Chapter 8
The sprawling mansion was eerily quiet as Clara led Benjamin up the sweeping marble staircase. The luminous, airy glow of the first floor gave way to the softer, more muted lighting of the family wing. The warm golden hues of the wall sconces guided them to the nursery, a massive room filled with toys, books, and a large, comfortable bed.
Clara helped Benjamin out of his formal dinner jacket, hanging it carefully in the closet and trading his stiff trousers for a pair of soft, cotton pajamas. The little boy was exhausted, the adrenaline of the evening leaving him heavy-limbed and lethargic.
Clara pulled the thick duvet back and tucked him in, sitting on the edge of the mattress. She smoothed his neatly combed hair, her heart aching for the trauma he had endured, losing his mother's voice forever in the flames of the fireplace.
"Are the bad men going to come here?" Benjamin asked, his eyelids drooping heavily. He knew enough about his father's world to understand that Anastasia's furious departure meant danger.
"Do you think anyone could ever get past your father to hurt you?" Clara asked softly, borrowing Hugo's method of questioning to comfort the child.
Benjamin smiled sleepily, his fair skin glowing in the dim light. "No. Daddy is the strongest."
"He loves you very much, Benjamin," Clara whispered, kissing his forehead. "You are safe."
Within minutes, the boy’s breathing evened out into a deep, peaceful rhythm. Clara remained seated on the bed for a long time, watching him sleep. Her graceful posture finally relaxed, the tension bleeding out of her slender figure. The throbbing pain in her right hand was growing steadily worse, the burn pulsing with every heartbeat.
A quiet, rhythmic tapping on the open doorframe broke the silence.
Clara opened her eyes and turned her head. Hugo stood in the doorway. He had discarded his suit jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, looking slightly less formal but infinitely more dangerous. The loose strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, and his powerful shoulders leaned casually against the wooden frame. His perceptive eyes were fixed on her.
Clara stood up quickly, smoothing her white apron over her short A-line skirt. "He just fell asleep, sir."
Hugo stepped quietly into the room, his polished shoes making no sound. He walked over to the bed, looking down at his son with a profound, unspoken affection. He reached out, his beautifully tattooed fingers gently adjusting the blanket over the boy's shoulders.
"Does he look peaceful to you, Clara?" Hugo asked in a hushed whisper.
"He does, sir," Clara replied, standing close enough to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the dark, masculine scent of the night.
"Do you know that you are the reason he feels safe enough to rest?" Hugo asked, turning his head to look down at her.
Clara’s breath caught in her throat. His physical proximity was overwhelming. The sheer, rugged beauty of his angular face and high-bridged nose was breathtaking up close.
"I just did what anyone would do," Clara deflected modestly, her rosy cheeks flushing under his intense gaze.
"Do you truly believe that anyone else in that dining room would have defied my fiancée to plunge their hand into a fire?" Hugo asked softly.
"They were afraid of her, Mr. Caldwell," Clara answered honestly.
"Should I have paid closer attention to the shadows in my own home?" Hugo asked, looking away, a rare expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. "Did my ambition blind me to the cruelty happening under my own roof?"
Clara felt a sudden, desperate urge to comfort the powerful man standing before her. She took a tentative step closer, her elegant posture radiating quiet strength.
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"You were building an empire for him, sir. You couldn't have known," Clara said softly.
"Are you defending my failures, Clara?" Hugo asked, looking back at her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corners of his mouth.
