Chapter 7 - THE SANCTUARY IN TRIBECA
By three o'clock in the morning, the ballroom was empty, sealed off with yellow federal crime scene tape.
Clara sat on a plush velvet sofa inside Ethan’s private penthouse apartment in TriBeCa, looking out at the rain-slicked Manhattan skyline.
She wore an oversized dark grey cashmere sweater, having traded her stained emerald gown for comfort after hours of federal questioning.
Ethan walked into the dimly lit living room, holding two warm mugs of herbal tea and a damp, warm towel.
He sat beside her, gently pressing the warm towel against the red bruise forming along her cheekbone where Eleanor had struck her.
Clara closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath as the reality of the night finally settled into her bones.
"Does it hurt?" Ethan asked softly, his thumb gently smoothing a stray strand of blonde hair away from her temple.
"The physical pain is nothing compared to the weight I've been carrying since I was seven years old, Ethan," Clara whispered.
"She’s in a federal holding cell in Brooklyn now, Clara... she won't ever touch you again," Ethan promised fiercely.
Clara looked into his dark eyes, seeing absolute loyalty, unshakeable protection, and a deep, unspoken love reflected back.
"It's not over yet, Ethan," Clara said, her voice turning serious as she looked at her phone on the coffee table.
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"Eleanor’s oldest son just boarded a private jet in London... he’s flying back to New York right now."
***
