Drawing the Line
Back at Mercer Villa, Hazel crowded right up against Martha's phone, a smug grin already curving her lips. She could practically see her mother dropping everything and rushing home to stir a pot of oatmeal on the stove. In the past, even her tiniest sniffle had sent Clara hurrying straight to her side.
Across town, Clara gripped her cell so hard her knuckles blanched white. On the monitor before her, the jewelry drafts Lucas had sent over still glowed brightly, every crisp line and deliberate detail showing how much care the designer had poured into the work.
Staring at those sketches pulled her back to the late nights she once spent working in her studio. Back then, her skin carried no scalds from boiling pots and no lingering reek of kitchen grease—only streaks of paint.
"Let her know I'm tied up," Clara said, her voice coming out dry and raspy. Dead silence hung on the line. Without another word, Clara ended the call, set the phone flat on her desk, and turned her palms upward as a quiet sorrow settled over her.
Years ago, these hands had swept major design competitions, moving with bold certainty and creative flair. Yet ever since marrying into the Mercer family, she had traded her pens for a soup ladle. She had scorched the oatmeal black three times straight at first before slowly mastering pastries fine enough for any upscale restaurant.
Year after year, though, every rough callus she earned over the stove brought her nothing but cutting remarks from Desmond and steeper entitlement from Hazel.
Her phone chimed again with a text from Lucas containing a web link. Tapping it brought up a sleek digital invitation trimmed in gleaming gold—Mercer Group was hosting an industry mixer, bringing designers together to swap ideas and share their work.
Even Clara had to admit Mercer Group lived up to its reputation. Though billed as an informal gathering, several rising independent designers were slated to attend. Plenty of jewelry houses would show up too, some angling for brand partnerships and others scouting fresh talent.
*Does an industry giant like Mercer Group really need to put on an event like this?* Clara couldn't quite tell why, yet she knew better than to let an opportunity this good slip through her fingers. She typed back a quick confirmation to Lucas: [Got it. I'll be there.]
Right as the message went through, the sharp bite of chili spice drifted out from her kitchen. Spicy food had once been her favorite, yet tonight the scent only dragged up memories of countless lonely nights spent picking at cold leftovers all by herself.
*****
Hazel's grin vanished the moment she heard Clara was too busy to come home, and temper flared right behind it. Letting out a frustrated whimper, she spun around to stomp up the stairs.
Desmond walked out into the hall just then, phone in hand. Spotting her dark scowl, he dropped onto one knee. "What happened?"
"Dad, Mom refuses to come home and cook my oatmeal. She told Martha she's busy," Hazel complained, her lower lip jutting out in a deep pout.
*Mom always came running to cook whenever I asked before,* Hazel fumed silently. *Why won't she just drop everything and make it for me the way she used to?*
"Dad, will you call her?" Hazel pleaded, tipping her chin up to look at Desmond with wide, begging eyes. "If you ask, I know Mom will come right home for us."
Desmond smoothed a hand lightly over her back. "No need to fret, sweetheart. Your mom just wanted a little break outside to enjoy herself. Once she starts missing us, she'll come back home on her own."
That answer only baffled Hazel more. "Why would Mom want to go out and enjoy herself? Isn't she supposed to stay right here waiting for us when we get back?"
Right then, Desmond's phone beeped twice. Hazel, sulking only seconds ago, brightened on the spot. "Is that Ms. Monroe? Did she find somewhere else fun for us to go?"
Glancing at his screen, Desmond gave a small nod. "She did. Ms. Monroe reserved seats for tomorrow night's stage show of *Snow White*. Since it's your favorite, I'll pick you up after school and take you straight there."
"Yay, that's awesome!" Hazel cheered.
A moment later, Clara crossed her mind again. *Maybe it actually works out better that Mom stayed away. Otherwise she'd only hound me to practice piano, fuss over safety, and lecture me nonstop. She might even get mad about me going out with Ms. Monroe and say I'm not allowed to go.*
*That has to be why Dad didn't call her home either,* Hazel decided smugly. *If she wants to have fun, let her stay out a couple extra days. Once the weekend wraps up and I've had my fun, I'll tell her to come back.*
*****
The following evening, Clara headed to the White Swan Hotel for the second-floor mixer at the address Lucas had shared. Right as she walked through the main entrance, however, she caught sight of Desmond getting out of a luxury car.
Both of them stilled as their gazes locked across the pavement—before Desmond briskly looked away.
Rounding the hood, he pulled open the passenger door and held out his palm. From inside the cabin, a slim hand emerged and settled lightly into his.
As Chloe stepped out onto the curb, the night breeze lifted the hem of her pearl-gray suit skirt, flashing a dark-silver serpent anklet coiled above her heel.
That piece had once stolen the spotlight at the Mercer Jewelry Exhibition, its articulated links tightening against Chloe's smooth ankle like live scales as she stepped down. Yet hardly anyone knew that the design publicly credited to Daphne had actually come from Clara herself.
Chloe slipped her arm smoothly through Desmond's, and he gazed down at her with unmistakable tenderness warming his eyes. Trailing behind, Clara gripped her invitation tight, catching sight of her drained, pale face in the polished walls of the elevator.
Up at the registration counter, she picked up her guest badge and overheard snippets of hushed gossip nearby. Leaning toward her friend, a blonde woman murmured, "Did you catch Chloe's bracelet? It looks just like this year's Van Cleef & Arpels limited edition."
"She's a designer too, remember?" her brunette companion replied quietly. "Her name is only starting to gain traction, though rumor has it Mr. Mercer is backing her all the way."
"That explains why he showed up tonight," the blonde whispered back. "You'd never normally spot someone in his position at a mixer like this. They have to be together—people say he'll hand her anything she asks for. He completely dotes on her."
Tuning out the chatter as best she could, Clara turned her focus to the displayed pieces in the hall. She paused before a brooch titled *Tundra Spark*—easily the standout work at the entire event.
"Sharp eye," a familiar voice remarked from just behind her. Clara turned to find Lucas walking up, his gaze warm behind his glasses as he nodded toward the case. "This brooch uses a reverse-inlay setting. Notice that jagged seam? It brings right back that glacial fissure we used to debate."
Clara went still for a beat, pulled straight back to the very first design project they had tackled in university. Determined to capture the stark realism and beauty of splitting sea ice, she had traveled all the way out to Wintercrag Isle.
Without realizing it, she brushed her thumb across the rough calluses lining her palm. *And now this is all I have left.* Lost in thought, a sudden chill crept down her spine, making her turn around on instinct to meet Desmond's sharp, piercing stare.