His voice was low, cutting through the drumming rain. "Just stay."
The words felt loaded, too heavy for the situation. After all the careful avoidance, the deliberate distance, this was a startling shift. A small, almost indignant thought bubbled up, defying her usual politeness. "Don't you hate it when I enter your room?" she asked, her voice a little louder this time, a touch of genuine puzzlement and perhaps a hint of challenge woven into the question.
Alexander, instead of replying directly, shifted. His eyes briefly flicking over her before settling on a neatly folded pile of clothes laid out on a nearby antique chest of drawers. It was clear Eleanor, ever the watchful mother, had prepared them for him. He moved towards them, picking up a fresh shirt and trousers.
As he turned back, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his lips, a flash of the unexpected humor she'd witnessed moments before with the phone incident.
His eyes met hers, and there was a flicker of something... something teasing. "It's alright," he said. "This isn't the Sterling penthouse." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the grand, undeniably luxurious room, then back to her, a hint of something smug in his eyes. "I'll allow it."
Clarie's jaw, quite literally, dropped. Her eyes widened, a fresh wave of shock and frustration washing over her. "Allow it?" The implication hung in the air: that she was somehow desperate to be in his room, that she required his permission to simply exist in this house. The sheer arrogance of it, combined with the earlier intimacy of the shared giggle, left her speechless, her face contorting into an involuntary mask of exasperation. Her own frustration flared, hot and sudden.
Alexander's lips pressed together, a muscle in his jaw twitching almost imperceptibly, a silent testament to the amusement simmering just beneath his composed exterior at her utterly flustered reaction.
Alexander then made a gesture that, in any other circumstance, might have seemed casual. He reached for the top buttons of his crisp dress shirt, slowly loosening them, then tugged lightly at his tie, as if shedding an unnecessary layer of formality. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. "Why are you acting so tense up?" he asked, his tone surprisingly soft, almost curious, yet it felt like an accusation, a subtle challenge.
Clarie's immediate, almost reflexive response was a desperate denial. "No, I am not."
But even as the words left her lips, she knew it was a hollow lie. How could she not be tensed up? The implications of being in this room, with him, were flooding her senses, suffocating her. If they shared a room, that surely meant they would share the bed. The very thought sent a fresh wave of ice and panic coursing through her veins, a cold knot tightening in her stomach.
Her gaze darted from his face to the luxurious four-poster bed that dominated the room, its soft duvet inviting yet terrifying. The silence stretched, thick and unyielding, punctuated only by the relentless drumming of the rain against the windowpanes. This was it. This stark, unbelievable truth: this was the very first time since their marriage that they were actually in the same room, without the buffer of others, without the pretense of distance, truly alone. The room suddenly felt suffocatingly small, the rich tapestries and antique furniture closing in around her, trapping her with a man who was her husband by name, but a stranger in every other sense.
The few moments Alexander was in the washroom felt like an eternity, yet also impossibly short. Clarie stood frozen in the opulent room, her eyes darting nervously between the closed washroom door and the luxurious, intimidating four-poster bed that dominated the space. The soft padding of the rain outside seemed to amplify the frantic pounding of her own heart.
When Alexander re-emerged, the air in the room seemed to subtly shift, taking on a new, more relaxed energy. He was no longer in his formal attire but had changed into simple, dark sleep shorts and a loose, grey t-shirt. The change in clothing made him look less imposing, more approachable, yet still unmistakably masculine. His movements were unhurried, almost languid, as he walked back into the room.
His gaze fell on Clarie, who was still perched awkwardly on the very edge of the bed, her small frame curled defensively, looking like a lost bird ready to take flight. Her eyes, wide and apprehensive, met his for a split second before she averted them, a blush creeping up her cheeks.
Clarie, seeing him fully changed, interpreted this as her cue. With a quick, almost frantic movement, she turned and darted towards the washroom door, a clear indication that it was now her turn to freshen up and change. She didn't offer a word, simply disappeared behind the heavy door with a soft click.
The washroom offered a brief, welcome reprieve. Clarie quickly changed into her own simple nightclothes, splashed cool water on her face, and tried to compose herself. The thought of stepping back out into that room, with Alexander already there, was daunting.
When she finally emerged, the washroom door closing softly behind her, her eyes immediately went to the bed. Alexander was already there, stretched out on one side, seemingly engrossed in his phone. Her heart sank. The bed, already massive, now felt even larger, a vast ocean separating them. She hesitated at the foot of it, clutching her towel like a shield.
"Where... where would I sleep?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, the question laced with a desperate hope that he might suggest a sofa, another room, anything but the obvious.
Alexander looked up from his phone, his eyes meeting hers with an almost casual indifference. "I don't mind if you sleep on the floor," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any discernible emotion. He even gestured vaguely towards the plush rug beside the bed.
Clarie froze, her jaw tightening. Sleep on the floor? After all the discomfort, the humiliation? The idea was preposterous, insulting. Her entire being rebelled against it. "But I never slept on the floor," she replied, her voice strained, a hint of defiance entering her tone despite her innate timidity.
Alexander knitted his brows, a slight frown marring his forehead. He then let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. "So do I," he murmured, his tone dry, implying that her experience was hardly unique.
Clarie stood rooted to the spot, a statue of indignity and silent protest. The thought of retreating to the floor was unbearable, but the thought of getting into that bed, so close to him, was equally terrifying. Finally, with a weak, almost resigned sigh, she slowly, carefully, sat down on the very edge of the mattress again, her body still stiff, poised for escape.
Alexander let out a deeper sigh, rubbing a hand across his forehead as if weary of the entire situation. He pushed himself up slightly, propping himself on an elbow. "Okay. Come up. Sleep," he said, his voice softer, but still authoritative, a command rather than an invitation.
Clarie turned, her movements hesitant, like a child approaching a scary slide. With a quick, almost fearful scramble, she climbed onto the bed, curling herself up in one corner, pressing herself as far into the edge as possible. She gripped the duvet tightly, her body rigid, and for a terrifying second, felt herself almost tilt, convinced she was about to tumble off the side.
Alexander watched her near-fall, a slight shake of his head accompanying a subtle quirk of his lips. Then, without warning, he reached for the hem of his grey t-shirt. Startled, Clarie sat bolt upright, her eyes wide with alarm. "What are you doing?" she blurted out, her voice sharp with sudden panic.
Alexander paused, his t-shirt halfway up, revealing a strip of taut, toned abdomen. He looked at her, his dark eyes sparkling with a fleeting amusement. A low, soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, clearly heard this time. "You are a funny girl!" he said, the corner of his mouth curving into a mock smile.
Clarie shot him a bewildered, questioning look. Funny? She felt anything but.
Alexander, who clearly disliked explanations, pulled his shirt off completely, tossing it onto a nearby chair. "I can't sleep with a shirt on," he stated simply, his voice returning to its normal tone, devoid of the teasing. "So..." He let the word hang, leaving the implication open.
Clarie's throat clasped shut. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting away from his bare torso, her cheeks heating once more. "Okay," she managed to croak out, her voice thin. Then, desperately wanting to establish some ground rules, she blurted out, her words tumbling over each other, "Then we should each have half of the bed! Whoever passes the center is a twit!"