The sun had barely begun to paint the eastern sky with hues of rose and gold when Claire's eyes fluttered open. She slipped out of bed, dressed in a comfortable, plain t-shirt and a pair of soft lounge pants, and quietly made her way downstairs. The mansion, usually a realm of hushed stillness at this hour, held an unexpected hum of activity. As she approached the grand living room, she heard low, murmured voices. Peeking around the ornate doorway, her eyes widened slightly.
Alexander was already there, impeccably dressed in a sharp business suit, a stark contrast to his exhausted appearance just hours ago on the study sofa. He was on the phone, his voice a low, commanding murmur, his back to her. Beside him, Brenda stood with a tablet in hand, her expression one of focused professionalism. And facing Alexander, a tall, impeccably dressed man, unfamiliar to Claire, stood attentively. Alexander had been slightly pale yesterday, a flicker of vulnerability she had witnessed, but today, he looked perfectly fine, his usual formidable self.
"Didn't he sleep at all?" Claire thought, a flicker of genuine concern mixed with her usual bewilderment at his seemingly tireless energy. The image of him sprawled on the study sofa, lost in music and exhaustion, flashed through her mind.
Brenda, ever alert, noticed Claire at the doorway. She offered a polite, professional smile and a quiet "Good morning, Mrs. Sterling."
The unfamiliar man immediately turned, his posture straightening. He was lean, with sharp, intelligent eyes, and an aura of quiet efficiency. "Mrs. Sterling," he greeted, his voice smooth and respectful, "I am Noren. Mr. Alexander's special assistant."
"Yes," Claire replied, a polite smile touching her lips as she walked further into the room. "I've heard a lot about you."
Alexander, concluding his conversation with a sharp, decisive word into the phone, finally turned. His gaze swept over Claire, a swift, assessing glance that seemed to take in her casual attire. He offered no greeting, no acknowledgment of her presence beyond that look. With a curt nod to Noren and Brenda, he began to walk towards the grand staircase, his implicit command clear. Both Brenda and Noren immediately fell into step behind him, their efficiency a silent testament to his authority.
Turning away, Clarie made her way into the vast, gleaming kitchen. The sight of the professional-grade appliances, so rarely used by her, felt almost intimidating. She opened the refrigerator, searching for something simple, perhaps just a glass of water. She found a chilled bottle of sparkling mineral water and reached for it.
But just as her fingers closed around the cool glass, the bottle was swiftly, almost violently, snatched from her hand. Claire gasped, jolting backward, her heart leaping in her chest.
She spun around, her eyes wide. Alexander Sterling stood towering over her, his long frame filling the doorway, a formidable presence she hadn't heard approach. He held the bottle of water in his hand, his gaze sweeping over her. He took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes, dark and unreadable, scanning her casual attire – her plain t-shirt and lounge pants – with a dismissive air. His lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible sneer.
"Prepare a breakfast for six people," he commanded, his voice cold and devoid of preamble. "Quickly. We have at..." He glanced at his expensive watch, the precision of his movements a stark contrast to her own startled state. "...exactly eight. Be ready." He then thrust the half-empty bottle of water back into her hand, almost making her drop it again.
Claire stared at him, utterly dumbfounded.
He noticed her questioning look. His eyes hardened, and he raised a finger, pointing it directly at her, a silent, unmistakable order. "And," he added, his voice laced with a subtle disdain, "change your dress into something proper. You look like you've just chased away the kitchen ghost."
Claire's jaw dropped. Her face flushed with a sudden, indignant anger. His words were a calculated insult, a deliberate jab at her appearance and her role. She couldn't believe his arrogance, his sheer lack of respect. She watched his retreating back as he turned and walked out of the kitchen, his posture rigid and unyielding.
Claire stormed upstairs, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. She yanked open her wardrobe, her eyes scanning for anything that wasn't overly formal but would satisfy his unspoken demand for "proper." Her hand fell upon a simple, yet elegant, pink linen dress – a soft, flowing garment she rarely wore in the mansion's formal setting. She quickly changed, her movements brisk and impatient, the silk rustling around her.
As she fastened the last button, she glanced at the antique clock on her bedside table. Six-thirty. Barely dawn. A wave of frantic realization washed over her. Six people. Two hours. And Alexander expected a full breakfast. She needed help.
She hurried out of her room, her voice echoing faintly through the quiet upstairs corridor. "Miley? Miley!" She called again, louder this time, her voice laced with a growing urgency. No response. The mansion remained stubbornly silent, save for the faint hum of its internal systems. Miley, ever-present, was nowhere to be found.
Claire raced back downstairs, her mind already shifting into crisis mode. If Alexander expected a grand breakfast, she would deliver, even if it killed her. She would not give him the satisfaction of her failing this ridiculous, impromptu test. She burst into the kitchen, pulling open pantry doors and refrigerator compartments with a newfound determination. Eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, flour, milk, sugar – the sprawling Sterling kitchen held an abundance of ingredients. She grabbed a large bowl, a whisk, and began to crack eggs with furious precision, her movements becoming a blur of efficiency. She needed to quickly cook.
She was whisking vigorously, flour dusting her pink dress, when the kitchen door swung open. Miley entered, her arms laden with canvas bags overflowing with fresh produce, bread, and various gourmet items. Her face, usually so composed, looked a little tired, but her movements were as efficient as ever.
"Miley!" Claire exclaimed, relief flooding her. "Where did you go? I was calling you." The unexpected help, even belated, felt like a lifeline.
Miley placed the bags gently on the counter, her gaze meeting Claire's briefly. "Good morning, Mrs. Sterling," she said, her voice soft, a hint of weariness in her tone. "Mr. Sterling woke me up at four this morning. He wanted me to go to the market and procure fresh ingredients for a special breakfast. He said it was... an urgent requirement." A subtle emphasis on "urgent" confirmed Claire's suspicion that Alexander's demands knew no bounds, even infringing on his staff's sleep. The realization that Alexander had ordered this grand breakfast hours ago, yet only bothered to inform her at the last minute, sent a fresh wave of annoyance through Claire.
Despite the early hour and the sudden, daunting task, a strange synergy developed between Claire and Miley. Claire, fueled by a stubborn determination not to fail Alexander's unspoken test, moved with a newfound speed and precision. Miley, accustomed to the demanding whims of the Sterling household, anticipated every need, her movements calm and methodical. The professional-grade kitchen became a whirlwind of coordinated activity.
Claire took charge of the hot dishes, expertly flipping golden-brown pancakes that puffed up perfectly, their scent mingling with sizzling bacon. She whipped eggs into creamy, fluffy scrambled mounds, infused with fresh chives and a touch of cream. Meanwhile, Miley, with practiced ease, sliced an array of vibrant seasonal fruits – strawberries, blueberries, melon, and kiwis – arranging them artfully on large platters. She toasted various artisanal breads, their crusts golden and fragrant, and brewed two different types of coffee: Alexander's usual strong black blend, and a lighter, aromatic choice. Freshly squeezed orange juice, still cool from the juicer, filled crystal carafes. Within an hour, the kitchen counters were laden with an elegant, standard breakfast, meticulously prepared and visually appealing.
At exactly eight o'clock, Claire and Miley carried the platters and carafes out to the backyard. A charming, small garden dinner table, usually used for casual afternoon teas, had been set with gleaming silver cutlery, delicate bone china, and crystal glasses. The morning light filtered through the leaves of the surrounding shrubs, dappling the white tablecloth with a soft, intimate glow. The air was fresh, carrying the faint, sweet scent of newly bloomed flowers.
Claire and Miley, wiping their hands on their aprons, stepped back, surveying their work. The intimate garden setting transformed the breakfast from a mere meal into an exquisite al fresco dining experience, a quiet oasis away from the mansion's grandeur. Claire felt a fleeting sense of pride, even amidst her lingering exhaustion. The breakfast was ready. Just in time.
A few moments later, Alexander emerged from the mansion, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the dewy grass. He was accompanied by Brenda and Noren. Trailing behind them were three other men, equally well-suited, their faces serious and focused – clearly high-ranking executives or advisors. garden table, their conversations ceasing as they took in the meticulously prepared spread.