Chapter 6: Carter Thorne.

Claire's POV

My mind was rehearsing answers to standard questions. So when I was led not to a generic table, but to a secluded booth where a man sat silhouetted against the morning light, my steps faltered.

I knew that profile. The severe cut of his jaw, the aura of concentrated intensity that seemed to lower the temperature around him.

Carter Thorne.

Nathan's personal nemesis. Their rivalry was legend. As Nathan's wife, I'd seen him across crowded rooms—a dark, silent storm in a sea of empty smiles. We'd never exchanged more than the barest civilities. I'd been part of the furniture.

Now, I was standing before him, jobless and desperate.

He didn't look up from his tablet. His voice, when it came, was like gravel wrapped in velvet, low and direct. "Sit."

I slid into the booth.

He lifted his gaze. Cold, crystalline gray eyes assessed me with no recognition, no warmth. "The interview is this: Identify three fundamental design flaws in this space. You have thirty minutes." He gestured vaguely at the café with his chin and returned to his screen.

No small talk. No resume review. Just a brutal, immediate test.

For a second, panic screamed. Then, a switch flipped. This wasn't about being Claire Sterling, the discarded wife. This was about being Claire Whitmore, who aced her studio critiques. A fierce calm settled in my bones.

I silently cleared the condiments from the table, pulled out my notepad and a mechanical pencil, and began to work.

My eyes scanned the room, seeing not people but flow, structure, light, and failure. The pencil flew. The noise of the café faded. There was only the problem.

In twenty-five minutes, I slid the notepad across the table. I'd listed six issues, not three. The obstructive host stand creating a bottleneck. The HVAC vent condemning a seating section to arctic misery in winter. The fatal flaw of the play area's sightlines—parents at half the tables had no visual contact. For each, a concise, pragmatic solution.

Carter Thorne picked up the pad. His expression didn't change, but I saw the slight, laser-focused tightening of his attention as he read. A pause on my note about the play zone. He set it down.

"You're qualified." Blunt. Then the real question, his eyes piercing. "You're also Nathan Sterling's wife. Why would I invite that complication into my company?"

This was the moment. I met his gaze, my voice steady. "I'm his ex-wife in all but the final signature. I'm filing for divorce."

A flicker in his eyes. Interest, not sympathy.

I continued. "Hiring me isn't a complication, Mr. Thorne. It's a statement. The media would feast on it. I'd bet Sterling Corp's PR budget for a month that it would irritate Nathan more than any quarterly miss."

A ghost of something—not a smile, a predatory acknowledgment—touched his lips. "And your loyalty? What's to stop you from being a Trojan horse?"

My final card. I played it without a blink. "You get first refusal on my divorce legal team. Let your lawyers pick apart his finances. Consider my loyalty vetted in real-time."

The air shifted. The calculation in his eyes was swift and mercenary. A single, curt nod. "You're hired. HR will process you. You start at the bottom." He stood, gathering his coat. "My assistant will take you to the office."

"Thank you," I said. A ride downtown would save me another $50. I wouldn't refuse.

As he turned, I caught it—the slightest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not warmth. Satisfaction. Like he'd acquired a useful, interesting tool.

I was still reeling, a stunned smile threatening my composure as I watched him leave. I'd done it. I had a job.

The feeling of being watched crawled up my spine. A familiar, poisonous sensation.

I turned.

Nathan stood on the wrought-iron staircase to the private meeting rooms, his hand on the railing. His face was a mask of cold, incredulous fury. He must have been in a meeting upstairs.

For a ridiculous second, I saw the assumption click behind his eyes. He thought I'd tracked him here. That this was all an act, culminating in this pathetic "chance" encounter.

He descended the stairs, his stride eating up the distance between us. His voice was a low, venomous whisper. "What's this? Running to my competition to try and sting me? You're getting creative, Claire. And stupid."

The old fear tried to rise. I crushed it. "We're in the middle of a divorce, Nathan. My career choices are no longer your concern." I tilted my head. "Or are you following me? It's starting to seem like you're the one who can't let go."

His eyes raked over me—the professional blouse, the determined set of my jaw, the life in my eyes that his penthouse had smothered. It infuriated him.

"Thorne's taste must be slipping if he's picking through other men's discards," he sneered. "A washed-up society wife with a kid in tow. He must be desperate."

The insult landed, but it didn't stick. I felt a strange, cold pity. "I guess that's the difference," I said, my tone almost conversational. "He's hiring my mind. You only ever wanted a doll for your shelf. No wonder he's winning."

His control snapped. A vein pulsed at his temple. "You think this is a game? You're trying to punish me? Fine. You want the divorce? You've got it. Don't you dare come crawling back. The door is closed."

A wave of pure relief nearly buckled my knees. "Thank you," I breathed, the words utterly sincere. "That's all I—"

"Ma'am! Your son!" A frantic server sprinted from the play area, face pale. "He's in a fight!"

The world narrowed to a single, terrifying point. Leo.