Chapter 4 Tension in the Mansion

Clara stood at the edge of Adrian Wolfe's mansion kitchen like she had stepped onto a movie set-where everything was too quiet, too clean, too expensive. The marble countertop gleamed like untouched snow. The glass cabinets were filled with china she doubted anyone used. Even the refrigerator hummed like it had better things to do than keep food cold.

Her suitcase sat beside her, looking embarrassingly worn in the glow of all that wealth.

She could hear Adrian in the next room, speaking sharply on a call. Something about a deal in Dubai and an acquisition on the rocks.

His voice was calm but commanding, the kind that made people listen without interruption.

Clara leaned against the counter, resisting the urge to snoop. This wasn't her house, not really. She was a placeholder-a painted backdrop in a corporate stage play.

"Ma'am?" a soft voice said behind her.

She turned to see an older woman in a navy uniform, smiling kindly. Her short, grey hair was tucked neatly into a bun, and she carried a tray of fresh fruit and tea.

"I'm June. The housekeeper. Mr. Wolfe asked me to show you to your room."

Clara nodded, grateful for the human contact. "Thank you, June. Please... call me Clara."

June smiled. "Come on then, Clara. I'll give you the short version of the palace tour."

---

Her assigned room was large enough to fit her entire former apartment-with space to spare. There were pale cream walls, plush bedding, velvet armchairs, and a vanity with gilded edges. A balcony overlooked the back garden, and the bathroom had a bathtub that looked like it could float.

She stared around in disbelief.

June opened the wardrobe to reveal a line of new clothing, still with tags.

"All picked out by the stylist Mr. Wolfe hired," June said. "Shoes too. He said you might feel out of place at some upcoming events."

Clara's chest tightened. "He thinks of everything, doesn't he?"

June hesitated. "Mr. Wolfe... isn't unkind. Just guarded. You may find he's more bark than bite, once you know how to read him."

Clara raised an eyebrow. "I've met plenty of men like him. They don't usually read me first."

June smiled again and placed the tray on a side table. "Well, dinner's in an hour. You can join him in the formal dining room... or eat here if you prefer."

"Formal dining room?" Clara echoed.

"You'll get used to it."

Clara doubted it.

---

Dinner was an awkward ballet of silence and silverware. Adrian sat at the head of the long, polished table while Clara sat several seats away, as if physical distance could cushion emotional tension.

He was already eating when she arrived, dressed in another perfectly pressed suit, scrolling through his phone with one hand while twirling pasta with the other.

Clara cleared her throat. "Should I wait for a signal before sitting?"

Adrian looked up. "Sit. Eat. Don't perform."

She sat. "So this is married life?"

He glanced at her. "Is this sarcasm a regular feature, or just for tonight?"

"It's how I breathe."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Noted."

They ate in tense quiet for a moment. Then Adrian spoke again.

"I have a charity fundraiser this weekend. You'll attend."

Clara looked up. "Do I get to know who we're raising money for, or is it just another photo op?"

Adrian didn't respond immediately. "Children's literacy programs in Lagos."

Clara blinked. "Seriously?"

"I'm many things," he said, "but I don't fake philanthropy."

"I'll believe that when I see the receipts."

He smirked faintly. "You always assume the worst in people?"

"Only when they give me reasons."

Adrian set down his fork. "You're not afraid of me."

"Should I be?"

"No. But most people are."

Clara held his gaze. "Maybe they confuse fear with disgust."

Adrian gave a short, surprised laugh. "You're blunt."

"Blunt is faster than polite lies."

He studied her like she was an equation he hadn't quite solved. Then he stood.

"I'll be working in the study. You can explore the house. Just don't touch my files."

She saluted. "Got it, Captain Control."

He paused at the doorway, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Welcome home, Clara."

She didn't answer.

---

Later that night, Clara wandered the hallways, absorbing the eerie quiet of the mansion. Everything was too perfect. Nothing felt lived in. Even the art on the walls-abstract, cold, unfeeling.

Then she found it: a small door at the end of the west hallway, half-hidden behind a bookshelf.

Curiosity won.

She pushed it open and entered a dimly lit room filled with canvases and art supplies. A forgotten studio.

She stepped inside slowly. The walls were lined with old, unfinished sketches-some abstract, some painfully detailed portraits of a boy and a woman who looked like Adrian.

She ran her fingers across the edge of an easel and stopped at a sketchbook on the table.

She opened it.

The drawings were raw. Emotional. Painful, even. A young Adrian. A broken swing set. A closed bedroom door with scratch marks on it. A woman curled on a couch-possibly his mother.

Her heart ached, unexpectedly.

"You shouldn't be in here."

She turned with a start.

Adrian stood in the doorway, expression like ice. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense.

"I-I didn't mean to-"

He stepped forward. "That room is off-limits."

"I didn't see a sign," Clara said, defensively. "What is this? Your trauma closet?"

Adrian's eyes blazed. "Get out."

Clara didn't move. "Why do you keep hiding parts of yourself? You act like feelings are poison."

"Because they are," he snapped. "Emotions make people weak. Desperate. Vulnerable."

"Or human."

"I'm not interested in being human. I'm interested in results."

"You can't fix everything with contracts and deadlines, Adrian."

He stepped closer, eyes burning into hers. "Don't talk like you know me."

"Then let me," Clara said softly. "Let me try."

For a second, something cracked. Then just as fast, he shut it down.

"Go to bed, Clara."

---

That night, in her enormous room that didn't feel like hers, Clara lay awake for hours. The walls were quiet, but her mind was loud.

She thought of Leo-alone at the hospital, probably watching cartoons and pretending he wasn't in pain. She thought of Adrian-so cold on the outside, so full of buried heat beneath it.

And she thought of herself.

A married woman in a mansion, surrounded by money but starved of warmth.

It wasn't just the tension growing between them now-it was something deeper, something dangerously close to connection.

And that, she knew, was not part of the contract.