Clara barely slept.
When she would close her eyes, the word would resound in her head.
Family.
She stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself. The woman looking out at her didn't look like the wife of a billionaire. She appeared to be a woman playing dress-up in stolen silk.
A soft knocking rapped at the door.
"Mrs. Monroe," a woman's voice called softly. "Can I come in?"
Clara was reluctant. "Yes."
The door swung open, and a stylist stepped in, along with two assistants holding garment bags.
"We have been advised by Mr. Monroe to get you ready," the woman said, flashing a professional smile.
"Get me ready for what?" Clara whispered, even though she already knew.
"Breakfast with the family."
Her stomach clenched.
"They'll be here early," the stylist added. "Very,
Clara peeked at the time.
She let out a breath slowly. "Of course they are."
Dylan was already at the head of the table when Clara entered the room.
He was exasperatingly composed.
"You're late," he said.
She shot him a glance. "You didn't mention there was a dress code,"
"You look fine," he said, briefly glancing at her. The reassurance—if that's what it was—did nothing to calm her nerves.
"Remember," Dylan went on in a whisper, "you don't speak unless spoken to. Just follow me."
Clara tensed up. "I'm not a kid."
"Then don't act like one either."
Before she could answer, footsteps could be heard in the hallway.
Voices followed.
Loud. Confident. Unapologetic.
Dylan stood. "They're here."
Clara's heart began to race.
The first woman to come into the room was graceful, keen-eyed, and adorned in pearls.
This is definitely his mother.
She paused as soon as she caught sight of Clara.
"Is this her?" the woman asked coolly.
Clara straightened her shoulders. "Good morning, ma'am."
She didn't grin.
"I'm Evelyn Monroe," she announced. "Dylan's mother."
"Clara Wins—" she started.
"Clara Monroe," Dylan said smoothly, sitting down next to her.
The name was heavy on her tongue.
More people entered behind Evelyn.
A tall man with a judging stare.
A younger woman who seemed bored.
And a third woman—gorgeous, graceful, and studying Clara a little too intently.
Evelyn waved towards the table. "Sit down."
It wasn't a request.
Breakfast commenced in silence.
Then Evelyn spoke. .
"You went and married my son without a word of announcement," she said placidly. "Care to tell me why?"
Clara opened her mouth—
Dylan placed his hand lightly over hers.
"We wanted privacy," he said.
Evelyn's eyes flicked to their joined hands.
"How thoughtful," she said sarcastically.
The younger woman laughed softly. "She doesn't seem like Dylan's type. "
Clara felt the sting but kept her expression neutral.
"What's his type, then?" Clara asked before she could stop herself.
Silence immediately descended.
The grip of Dylan's fingertips tightened.
Evelyn's eyes grew sharp. "Careful," she warned. "Confidence can become arrogance very easily."
Clara swallowed. "I apologize."
Evelyn reclined in her seat. "Tell me, Clara. What is it you do?"
"I—" Clara paused in hesitation. "I was a freelance editor."
Was.
The past tense flared up.
"And your family?" Evelyn asked.
Clara felt the trap.
"My mother is sick," she said quietly. "I look after her."
Evelyn nodded slowly. "How… convenient."
Dylan stiffened. "That's enough."
Evelyn raised a brow. "I'm just wondering why you got married so fast."
Clara's heart pounded.
Before she could think, she took hold of Dylan's hand.
"Because I love your son," said she.
The words tasted foreign.
Dylan looked at her sharply.
She forced a smile at a celebrity and continued, "And when you love somebody,... There are no waiting for permissions to love someone."
The table went silent.
For a long moment Evelyn scrutinized her.
Then she smiled.
And that smile terrified Clara more than the silence.
Afterwards, as the family separated into different rooms, Clara finally exhaled.
"That was brutal," she muttered.
Dylan followed her into the hallway. "You spoke out of turn."
"You told me not to make you look bad," she snapped. "I didn't."
"You made it up."
"I made it."
He ceased walking and turned to her. "Don't argue with my mother," he said quietly. "Ever."
"She was attacking me."
"She was testing you."
Clara folded her arms. "Have I got through?"
His eyes were on her face.
"Barely."
She didn't believe. "High praise."
Before he could respond, a muffled voice broke their conversation.
"Dylan."
The tall beautiful brunette from the table came towards us, her heels softly clicking on the floor.
"I was hoping to have a word," she said.
Her Eyes Skimmed Down To Clara.
Disconcerting. Shaming."
"And you must be the wife," she said. "I'm Vanessa."
Clara's heart constricted.
She knew the name.
"You didn't tell me about her," Clara whispered to Dylan.
"I thought I didn't have to."
Vanessa smiled sweetly. "We long ago."
"How long ago?" Clara interrogated.
Vanessa leaned in closer. "Long enough to know this marriage is never going to hold."
Clara stiffened. "Excuse me?"
Vanessa's smile widened. "No need to worry. I don't meddle."
She hesitated, then whispered softly, "Yet."
Dylan moved between them. "That's enough, Vanessa."
Vanessa shrugged. "I just wanted to meet the woman who had the courage to marry you."
Her gaze fell pointedly toward Clara's hand.
"Or that desperate."
She turned and walked away.
Clara's hands were trembling.
"Who is she?" Clara asked.
Dylan didn't immediately respond.
"That," he said at last, "is a problem."
Her heart sank. "What sort of problem?"
She replied, "The sort of thing that hates losing."
Clara glanced down at the ring on her finger.
All of a sudden she realized something very clearly.
This marriage was more than just a contract. ( Yes, she
It was a battlefield.