Claire didn’t make it back to Begonia Court until after nine.
The elevator doors opened on Weston, dressed in a black overcoat, carrying that same detached, effortless authority.
Phone pressed to one ear, he stepped half a pace aside to let her in.
The agreement she’d just signed with Margaret felt warm in her hand, almost burning.
“Mr.
Reed, you flatter me.
Naturally we’ll back whoever offers the safest return.”
Claire studied her own feet, lashes fluttering slightly.
Reed?
Which Reed?
“You’ve got money on your feet?”
She looked up sharply, caught his faintly amused eyes, and blurted, “It’s tainted.”
She’d just signed a deal with Margaret for thirty million over three months that counted as taking money, didn’t it?
She rubbed her thumb against the soft skin of her index finger.
Before agreeing to the terms, she’d pushed the number up to thirty million herself.
Ding
The elevator reached the twenty-second floor.
Weston walked to his door and opened it.
“Come in.”
Claire blinked.
“…What?”
“You said you’d come clean up the cat’s hair.
Forgotten already?”
Her eyes widened.
“Right, give me a second, I’ll grab my supplies and be right back!”
He caught her arm.
“It’s been two days.
I already had it cleaned.”
She bit her lip, awkward.
“Then…
why do I need to come in?”
“Make me noodles.
I haven’t eaten.”
…
Claire, well aware she owed him one, didn’t bother arguing.
At the entryway, Weston pulled out two matching pairs of gray slippers, setting the smaller pair in front of her.
“Change your shoes.”
Watching him casually switch into his own pair, something strange stirred in her chest.
She’d only ever worn matching slippers with Ethan.
She’d picked that style out herself, right after the wedding, and every time she’d caught him wandering the house in the matching pair, a small warm happiness used to bloom in her chest.
From there, she’d slowly turned every detail in that house into some symbol of “married life” matching toothbrushes, matching cups, matching workout clothes, even matching pajamas.
Which was exactly why leaving had hurt so much.
But looking down at this pair now, something clicked into place.
It’s just a style.
It never meant anything more than that.
She walked into the living room in the slippers, voice lighter now.
“What kind of noodles do you want?”
“Ingredients are in the fridge.
Just watch, it doesn’t overcook.
I’m showering.”
Claire stood frozen for a full minute before an old, half-buried memory surfaced
Her own face bruised and swollen, opening the front door to find Weston standing there, his face equally bruised.
A skinny teenage boy, school uniform hanging loose off his frame, rain dripping from his hair onto the porch boards.
He’d always been striking, even then, but the blood at the corner of his mouth and the bruise along his cheekbone made him look like he’d stepped straight out of some tragic coming-of-age story disheveled, and somehow still magnetic.
Claire, stunned, had blurted, “Weston?
What are you doing at my house?”
He’d answered, sullen.
“If I go back to the estate like this, my sister will worry.”
She’d thought it through, slow.
“Then…
stay with me a few days?
My dad’s out of town restocking supplies.
It’ll just be me here.
You can go back once you’ve healed up.”
“Thanks.”
He’d carried his school bag inside the modest Whitman house, looked around, and his eyes had landed on a bowl of tomato noodle soup on the table.
A poached egg, chopped ham, bright green vegetables, red broth.
She’d asked, “Want some?
I’ll make another bowl.”
“Yes.”
Thunder had rumbled outside not long after, rain pouring down hard.
She remembered sitting there slurping noodles, her whole mind occupied with the memory of Ethan and his wildflower, telling her she was the prettiest girl alive.
She couldn’t remember a single word she and Weston had exchanged that night.
Even now, she had no idea what had driven someone as quiet, as detached as Weston, into a fight in the first place.
She’d made him a second bowl of tomato noodle soup.
Just as she carried it out, Weston walked in, freshly showered.
Stripped of the sharp, distant suit, he wore soft light-gray loungewear, looking unusually warm, unusually approachable.
He rubbed a towel through his damp hair a couple of times, let it drape over his shoulders, and something in his eyes brightened at the sight of the bowl.
“Beef in this one?”
Claire nodded.
“You didn’t have ham in the fridge.
I remembered you never really liked it much, so I went home and grabbed some beef.”
He went still, chopsticks paused mid-air.
“What did you just say?”
Claire met his sharp, assessing gaze, something almost interrogative in it and felt a flutter of nerves.
What did I say?
Just that we used beef instead, since there wasn’t any ham?
“…You don’t eat beef either?”
Something in Weston’s expression slowly unwound.
“Eat.”
He worked through a few bites while Claire sat across from him, fidgeting.
“Claire.”
“Mm?”
Was there something else she wanted to ask him?
After holding it in, all evening, it finally spilled out.
“Uncle if you knew a deal was risky going in, would you still take it?”
She’d been resolute signing with Margaret, but running into Weston tonight had left her craving some kind of certainty.
A reassurance.
Weston’s brow furrowed slightly, ignoring the title entirely.
“Depends on the return.
If risk and reward scale together, and the risk sits within tolerance yes.”
Twenty million in three months is proportional, alright.
Wildly so.
She hadn’t wanted to get tangled in the Ashfords’ business in the first place not just because of the risk, but because she genuinely had no idea how deep that risk actually ran.
Weston added, “If the deal’s already locked in, the next question is how you minimize exposure and see it through cleanly.”
“How do you do that?” The question left her before she thought it through.
He glanced up, something knowing in his eyes.
“Usually, you bring in a third party as a guarantor.
Someone to catch you if it falls apart.”
Claire bit her lip.
The only person who’s ever actually caught me when things fell apart was Ethan.
And that track record speaks for itself.
“Enjoy the noodles, Uncle.
I should get going.”
The door clicked shut behind her, barely audible.
Weston finished the bowl in silence, then pulled out his phone and called Marcus.
“Has Ethan made a move yet?”
“Sir, exactly as you predicted once word got out that Gerald Reed pulled his backing, everyone’s holding off.
Nobody’s stepping up to support Ethan right now.
If this project stalls much longer, the Ashfords’ losses are going to compound fast.”
“Give it another week.
Then send someone from the branch office to open talks with Ethan on project investment and supply chain acquisition.”
Marcus hesitated.
“Sir, are we throwing him a lifeline?”
Historically, when someone at Weston’s level started tracking a company’s movements this closely, it usually meant an acquisition was coming.
Weston looked down at the empty bowl in front of him, voice quiet.
“No.
We’re stepping in as the third party.”