Chapter 3
The Pacific Ocean crashed relentlessly against the jagged cliffs below the glass-and-stone structure known locally as Sea-Cliff House. Built into the rugged coastline several hours north of San Francisco, the modernist retreat offered complete isolation from the glittering, backstabbing society of the city. Sebastian killed the engine, and the sudden quiet was filled only by the rhythmic roar of the tide and the shrill cry of distant gulls.
Clara stepped out of the car, pulling a heavy wool sweater Sebastian had found in the back seat tightly around her shoulders. The salty air stung her nose, clearing away the suffocating scent of the manor's heavy perfumes and expensive wines. She walked toward the edge of the stone patio, staring out into the vast, ink-black expanse of the ocean.
Sebastian joined her a moment later, carrying a bottle of whiskey and two heavy crystal tumblers. He set them down on a low teak table before standing beside her, leaning his hands against the glass balcony railing.
"My grandfather used to bring me here when Helena became too much," Sebastian said quietly, staring into the dark horizon. "He was the only one who ever stood up to her. When he died, she took over his seat, his foundation, his legacy. She turned everything into a balance sheet."
"She called me an incubator," Clara said, her voice barely audible over the sound of the surf. She didn't look at him; her gaze remained fixed on the white crests of distant waves. "Right before she shoved my face into the plate. She wasn't even angry about something I did. She was angry that the doctor's report last week showed... complications."
Sebastian’s posture stiffened instantly. He turned his head sharply toward her. "What complications?"
Clara finally looked at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that she stubbornly refused to let fall. "The stress. The constant blood tests, the hormone treatments, the dietary restrictions monitored by her private physicians. My body is exhausted, Sebastian. The doctor told us yesterday that if I don't rest—if I don't step away from the pressure—we might not be able to carry a child at all. Or worse."
The whiskey bottle in Sebastian’s hand trembled slightly as his grip tightened. A profound, suffocating guilt washed over his features, erasing the hard, defensive shell he usually wore like armor. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice cracking with rare vulnerability.
"Because I was afraid you'd sound just like her," Clara admitted bitterly, stepping back from the railing. "I was afraid you only cared about the heir, too. That I was just fulfilling a clause in our prenup."
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Sebastian reached out, grabbing her shoulders gently but firmly, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. "Listen to me, Clara. From the very first day we met, my mother engineered this marriage to secure her bloodline. I agreed because I was a coward—I thought I could manage her, protect you from a distance. I was wrong." He let out a harsh, self-deprecating breath. "I don't give a damn about the Sterling heir. I care about you. If there is no child, we walk away. We take what we earned independently, and we start over. Do you understand me?"
Clara stared at him, searching his face for any trace of deceit. Finding only raw, unvarnished truth, a heavy burden lifted from her chest. For the first time since she had walked down the aisle into the Sterling mausoleum, she felt safe.
