Page 41 of Anchor
Claire let her hand trail the edge of the registration table before signing her name on the faculty list while Torch and Spartan hung back with an unobtrusive vigilance. Reid stayed close, tux crisp, his presence grounding her in the swirl of donors and academics.
Heather swept in just behind them, her entourage already positioning her for photos near the museum director. She didn’t look directly at Claire, but their proximity felt like anything but accidental.
Claire smoothed her gown, adjusted the earrings her mother told her not to wear, and squared her shoulders. She felt Reid’s gaze on her, steady and warm.
Inside, the noise was different, more intimate. Conversations hummed beneath the glow of chandeliers, and the polished oak stairwell led to the exhibit space above. Here, in the contained elegance of the museum interior, there would be no slipping away. The confrontation, if it came, would be face to face. And Claire knew her mother well enough to be certain: itwouldcome.
The museum’s main hall shimmered with low light and polished glass, the soundscape shifting from street bustle to the murmur of cultured voices. Claire’s heels clicked softly on marble as she moved with Reid at her side, Torch and Spartan fanning discreetly to the edges.
“Professor Bowman!”
She turned to see Oscar Levinson, dean of her department, hand extended. His suit was ill-fitting, his smile the broad, practiced type of someone who had spent years at donor dinners. “I read your latest draft on cross-structural syntax. Fascinating as always.”
Claire smiled politely. “Thank you, Dean. I appreciate that.”
Another voice cut in before the conversation could settle. “Professor Bowman, lovely to see you here.” Mrs. Amanda Aldrich, one of the board’s wealthiest donors, leaned in close, diamond necklace catching the chandelier’s glow. “Your mother has been praising your work nonstop. Tell me, how does it feel teaching students who’ll one day be shaping the very policies you research?”
The question had a hook in it, half flattery and half bait. Claire gave the smoothest smile she could. “It feels like doing my job,” she said lightly. “And trying not to get in their way while they find their own voices.”
Mrs. Aldrich chuckled, but her eyes drifted past Claire almost immediately, already seeking the next influential ear.
Reid, standing just behind Claire’s shoulder, leaned close enough that only she could hear, “You handled that well.”
Claire angled a look at him. “You think so?”
“Better than I would’ve.” His mouth ticked at one corner. “I don’t have the patience for bait.”
Before she could answer, another cluster of faculty converged, hands out, faces smiling. She let herself go through the motions of polite greetings, nods at compliments, and vague affirmations about the exhibit upstairs. Reid never drifted far, his presence a steady counterweight in the swirl.
But Claire could feel it like a change in the air pressure before a storm. Heather was in the room. Claire didn’t even have to look. She felt the ripple in conversation as her mother’s laughter carried across the hall, poised and precise, drawing eyes like a compass needle.
The faculty drifted off one by one, leaving Claire at the edge of the crowd. She caught Reid’s eye. His gaze was a steady, unblinking, silent reassurance.
And then Heather was there. Not rushing, not even closing the distance at once. She let the room see it first, the slow orbit of inevitability, before turning fully toward her daughter. “Claire.”
One word. Warm to anyone listening. But to Claire, it was a blade wrapped in velvet.
Heather didn’t step straight in. She pivoted first, addressing the faculty who lingered nearby, her smile measured, gracious. “Dean Levinson, always a pleasure. And Mrs. Aldrich, thank you for all you do for the university.”
The shift was seamless. Heather Bowman knew how to bend a circle of attention without appearing to claim it. She laughed at the right cue, touched a donor’s sleeve with practiced warmth, made eye contact just long enough to make people feel chosen.
And the entire time, Claire stood half in that circle, half outside of it, like a prop her mother hadn’t yet decided to display.
Reid hadn’t moved. He was close enough to see every flicker in Claire’s jaw, every shallow breath she pulled in against the walls tightening around her. His gaze swept once over the crowd, marking doors, exits, the slight tilt of Spartan’s head as he caught Torch’s eye from across the hall.
Finally, Heather let her orbit settle, her hand alighting on Claire’s arm with a touch soft enough to look maternal. “Darling,” she said, loud enough for those still hovering, “you must be so proud of tonight’s exhibit. You’ll have to tell me everything.” Her smile widened, perfect for the audience. But her eyes were already telling Claire this wasn’t about art.
Heather’s hand didn’t leave Claire’s arm. With that same flawless smile for the onlookers, she gave a light tug. “Walk with me, darling. Just for a moment. A mother deserves a word with her daughter.”
The words were honey, but the grip was steel. Claire felt the old choreography immediately. Appear compliant. Smile faintly. Pretend this was affection, not control. She let herself be steered.
Reid’s shoulders shifted half a degree, his weight angling forward. He didn’t interfere, but his eyes tracked them as Heather guided Claire away from the donors, weaving effortlessly until the two of them were tucked into a side alcove near the west gallery wall. Close enough that the hum of voices covered them, far enough that the operators held their perimeter without encroaching.
Heather’s smile dropped the second the crowd was no longer watching. She released Claire’s arm like it had never wanted to be there.
“You will not,” she said quietly, “undermine me tonight.”
Claire kept her chin level. “I wasn’t aware your campaign stop was the point of the exhibit.”
