Chapter 7: No Claim Left

Grant's attention moved over Clara as if he were searching for damage.

The burgundy curls he used to wind around his fingers were gone. Her hair was straight, black, and cut just past her shoulders. She wore jeans, flat shoes, and no visible makeup.

She did not look ruined.

She looked awake.

"Who was he?" Grant repeated.

"Someone helping me with a personal matter."

"You always were easy to impress." His mouth curved without warmth. "A pair of glasses and a polite gesture, and suddenly you're smiling like that."

Clara stared at him. Two days ago, she would have rushed to explain. She would have named Elias, described Sloane's role, and reassured Grant that no other man could threaten him.

That obligation had ended in Mason's birthday suite.

"Dr. Mercer's identity is none of your concern."

Grant caught the formal name. "Doctor? Is that supposed to make him better than the last man you used to make me jealous?"

"There was no last man. There is no jealousy campaign." Clara's voice remained level. "You ended our relationship. You do not get to choose what I do afterward."

His jaw tightened. "We both know how your breakups work."

"Then learn something new."

Her rideshare stopped at the curb. Clara reached for the door.

"At least you remembered your documents this time," Grant said behind her. "Planning to make the performance look more convincing?"

The cruelty found its mark. He saw it in the brief stillness of her hand.

Clara looked back. "I stayed too long because I thought you knew me better than anyone. It turns out you only knew how reliably I would return."

She entered the car and gave the driver her address.

Bianca emerged from the restaurant before Grant could answer. "There you are."

Her perfume reached Clara through the half-open window. Bianca linked herself to Grant's arm and leaned against him with practiced familiarity.

Grant saw Clara glance at them in the side mirror.

He placed a hand at Bianca's waist.

The car pulled away.

Clara watched the pair shrink behind her. Paige had not been an exception. Bianca might not be one either. Six years of explanations and second chances rearranged themselves into a pattern she could no longer deny.

At the intersection, she looked back once more.

Grant had already removed Bianca's hand.

"What is wrong with you?" Bianca demanded as he walked toward his car.

He did not answer.

* * *

Grant called Victoria before leaving the parking lot.

"Did you tell Clara about today's lunch?"

"What lunch?"

"Don't play games. Did you send her to The Marlowe with that man?"

Victoria stared at the gift list in her hand. Boxes for Professor Caldwell covered the sitting room table: supplements, imported tea, and an expensive fountain pen her mother insisted academics appreciated.

"I haven't spoken to Clara since the hospital. Who was she with?"

Grant ended the call.

Victoria lowered the phone. "What did I supposedly do now?"

The house manager waited beside the gifts. "Should these be delivered today?"

"Tomorrow. I want to bring them myself."

If Professor Caldwell had one doctoral place available, Victoria intended to show proper commitment.

* * *

Clara spent the afternoon viewing apartments near Ashford University.

The best option was a two-bedroom unit on the seventh floor of an aging brick building. There was no elevator. The kitchen needed work, and the walls had begun to peel near the windows.

But sunlight filled the living room. The library was a short walk away. Students and families moved through the neighborhood instead of chauffeurs and security guards.

"There's a waiting list," the leasing agent warned. "If you want it, you'll need to decide today."

Clara looked at the bright rectangle of sun on the floor. "I'll take it."

The agent began explaining deposits and income verification. Clara supplied the bank letter without mentioning whose name had once guaranteed every lease, account, and invitation in her life. The agent reviewed the balance, became noticeably more attentive, and handed over the application.

Clara signed without negotiating for a better view, newer appliances, or an elevator. The apartment was not a punishment and not a disguise. It was close to the work she wanted and affordable without asking anyone's permission.

Back at Sloane's place, she opened her suitcase.

"You're moving already?" Sloane asked.

"I found somewhere close to campus."

"Did Grant track you down?"

"He saw me with Elias and decided I was trying to provoke him."

Sloane muttered something unprintable.

Clara folded a shirt. "This is not another round in the same fight. I'm not going back."

For once, Sloane did not tease her. "All right. Then we'll make the new place yours."

"I need to do the first part alone."

Sloane studied her, then nodded. "Call when you want help carrying books. Not before."

That was another kind of friendship Clara had nearly forgotten: support that did not seize the steering wheel.

Clara stopped at a hardware store for low-odor paint and basic tools. The driver helped unload the cans at the building entrance, but the seven flights were hers alone.

By the final trip, her arms ached and sweat dampened the back of her shirt.

She could have hired movers and a decorator. The settlement made that easy. But choosing the paint, carrying the first load, and feeling every stair beneath her feet gave the day a shape no bank balance could provide.

She stood in the empty apartment, opened every window, and rolled up her sleeves.

The first stripe of clean white paint covered the old wall.

Clara drew the roller down again.

This time, she was not decorating a life she could be ordered to leave.