Too Late, Mr. Tycoon: Watch Me Bloom

Clare Jennings POV:

The next morning, I was sitting at the vast marble island in the kitchen, staring into a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. I hadn’t slept. His offer of a job—of a gilded leash—had echoed in my head all night.

Chase emerged from the walk-in closet, already immaculate in a tailored navy suit. He didn't look at me as he collected his briefcase and phone from the charging station. He was halfway to the door before he stopped, as if remembering a minor detail on his to-do list.

“My mother is coming over today,” he said. It wasn’t a question or a discussion. It was a notification.

A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. Eleanor Strong. A woman who looked at me as if I were something she’d scraped off the bottom of her Louboutin heel.

“What for?” I asked, my voice flat.

“To see how you are. And to go over some wedding details.” He said it without a trace of irony. Then he was gone, the heavy door closing with a soft, final click.

I was an item on their agenda. A problem to be managed.

At ten o’clock sharp, the doorbell chimed. I opened it to find Eleanor, poised and perfect in a Chanel tweed suit, a triple strand of pearls at her throat. Her expression was one of bored disdain.

Her gaze went immediately, unerringly, to my bandaged hands.

A look of pure, undisguised disgust flickered across her face. It was the look you’d give a piece of rotting fruit.

“How unfortunate,” she murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. She dabbed at her nose with a silk handkerchief, as if the very sight of my injury might be contagious.

The blood drained from my face. The single word was more cutting than any curse.

She swept past me into the living room, her eyes critically scanning the decor as if she were appraising property. She settled onto the edge of the sofa, her posture ramrod straight.

“I always said, a model has no real assets beyond her face and her hands,” she remarked to the empty air, her voice dripping with condescension.

She finally deigned to look at me, her eyes cold and dismissive. “And now, it seems, you’re down to one.”

I clenched my fists, a spike of pain shooting up my arms from beneath the gauze.

“Mrs. Strong, my hands are only temporarily injured,” I said, the words tasting like ash. I was trying to hold on to the last shred of my dignity.

Eleanor let out a sound that was half laugh, half scoff. “Temporarily? Oh, my dear, let’s not delude ourselves. The Strong family cannot have a cripple for a daughter-in-law.”

*Cripple.* The word hung in the air, a physical, brutal thing. It struck me with the force of a blow, leaving me breathless.

Just then, the front door opened again. It was Chase. He must have planned to be here, to "manage" this encounter.

He saw the tension in the room, the rigid set of my shoulders and the triumphant glint in his mother’s eye, and his brow furrowed in annoyance.

I looked at him, a desperate, silent plea in my eyes. *Say something. Defend me.*

Eleanor seized the opportunity. “Chase, darling, you’re just in time,” she said, her voice turning syrupy sweet. “Clare was just being rather… defensive. She has no concept of decorum.”

“I wasn’t,” I started, my voice shaking. “She called me a—”

A single, icy glare from Chase cut me off. He mouthed two words at me, a silent, brutal command.

*Don’t. Upset. Her.*

I froze. He was choosing her. He was choosing the path of least resistance, and I was the acceptable sacrifice.

Seeing her son side with her, Eleanor’s victory was complete. She adopted a mask of magnanimous concern. “There, there. I’m not here to chastise the poor girl. I’m here to help solve this messy little situation.”

She pulled out her phone, a diamond-encrusted case flashing in the light. She tapped the screen and held it to her ear.

“Karis, my love?” she cooed. “Are you free to pop over? I think Clare owes you an apology.”