Morning arrived quietly.
James woke before his alarm, pale grey light filtering through the thin curtains of his apartment. The city outside was still half-asleep—distant traffic, muted footsteps, the low hum of something mechanical far below. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Sleep had been shallow again.
His thoughts drifted, as they had for days now, between things he could not untangle—his father's death, the inheritance, the unfamiliar name Clara Holden, and the growing presence of Amanda Lewis in his mind. None of them belonged together, yet they wound around one another with quiet persistence.
He rose slowly and moved through familiar routines. Shower. Coffee. A glance at the framed photograph of his mother before leaving the apartment. Cynthia's smile was gentle and steady, unchanged by time.
What would you tell me now? he wondered.
There was no answer.
The campus was calm when James arrived. Early mornings always were. The corridors lay mostly empty, sunlight slanting through tall windows and stretching across polished floors. He appreciated these hours—before noise, before expectations.
In the lab, Amanda was already there.
She stood near the counter, carefully labelling sample containers. The morning light softened her features, catching in her hair. She hadn't noticed him yet.
James paused.
Seeing her like this—unaware, unguarded—gave him an unexpected sense of stillness. She occupied space quietly, without urgency, without demand.
"Good morning," he said gently.
Amanda turned, startled for a moment before her expression relaxed.
"Good morning, Mr. Mercer."
Her voice was soft, still touched by sleep.
"You're in early," he observed.
She smiled. "I like mornings. They're peaceful."
He nodded. "They are."
The exchange was simple. Ordinary. And yet, something lingered beneath it.
As the morning progressed, Amanda found herself increasingly aware of James.
Not in the obvious way she tried hard to suppress—but in subtler ones. The way he reviewed notes with intense focus. The slight furrow in his brow when something troubled him. The moments when his gaze drifted, distant, as if pulled backward by memories he never shared.
She admired his restraint.
Whatever shaped him had not made him bitter. There was pain there—quiet, contained—but also kindness. That combination unsettled her more than charm ever could.
He doesn't even know how remarkable he is, she thought.
When she handed him a clipboard later that morning, their fingers brushed.
The contact was brief, almost nothing—but Amanda felt it all the same. A small jolt that made her inhale sharply before she could stop herself. She withdrew quickly, adjusting her grip.
"I've updated the records," she said, forcing steadiness into her voice.
"Thank you," James replied.
He felt it too.
The warmth of her skin lingered in his awareness longer than it should have. He told himself it was nothing—proximity, familiarity. Still, even as he turned back to his work, the thought surfaced unbidden.
This is a line I shouldn't cross.
By midday, the lab had grown busier. Students came and went. Questions were asked. Demonstrations repeated. James performed his duties with practiced ease, but his focus fractured more often than he liked.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
A message from Richard Hale.
Ms. Holden has contacted the office again. She is proposing a settlement.
James frowned and continued reading.
Her terms: sixty percent of the estate to herself, forty percent to you. She claims this is a reasonable compromise to avoid prolonged litigation.
James read the message twice.
Sixty percent.
The number settled heavily in his chest.
Not equality. Not negotiation.
A demand.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, jaw tightening. Clara Holden was not asking to be compensated—she was attempting to claim ownership. As though proximity mattered more than blood. As though years of absence erased responsibility she had never carried.
The audacity of it left him cold.
During lunch, James sat alone in the faculty canteen, his food untouched. Conversations blurred into background noise.
"May I?"
He looked up to see Amanda standing there, tray in hand.
"It's crowded," she added quickly.
There were empty seats elsewhere.
"Yes," he said. "Of course."
She sat, careful not to intrude on his space.
They ate in silence for a while. James noticed how deliberately she moved, as if conscious of every gesture.
"You didn't eat much yesterday either," she said softly.
"I didn't realize you noticed," he replied.
She smiled faintly. "I notice things."
That simple admission stirred something in him.
"I've had things on my mind," he said.
He didn't tell her that a woman he had never met believed she deserved more of his father's life than he ever had. That someone thought she could take sixty percent of everything simply because she had arrived later.
"I thought so," Amanda said. "You don't have to explain. I just wanted you to know—you don't have to pretend with me."
The sincerity in her voice unsettled him more than sympathy ever could.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "That means more than you know."
Her eyes softened.
That evening, James finally returned Richard's call.
"She's formalized the offer," the solicitor said. "Sixty percent to her, forty to you. She's presenting it as generosity."
"And legally?" James asked.
"You're under no obligation to accept," Richard replied. "Her claim does not justify that division. But she believes pressure will make you concede."
"It won't," James said firmly.
"I suspected as much," Richard said. "Still—be cautious. When people fail to secure what they want through law, they sometimes look elsewhere."
The call ended, leaving silence behind.
James stood by the window, city lights flickering below. Sixty percent repeated itself in his thoughts—not because it tempted him, but because it revealed Clara's intent.
She didn't want peace.
She wanted control.
Across town, Clara Holden stood at her own window, phone resting in her hand.
Sixty–forty.
She had chosen the split carefully. More than fair, she told herself. More than generous. James Mercer had not been there when William aged. Had not listened to his complaints. Had not managed his household.
And yet—he hesitated.
That irritated her.
Men like James mistook silence for principle. Clara knew better. Silence was uncertainty. And uncertainty could be exploited.
If legal pressure failed, she would find other ways to make him understand what resistance cost.
She lifted her glass, lips curving faintly.
Sixty percent was only the beginning.
The next day, James stayed late at the lab.
Amanda noticed.
By the time most people had left, the building felt hollow. The lights hummed softly.
"You should go home," she said, gathering her bag. "You've been here all day."
"So have you," he replied.
She shrugged. "I don't mind."
He studied her—the faint tiredness in her eyes, the way she still tried to smile.
"Let me walk you out," he said.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
Outside, the night air was cool. Campus lights cast long shadows across the pavement. They stopped near her car.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For listening."
He hesitated. "If you ever need someone to talk to… I'm not as unreachable as I seem."
Her breath caught.
"I know," she replied.
Their eyes held. Something fragile and unspoken stretched between them.
James stepped back first. "Drive safely."
She nodded, watching him walk away, heart pounding.
This is how people get hurt, she thought. By hoping.
That night, sleep again refused James.
Amanda's face surfaced in his thoughts, followed closely by Clara's name.
One offered warmth.
The other promised trouble.
And the trouble had now placed a price on itself—one that demanded he surrender more than money.
The careful lines he had drawn around his life were beginning to blur.
And once crossed, there would be no easy return.