

"If it was, I didn't mean it."

"Liar."

Albert said nothing, but his lips twitched slightly.

And then, chaos arrived.

"SOFIA!"

The shout made them both look up.

A moment later, the front door flung open and three voices filled the house.

"Windsor! Prepare yourself for greatness!" one bellowed.

"Still smells rich in here," another said.

Albert stood, already grimacing.

"Who are they?" Becca asked.

"Childhood friends," Albert muttered. "God help us."

They made their way to the foyer just in time to see Theo, Caleb, and Evelyn enter like a storm.

"Albert!" Evelyn beamed. "Still brooding? You wear it so well."

Albert gave her a tight nod.

Theo spotted Becca and elbowed Caleb. "Now who's that?"

Albert said nothing.

Clarice entered with Edward just behind. She smiled politely. "Sofia will show you to your rooms."

Before Sofia could respond, Arthur's voice came sharp from the stairs.

"Theo. Caleb." He gave them both curt nods. "Still loud. Still immature."

"Still prettier than you," Theo quipped.

Arthur ignored him. Then his gaze swept to Clarice.

"Sofia knows what to do. You don't need to instruct her. You're not in charge here."

Clarice's eyes flicked up to him but said nothing.

Arthur turned, eyes pausing briefly, too long, on Becca.

He hadn't really looked at her before. Now he did.

She looked different. More comfortable. More natural.

Too comfortable.

He didn't like it.

Then he walked off.

Sofia motioned for the guests to follow. They did, though not without throwing glances back at Becca.

Upstairs, the door shut behind them.

Arthur spoke first. "Stay away from the new girl. And her mother."

Theo laughed. "Someone's cranky."

Evelyn moved closer. "Come on, Arthur. Still pretending you don't feel anything?"

He looked at her coldly. "We never had anything. You mistook being tolerated for being wanted."

She froze.

"Don't flirt with me. Don't flirt with them. And don't embarrass yourself."

He left.

That night, the house lay silent.

Becca padded through the hallway, dressed in thin pajamas, a fitted tank top and soft shorts that clung just right. She moved quietly, only half awake, on her way to the kitchen for water.

Arthur was passing the hall when he saw her.

He stopped.

The moonlight hit her just right. Her back arched slightly as she reached into the cupboard. The curve of her waist. The length of her legs.

She wasn't trying.

But he noticed.

Something stirred in him, unwanted, undeniable.

He hated it.

She turned.

"God! You scared me," she said, clutching her glass.

He didn't move. "You shouldn't walk around like that."

"Like what?"

He didn't answer. He just walked away.

And Becca stood there, heart pounding for reasons she couldn't name.

Something had changed.

And it wasn't going away.