The Snow Kneeling

Panic gripped Vanessa’s chest as she stared down at the shredded ink painting. Her eyes snapped up, glaring at Clara with raw anger. "You did this on purpose, didn't you? You set a trap for me!"

Clara’s eyes instantly shimmered with hurt, her face twisting into a mask of fragile innocence. "Vanessa, what are you talking about? I was upstairs preparing a gift for Dec. Why would I do this?"

Before Vanessa could yell again, the heavy front doors swung open. Simon, the formidable and stone-faced butler of the main Vance household, stepped into the wrecked villa. His sharp gaze surveyed the shattered decor and the torn paper on the floor. He leveled a look of disdain at Vanessa.

"Ms. Vanessa," Simon said, his voice cold and even. "Madam Vance asked me to deliver a message. Since your parenting has failed to instill basic discipline in your child, the Vance family will have to discipline you instead."

Vanessa’s lips parted, her face losing all color. "What?"

"Please kneel in the courtyard," Simon commanded, gesturing toward the doors. "For three hours."

"Simon—" Clara began, stepping forward as if to intervene.

Simon stopped her with a polite, firm smile. "Ms. Clara, there is no need to plead on her behalf. You have endured enough stress since the funeral. Please take care of your health."

Clara had wanted to ask if Eleanor’s health had improved enough to discuss the divorce, but she knew the rules of the Vance family. No matter how much power Declan held at the company, Eleanor controlled the household.

Despite her tearful protests and furious reluctance, the sheer authority of the main house forced Vanessa outside. She stepped into the biting cold, her knees sinking deep into the freezing, snow-covered ground.

Clara watched from the warmth of the hallway. She felt no pity. Turning gracefully, she began to walk back upstairs.

Martha trailed anxiously behind her, her face pale with worry. "Ms. Mercer, what about the painting? It was Master Winston's final piece. It is ruined."

"Do not worry about it, Martha," Clara said quietly. "Someone will pick it up soon. It will be returned once it is restored."

Clara kept her response simple. She had no intention of revealing the truth to the household. The ruined canvas lying downstairs was merely a high-quality fake. The pristine, priceless original had been moved to a friend’s climate-controlled gallery long ago. Winston Vance had wanted his art to be seen by the world, not hidden away in a dark room.

"You evil woman!" Finnegan shrieked from the bottom of the stairs. He stomped his feet, his face red with rage. "I called Uncle Declan! When he gets back, you are dead! He is going to divorce you, and you will be a used-up old hag that nobody wants!"

Clara paused on the steps. She looked down at the screaming child and let out a soft, amused chuckle.

"He won't listen to you," Clara said calmly.

She understood the grim reality of her marriage. Declan and Vanessa still needed her presence as a legitimate smokescreen. If Declan divorced his wife just to live under the same roof with his late brother’s widow, the resulting societal scandal would destroy Vanessa’s precious reputation. Declan would never let that happen.

Vanessa had been kneeling for less than twenty minutes when the roar of an engine signaled Declan's arrival.

His black car tore into the courtyard. Declan stepped out, wearing a long black cashmere coat. Tall and composed, he radiated a quiet, intense authority as he hurried through the snow. Without a word of reprimand to anyone, he scooped Vanessa's shivering frame into his arms and carried her inside.

He set her gently on the sofa, immediately retrieving medicine to apply to her raw, frozen knees. Concern flickered in his eyes.

"You are a fool," Declan said, his voice low. "If they tell you to kneel in the snow, you actually do it?"

"Grandma gave the order," Vanessa sobbed, clutching his sleeve with trembling hands. "What choice did I have? Dec, please divorce her. She is terrifying."

Declan’s brow furrowed. "You mean Clara?"

"Yes!" Vanessa cried, tears streaming down her face. "Do you know why Finny destroyed the painting? She egged him on! She told him there was a monster inside it!"

"Mommy is right!" Finnegan chimed in, wiping his nose. "Uncle Declan, Aunt Clara told me the monster that eats arms lives inside that painting!"

Declan reached out, gently ruffling the boy’s hair, but his voice remained firm and unyielding. "That is impossible, Finny. You must have misheard. Aunt Clara has the kindest heart in this family. She would never scare you, and she would never mess with Grandpa’s painting."

He looked up, his gaze locking onto Vanessa. The implication was clear.

Vanessa stared at him in utter disbelief. "You think Finny and I made this up to frame her? Declan, you have changed!"

Declan swallowed his frustration, meeting her disappointed gaze. "Nessa, I have not changed. I have always been this way."

Vanessa’s voice cracked. She demanded to know where his loyalty lay. Looking straight into his eyes, she said, "Then swear to me. Swear on your life that you have never had the slightest romantic feeling for Clara. Swear you have never touched her, not even once."

The heavy demand caught sharply in Declan's throat. For a long, agonizing moment, he remained silent. Finally, he forced the words out, his voice empty of guilt: "I haven't touched her."

Clara heard those words clearly as she descended the staircase. In one hand, she held a beautifully wrapped gift box. Her steps were quiet, but her mind was focused on his cold, honest response.

She swallowed the bitter smile forming on her lips and stepped into the room, breaking the heavy tension.

"Dec," Clara said, her voice smooth and casual. "Madam Kensington asked if you are free to attend the Kensington family banquet with her tomorrow night."

Genevieve Pratt, the matriarch of the Kensington family, had been a close friend of Clara's parents. After their fatal accident, she had taken Clara in, treating her like one of her own. To the public, Clara was practically a Kensington. Even after her marriage to Declan, the business connections between the two families remained vital.

Hearing the invite, Declan agreed immediately, perhaps driven by a sudden surge of guilt. "Yes. I will come pick you up tomorrow night. We will go together."

"Okay," Clara replied.

She looked at the elegant box in her hands, then at Vanessa and Finnegan sitting beside him. She turned toward the foyer, intending to leave for her scheduled dinner with Camilla.

"Cla," Declan called out, his voice stopping her. "What is in that box?"

Clara turned back, holding the gift up. "A present."

"A present? For whose birthday?"

"It was for our third wedding anniversary," Clara said, her expression perfectly serene. "I intended to give it to you before all the chaos started."

A flash of regret crossed Declan's face. He stammered, "Cla, I am sorry. I forgot..."

Meeting his gaze with her usual flawless composure, she walked over and handed him the box. "It is fine. You have been busy. It is understandable."

She offered him a small, polite smile. "Since your birthday is only a couple of weeks away, you can consider this an early gift. Happy birthday in advance, Dec."

*And happy divorce to me,* she added silently, leaving him holding the box as she walked away.