Novels by Claire Lemaire

The sharp rap on the door felt like an intrusion, a disruption to the carefully cultivated numbness I’d wrapped myself in since Ethan’s name exploded between Michael and me days ago. Days spent replaying Michael’s anger, the raw accusation in his eyes, and worse, the treacherous flicker of Ethan’s ghost in my own mind. Shame, hot and prickly, crawled under my skin. I smoothed my worn sweater, took a breath that did nothing to fill the cavern inside, and opened the door.Michael stood there, transformed. Gone was the storm cloud of fury. In its place stood a man radiating earnest contrition, armed not with words first, but with weapons meant to disarm. A cascade of crimson roses, velvety and fragrant, filled his left arm. A bottle of deep, expensive-looking wine dangled from his right hand. And draped over his forearm, catching the late afternoon light like captured moonlight, was a dress. Not just any dress. A sheath of liquid silver silk, simple, elegant, undeniably stunning."Lila,"

Stay.The word hung in the air like the last note of a cello, vibrating in the charged silence of the candlelit studio. Outside, the storm still raged, wind howling against the windows, rain lashing the glass, thunder a distant drumroll. But inside, within this fragile circle of warm, flickering light cast by the single candle on the ancient drafting table, the world had shrunk to the space between Ethan and me. He hadn’t moved at my plea, only his eyes had changed, deepening, intensifying, holding mine captive across the few feet that felt like an impassable chasm and yet no distance at all.He moved then. Not with the predatory swiftness of the orphanage hall, nor the desperate intensity I half-expected after my whispered command. He took one deliberate step, then another, closing the distance with a slow, almost reverent caution. His boots were silent on the wooden floor, the only sound the crackle of the candle wick and the storm’s muffled fury. He stopped an arm’s length away, cl

The silence after Michael shut the door felt different this time. Not heavy with his hurt, but hollow, echoing with the finality of what my silence had screamed. He knew. He’d seen the truth in my tears on the ancient oak, in the reverence of my touch, in the way I couldn’t even form words to deny the power of Ethan’s staggering gift. Are you choosing him? The question still vibrated in the air, unanswered aloud, yet answered in every trembling fiber of my being.The studio, my studio, gifted by the man I’d fled, held me in its brick embrace. Michael’s small bouquet of heather lay abandoned on the worktable, a poignant, fading symbol of a kindness that couldn’t compete with the profound understanding radiating from the centuries old drafting table. I walked towards it, drawn like a pilgrim. My fingertips traced the cool, worn surface, the intricate carvings whispering stories of countless artists who’d poured their souls onto its plane. For the light you create.Ethan’s words weren’t

The silence of the studio had become a living thing. It pulsed with the echo of Michael’s hurt, the ghost of Ethan’s devastating vulnerability, and the crushing weight of the unsigned divorce papers lying like a verdict on my worktable. Proof he’d let go. Proof I couldn’t. Signing them felt like sealing a tomb on a part of my soul I wasn’t ready to bury. Not signing felt like a betrayal of the freedom I’d bled for.I tried to paint. Desperation fueled the strokes, thick, angry slashes of Payne’s Grey and Van Dyke Brown, the colors of despair and decay. But the gold leaf I instinctively reached for felt like a lie. How could I summon light when my inner landscape was choked with shadows? The canvas became a battlefield mirroring my heart, chaotic and unresolved. Seeking air, seeking the uncomplicated purity I craved, I headed to Lastenlinna, later than usual. The walk did little to calm the storm. My thoughts were a whirlwind: Ethan’s raw confession "I bury him every day" , Michael’s

Ethan’s POVThe nightmare wasn’t the dark anymore; it was the light.The stark, unforgiving white of the divorce papers flashing behind my eyelids, Lila’s elegant signature slashing beneath mine like a guillotine blade. I jolted awake, heart hammering against my ribs, the sheets tangled around me like chains. Dawn painted the unfamiliar Helsinki hotel room in cold, grey streaks. Several months of searching, weeks of planning, yesterday’s excruciating vulnerability, all culminating in the terrifying silence of waiting. Had she signed?The fear was corrosive, a physical ache in my chest. Seeing her again, Christ. It wasn’t just the remembered beauty, sharpened by Finnish light. It was the life in her eyes, the fire that had been banked to embers when she lived under my roof. Seeing it rekindled, even in rage, had been a brutal reminder of the treasure I’d casually discarded. A fool. A blind, arrogant fool. I forced myself out of bed, the polished floor cold under my bare feet. The sign

The silence after the door clicked shut behind Ethan was a physical thing. Thick. Suffocating. Charged with the lingering electricity of his presence and the stunned hurt radiating from Michael. The signed divorce papers felt like lead in my hand, their sharp edges digging into my palm, a brutal counterpoint to the phantom heat still burning on my skin where his gaze had seared me.Michael didn’t move. He stood frozen near the doorway, the bag of pigments forgotten at his feet. The easy warmth that usually lit his kind eyes was gone, replaced by confusion, dawning realization, and a deep, unsettling hurt. The air crackled with the unspoken question: What did I just walk into?"Lila?" His voice was quiet, strained. "Who was that?"The manila envelope felt slick. My throat tightened. There was no easy way. No soft landing. Just the jagged truth Ethan had dropped into the center of my carefully curated new life. "That," I managed, my voice sounding rough, unfamiliar, "was Ethan Blackwell