Chapter 2 - The Sunday Audition
“Sunday,” Vincent repeated, his voice low, steady, and cutting effortlessly through the hum of the grocery store. “Ten in the morning. Bring whatever bread you bake that doesn’t turn to stone in an hour.”
Claire blinked, a half-empty box of yeast still in her flour-dusted fingers. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Miss Miller.” He adjusted the strap of the grocery bag over his broad shoulder. His dark cashmere coat strained across muscles that clearly hadn’t been built sitting behind a desk. “I have twenty women scheduled to arrive at my gate by noon on Sunday to tell me why they are qualified to run my household. The housekeeper resigned yesterday. The children will be hungry by ten. If I feed them burnt oatmeal again, Ryan will burn the curtains down out of spite.”
Before Claire could remind him that she was an independent bakery owner, not an on-call nanny or private chef, Vincent turned on his polished boots and ushered his brood through the door.
Ryan looked back through the glass, giving Claire a mischievous salute, while little Ben hugged the warm paper bag of cookies against his chest like a treasure.
Behind Claire, the grocery store erupted.
“Did you hear that?” Mrs. Caldwell’s voice hissed from the spice aisle. “He invited *her* to the manor on Sunday! Has the man lost his eyesight? Look at her—she’s built like a sturdy draft horse, and God knows her family doesn't have two nickels to rub together after her father’s debts.”
“Not to mention,” another woman chimed in with cruel delight, “she can’t even bear children. Dr. Hayes made sure the whole town knew three years ago when Donald broke off their engagement. A wife who can’t give an heir? Vincent Vance is a king in this valley. He needs a high-society pedigree, not a baker with butter stains on her apron.”
Claire gripped the edge of the wooden counter until her knuckles turned white.
*Draft horse. Barren. Unwanted.*
Every word hit familiar, bruised ground. Three years ago, her fiancé had walked away the moment her diagnosis of severe uterine scarring was confirmed. He had told her bluntly: *A woman who can’t give me a bloodline isn't a woman I can marry.* Since then, Greyhaven had treated her like damaged goods—useful for fresh cinnamon buns at dawn, but entirely invisible when marriage season rolled around.
She wasn’t thin like the mayor’s daughter, Victoria Sterling. Claire had wide hips, thick thighs, full breasts, and soft curves that she couldn't starve away no matter how hard she worked.
She glanced down at the notice Vincent had left in her hand.
*Seeking a wife. Must be practical, patient and willing to work.*
Claire took a deep breath of the cold air drifting through the doorway. Her pride urged her to tear the slip of paper into confetti and throw it into the trash. She wasn't an applicant. She wasn't desperate for a wealthy recluse’s gold.
Yet, as she remembered little Ben’s silent, hollow eyes—the shadow of grief on a child’s face—something stubborn and fierce ignited beneath her ribs.
May you like
“Sunday at ten,” Claire whispered to herself, smoothing the paper flat against the wood. “Fine, Mr. Vance. Let’s see what you’re really looking for.”
***
