Don nodded once at Miss Claire's request, voice even. "Sure thing. We can talk at the Terrace."
The words felt like they fell into the air and settled there, weightless and unbothered.
Claire didn't say much in reply—just a subtle, slow nod that matched the elegance of her posture. She rose from the couch in one smooth, unbroken motion, like she hadn't even been sitting.
As she moved to stand directly before Don, the subtle scent of her perfu caught him off guard for a brief second—cool and dark, a strange blend of blackcurrant, faded roses, and sothing heavier underneath, like burnt vanilla and old books left too long in a cedar chest.
It was the kind of sll that stuck, even when it faded—quietly gothic, quietly dangerous.
"Lead the way," she said, voice low and brushed with a hint of sothing smooth.
Don didn't bother with a reply. He just turned and started walking.
Behind him, Amanda tipped the beer bottle to her lips, her gaze lazily tracking Claire as she left. Her eyes drifted—down, then back up. The corner of her mouth quirked slightly, and she thought without a hint of sha, 'Hmm. Maybe I should start doing squats again. Put these thighs through so real work.'
Her beer clinked softly as she tilted it back.
In the kitchen, Samantha had paused. She stood near the counter, one hand resting on a dish towel, her body half-turned as she spotted the pair heading for the terrace. Winter, beside her, quietly wiped down a surface, moving with the chanical efficiency she always did.
Samantha's gaze lingered for a mont, sothing in her expression twitching—a flicker of concern or curiosity she didn't quite let surface. Her lips pressed into a faint smile, holding whatever question she'd thought of behind a practiced wall.
Don caught the glance—held it for half a second longer than necessary. Then his gaze slipped away, and the terrace doors slid open with a quiet whoosh.
Outside, the air hit colder than expected. The controlled environnt of the interior gave way to the raw, unpredictable chill of the open sky.
The wind rolled in heavy bursts, tugging at the edges of Don's shirt.
Dark clouds lood overhead, thick and heavy, dulling the daylight until it was hard to tell whether it was morning or creeping into evening.
The infinity pool rippled, disturbed by the wind, its surface breaking in small, erratic waves. The birds perched on the balcony's sparse flora squawked and ruffled their feathers, their sounds dissonant against the faint rush of city life far below.
Don led the way toward the lounge area near the edge—lush couches arranged in a semi-circle around a built-in bonfire, its flas kept low but steady, casting a dull warmth into the air.
Beyond, the city stretched in uneven lines and blinking lights, the coastline visible in fragnted detail through the fog of weather and distance.
Don moved toward the couch furthest in, his gait steady, casual. He dropped into the seat, letting the weight settle into his fra like he'd been here before and knew exactly how long he'd stay.
Miss Claire took the nearest spot, lowering herself with grace. She crossed one leg over the other, her jumpsuit folding neatly at the knees, a subtle shimr from the fabric catching what little light the overcast sky offered.
She set her tablet on the table around the bonfire, its surface smooth, the heat radiating off the firelight enough to ward off the chill—barely.
Don didn't imdiately look at her. Instead, he leaned slightly, reaching into the mini fridge tucked into the lounge setup. His hand wrapped around the cold tal of a can. He pulled it out, eyes barely glancing at the label before popping it open with a quiet tsk.
Orange juice.
The taste was slightly sweet—mundane, almost stupidly so in the face of everything else.
Claire's voice broke the silence, her tone asured, almost clinical in its smoothness.
"You've sparked quite the fire in this city—you and the Monclaire boy."
Don tilted his head, a slight, faint shrug pulling at his shoulders. Her words could have been a complint or a warning—it was hard to tell.
Still, with her trust in him inching upward, he let himself believe it leaned more toward the forr.
"There were a lot of unexpected variables," he replied, voice low, a faint echo of fatigue trailing behind the words. "But it all worked out as best as we could hope."
His eyes narrowed slightly, gaze flicking toward the city beyond. The wind ruffled the flas in the fire pit, the heat flickering against the darkening sky.
"Is the evidence the FBI managed to gain from this enough to shift the narrative of the case?"
Claire's lips tugged into the barest suggestion of a smile, her head tilting slightly as she shifted her posture, legs crossing a little tighter.
"It's more than enough," she answered, her voice steady. "With the evidence you and the others managed to gather, combined with the current state of supportive research, all charges should be dropped."
Her eyes flicked to the tablet as she spoke, her fingers brushing the edges lightly before she continued.
"That matter is no longer a problem. I'll have it dealt with by the end of the week. You won't need to set foot in a courtroom."
The words fell like a verdict, cold and final.
Then, as if flipping a page, her tone shifted—lighter, but not by much.
"What I wanted to discuss is sothing else. A matter that needed to be brought to your attention."
She lifted the tablet, turning it toward him. The screen displayed a docunt—dense with legal language, blocks of text set in clean lines, the header bolded in stark, bureaucratic font.
Proposed Settlent Agreent
The details below were packed with terms: indemnity clauses, non-disparagent agreents, financial reparations, and a long, ugly list of conditions that slled like an early retirent package wrapped in barbed wire.
Don's eyes narrowed, one brow lifting slightly.
"Is this a settlent?" he asked, voice clipped, barely a note of curiosity sneaking in.
The fire popped once, soft crk, as if echoing the question.
Miss Claire nodded once, a subtle motion that carried the weight of inevitability. Her hands folded neatly in front of her knee, fingers interlaced with the ease of soone accustod to control.
"Yes," she confird. The word lingered just long enough to suggest finality before she continued, each syllable carefully chosen.
"The offer cos from none other than Harold Barclay himself."
She let that na settle in the air like an unwelco guest, her gaze steady as she spoke. Her tone dipped into the language of contracts—terms layered in so much legalese they practically curled at the edges.
"To put it simply," she explained, her words smoothing the edges of complexity, "it's an agreent that you won't seek legal action for any matters related to either party that occurred within a one-year period."
Her voice remained calm. The words weren't designed to soothe, just to inform.
"In essence," she added, glancing at the tablet briefly, "he's asking you not to involve yourself in any case that might be brought against him. It's an attempt to preemptively limit your legal influence. A defensive asure—he's preparing for the storm that's coming."
Don's gaze stayed fixed on the tablet, but his mind was elsewhere.
Charles had called this move. Nailed it, in fact.
For soone in Barclay's position—wealthy, insulated, the kind of power that bends in on itself—the moves were obvious. Control the narrative, choke off dissent, settle where you can, and isolate the threats.
This settlent was just one lever in the machine. Testimonies didn't hold much weight if there weren't enough voices left to testify.
Don's fingers tapped lightly against the can in his hand. If it were up to him alone, he would have told Barclay exactly where to shove his offer. Watching that man publicly unravel would have been its own reward.
But that wasn't the plan. Not entirely.
He leaned back slightly, the motion easy, almost lazy. His voice followed, steady as a trono.
"Accept the terms—if nothing is out of the ordinary."
That caught Claire off guard. Subtle, but there. The faintest shift in her brow, a twitch that barely registered but spoke volus.
She reclaid the tablet from him, her fingers curling lightly around the edge as she spoke.
"You reached a decision quickly." Her gaze flicked to his, intent but not challenging. "I take it you already took this into account?"
Don didn't bother going into detail.
His eyes narrowed slightly, the corner of his mouth ticking up just a fraction.
"More or less."
Claire nodded, her expression flattening back into that smooth, unreadable mask. "Well, that saves a lot of work."
Her tone softened—not much, but enough to suggest quiet approval.
"And you'll have ti. I'd imagine Harold Barclay's legal team will work tirelessly to discredit any testimonies or cases you try to bring forward. Whatever it takes."
Don took a slow sip from his can. The citrus flavor hit his tongue, cold and faintly tallic. He swallowed without hurry.
"He's got bigger problems to worry about than ."
That earned a faint, almost amused sound from Claire. A soft, knowing chuckle, barely a breath.
"Don't sell yourself short," she said. "If he wasn't worried about you, he wouldn't be offering seventy million in settlent."
Don's fingers paused for a split second. The number rang in his head like an echo—familiar, but distant.
In another life, that figure would have changed everything. Set him up. End the hustle. Here? It was just a piece of the puzzle. A tool. Nothing more.
He didn't let the thought show.
"He has every right to be," Don replied, voice dry. "But personally, my interests lie elsewhere."
Claire nodded once, a signal of understanding.
"Understandable," she murmured.
Her gaze flicked back to the tablet, her fingers brushing the edge as if preparing to close it. Her posture shifted subtly, the conversation on the verge of wrapping itself up.
"Well then, I don't think we have much else to discuss."
She was ready to move on.
But Don wasn't.
"Do you mind," he asked, his tone smooth but casual, "if I use this opportunity to ask you so personal questions?"
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