Miles looked away at once, turning toward the window. His voice came out slightly hoarse. "Are you done?"
"Almost. I still need your waist." Claire crouched slightly and wrapped the measuring tape around him again.
Her fingers brushed the muscles of his stomach through his shirt.
The touch hit Miles far harder than it should have. A dangerous impulse surged through him.
He shut his eyes for a second. A moment later, he opened them again. They looked darker than usual. He stepped back half a pace, putting some badly needed distance between them.
"That’s enough."
Claire froze in her half-crouch and looked up at him, genuinely confused.
"But I haven’t measured the shirt length yet."
"I said that’s enough. I have work to do."
Miles cut her off and sat back behind his desk. The dismissal couldn’t have been clearer.
Claire stood, still confused by the sudden change in his mood.
This man could turn cold without warning. He was impossible to read.
"All right. I’ll let you work, Dr. Warren. I’ll bring the shirt over when it’s finished."
Claire packed away the measuring tape, picked up her thermos, and left.
The moment the door shut, Miles let out the breath he had been holding.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his brow. Irritated, he opened the top two buttons of his shirt. His skin felt hot.
’I’ve lost my mind.’
Around the corner, Rosalind Linden stood holding a stack of files, watching Claire walk away with sharp eyes.
She turned to a young nurse beside her and asked coolly, "Is that the woman Dr. Warren loaned 200,000 dollars to?"
The nurse nodded timidly. Rosalind was the hospital director’s daughter. Offending her was a bad idea.
Rosalind’s fingers tightened around the files as she gave a scornful laugh.
"She looks innocent, but she must know exactly what she’s doing if she can spend that long alone in Miles’s office. Miles isn’t shallow, though. He’d never fall for a woman who gets what she wants by using her body."
Miles could only be hers. Only a woman like her was worthy of the Warren heir.
Rosalind lifted her chin proudly and walked away.
A few minutes later, Claire found Wendy in the hospital lobby.
Wendy had finished all her tests. A thick bandage wrapped her forearm and secured her swollen wrist.
"Don’t work for the next few days," Claire told her. "I’ll handle the studio until your wrist is better."
Wendy’s eyes turned red again. "Claire, this is all my fault. The Crescent project is impossible. I couldn’t get it under control, and now I’ve dragged you into it too."
"Wendy, don’t worry. Trust me."
Claire didn’t speak loudly, but there was something in her voice that made people believe her.
"Starting today, neither of us has to take anyone’s crap anymore."
Wendy looked into Claire’s clear, steady eyes. Slowly, she calmed down, blinked back her tears, and nodded hard.
Back at Sharon’s place, Claire made herself a quick sandwich and started studying Crescent’s project brief.
Crescent was a luxury fashion label known for blending heritage craftsmanship with modern design. Their brief was vague and brutally demanding.
After thinking for a while and getting nowhere, Claire refused to force it. She decided to clear her head with something else.
She would design Miles’s shirt first.
Claire closed the Crescent file, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and picked up a sketching pencil.
The pencil hovered above the page. She closed her eyes, and Miles’s face came to mind.
A shirt for him couldn’t be flashy, but it couldn’t feel stiff or boring either.
She began sketching, stripping away heavy traditional decoration. A clean, distinctive shirt slowly took shape beneath her pencil.
***
Late that night at Southside Apartments, Jacob shoved the door open and yanked loose his tie. Two buttons at his chest popped open, exposing his firm, tan chest.
He had spent the evening drinking with several brand partners. Now his whole body felt hot, his stomach turned with nausea, and his head pounded.
Normally, Claire would have rushed over by now, worried about him. She would help him out of his clothes, bring him water, then make him something warm to eat before bed.
Jacob loved the way she looked at him like she needed him. He loved being cared for so completely, being admired and treated like he mattered more than anything else.
Jacob kicked the coffee table, deliberately making enough noise to wake the whole apartment.
No one came out.
’Is she asleep?’
Jacob raised his voice. "Claire, I’m home. Didn’t you hear me?"
’Whatever. I’m the man here. I’m not going to argue over every little thing.’
He decided to give her an easy way out and softened his voice.
"Claire, I drank too much. I don’t feel good."
The apartment stayed silent. The only sound was his own breathing.
"Claire!"
Jacob shot to his feet and stormed toward the master bedroom in the dark.
"So now you think you don’t have to listen to me at work or at home?"
His hand closed around the doorknob.
Just as he was about to open the door, his phone rang. Yvonne was on the other end.
"Jacob, where are you? Grandpa wants to go over a few things before the engagement. Can you come by?"
Jacob rubbed his brow impatiently and took a deep breath.
"Fine. Text me the address. I’m on my way."
He ended the call and let go of the doorknob. His voice turned cold again.
"Claire! Who gave you the nerve to give me that attitude? Don’t think I fucking need you. You want to give me the silent treatment? Fine. Let’s see who breaks first. I’m not coming back here. You can sit here alone until you’re ready to get over yourself!"
The master bedroom stayed completely quiet.
A faint sense of unease passed through Jacob, but his confidence quickly crushed it.
’Where could she even go? She’s probably panicking right now, too proud to admit she went too far. She knows the second she backs down, she can forget about ever becoming Mrs. Sinclair.’
Jacob lit a cigarette, a cold smile curling at his mouth.
’What does she have to fight me with? My little pet is still far too naive.’
Besides, he had the engagement to deal with for the next few days. He could ignore her until she lost the bet. Then she would fall back in line on her own.
***
Claire finished the final line of her sketch and nodded, satisfied.
After a moment of thought, she took out her phone and snapped a picture of the draft to send to Miles.
As she raised the phone, the white shirt hanging nearby caught her eye.
It was the shirt Miles had lent her. She had already washed it, but she had kept it on purpose and told him she’d lost it.
Claire’s gaze moved from the shirt to the sketch.
An idea formed.
She slipped off her robe. With nothing underneath, she pulled Miles’s white shirt over her body and sat back down at the desk.
The shirt was so oversized that the hem barely covered her thighs. Her bare skin glowed softly under the light.
Claire spread the shirt design across the desk again, picked up her phone, and adjusted the light and angle.
Then she took the photo.