Nothing But Pretend

Claire Lowe comes home alone on her father's birthday.Her mom notices immediately. She looks past Claire toward the door, waits a second longer than necessary, then exhales."So...he didn't come."Claire drops her bag and slips out of her heels."Why would he? Ethan's busy. He's always busy."It isn't sarcasm. It's just the truth.She hasn't seen her husband in almost a month. No dinners. No messages. No explanations. Telling him about her dad's birthday would only turn into an awkward pause she doesn't have the energy to survive.Her mom hesitates. "Claire, he's your husband. This matters."Claire pours herself a glass of water and leans against the counter."Mom. You know this was never a love story. I married up. Way up."Her mom winces. "But love can grow. You've been married three years. There has to be something."Claire lets out a quiet laugh."Who told you marriage guarantees love?"Ethan and she live in completely different worlds. Different money. Different rules. Different

Margaret watches Ethan leave without looking back.Then she looks at Claire, still lying pale and quiet on the bed, and feels her heart sink straight to the bottom of her chest."This...oh dear, this is a mess," she mutters, pacing helplessly. "Madam, you—""Margaret," Claire says softly, eyes closed. "Please don't say anything. I don't feel well. Let me rest for a while."Margaret opens her mouth, then closes it again.She tells herself it's fine.Once the fever breaks, once Claire feels better, she'll come to her senses. She's only speaking out of hurt—out of hearing those cruel words when she's weak and vulnerable.After three years under the same roof, Margaret knows this much for certain:Claire loves Ethan.Ethan only comes to Maple Ridge Residence on holidays or family occasions, usually to take her back to the ancestral house.Every single time, Claire starts preparing days in advance.She buys new clothes, lays them out, asks Margaret which one looks better. Which one Ethan m

Claire knows that, by hotel management standards, taking Pearl to the police station could anger her mother-in-law. She's already imagined all the ways Catherine Lowe might "punish" her for stepping out of line.But she never expected that the matriarch, who always presents herself as composed and refined in public, would break so completely—and so theatrically.Claire just got off work, barely had time to eat, when a group stormed in, led by the Lowe family's butler. With no one at Maple Ridge Residence to stop them, they moved with total authority.Fifty-something Mr. Carter, smiling but not really smiling, addresses Claire, "Madam, may we have a word?"Even after three years living with the Lowes, Claire feels like she's stepped back in time—maybe into some old estate from the early twentieth century.She grips her phone tightly, grounding herself in reality. Margaret and Mr. Carter have both been with the Lowes for decades. Claire blinks at the show of force. A single call should

I never expected anything from you.That sentence hits Ethan harder than any argument ever has.Claire doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't accuse him. She doesn't demand explanations or fairness. Her eyes are only slightly red when she says it, calm and restrained, as if she's stating a fact she accepted long ago.And somehow, that makes it worse.Because this—this—is exactly what Ethan wanted in the beginning.He wanted her to regret marrying him.He wanted her to understand that marrying him would never lead to warmth, comfort, or love.He wanted her to realize that choosing him was a mistake.For three years, he has been doing everything to make sure she understands that.And now she does.So why does it feel like something inside him cracks open instead of settling into satisfaction?That night, Ethan doesn't sleep.He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying her words again and again. They don't sound dramatic. They don't sound resentful. They sound...final.The next mornin

Claire wakes up early the next morning. Today, she's supposed to go to the hotel.She washes up, dresses neatly, and heads downstairs.The dining room looks the same as always—sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the long table set precisely, everything calm and controlled.Ethan isn't eating yet.That in itself is unusual.His meals are normally prepared separately by his nutrition team, timed and calculated down to the gram. He rarely eats with her. But today, his place at the table is set, untouched.Claire pauses for a second, then sits down.Only then does Ethan begin to eat....Was he waiting for me?The thought crosses her mind briefly, then she dismisses it. She has no energy to guess what he's thinking these days.They eat in silence.Claire keeps her posture straight, movements minimal. Polite. Neutral. No unnecessary expressions. She has learned well—how to exist beside him without taking up space.She remembers something suddenly.Two days ago, Ethan sa