Page 42 of Anchor
Heather’s eyes flashed, quick and sharp. “Everything is the point of the campaign. Everything is image. And after the gala?—”
“That wasn’t my mistake,” Claire cut in before she could stop herself. “That was yours.”
The silence stretched. Heather’s breath came in a controlled exhale, measured, like a woman refusing to be rattled. But Claire saw the flash. The hairline crack. And standing here, in the false quiet of the museum, it felt sharper than ever before.
Behind her, just at the edge of her peripheral vision, Reid still stood steady. He was close enough she could feel his presence like a shadow on her back. He wasn’t coming. Not yet. But if Heather’s grip tightened again, if her tone cut too deep, Claire knew he would.
Heather leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper only her daughter could hear. “Don’t confuse their attention for independence. You’re still my daughter. And tonight, you’ll act like it.”
Claire met her stare. “Then you should have chosen a daughter you could control.”
Heather’s smile never returned. The mask she’d worn for the crowd was gone now, replaced with something sharper, honed. “You think one exhibition, one lecture series, one little moment at a gala makes you untouchable?”
Claire didn’t flinch. “No. I think it makes me seen.”
Her mother’s jaw flexed, just once. “Seen isn’t safe. Seen is vulnerable. You’re not built for this, Claire. You never were. And yet you insist on putting yourself in places where the wrong eyes will notice.”
“The wrong eyes already have.” Claire leaned in just enough that Heather could hear it. “You left me standing in that ballroom when the wrong eyes were already on me. Don’t pretend you’re worried about my safety. What you’re worried about is your image.”
Heather’s breath caught. She took a fractional pause, almost invisible, but Claire caught it. “You’ll come with me after this. Smile when you’re supposed to smile. Stand where I put you. And you will not…” her gaze sharpened, “speak to anyone about things you don’t understand.”
Claire’s throat burned, but her voice stayed steady. “I understand more than you think.”
Heather’s hand lifted as if to touch her cheek, a practiced maternal gesture, but stopped just shy, leaving the air between them taut. “You don’t want to pick this fight with me.”
Claire let the silence stand. She refused to back down.
It was Heather who broke it, smoothing the line of her jacket with one sweep. The polished senator’s face slid back into place, expression composed, voice sugar again. “Now. Let’s go show them what a united family looks like.” She turned, already stepping back toward the crowd.
Claire didn’t move right away. She let the space breathe, let the distance open, her pulse beating hard against her ribs. When she did finally turn, her gaze flicked instinctively to Reid. He hadn’t moved, but his eyes were locked on hers, seeing all of it, without asking and without pressing.
And that was enough to steady her spine as she stepped back into the current of the evening.
The museum atrium hummed with curated energy—glass walls catching the low amber lights, polished floors scattering sound. Faculty clustered near the podium, each one wearing the patient smile of academia doing its duty for donors. Guests drifted among the glass cases and mounted displays as the opening strains of a string quartet threaded softly beneath the noise.
Claire fell into the current, her name called warmly by colleagues she knew, then smoothed out by introductions from those she didn’t. Handshakes, the brush of cheeks, academic small talk. She answered automatically—yes, the exhibit had been two years in the making; yes, the student contributors had exceeded every expectation. Words rose from her lips as if rehearsed, and maybe they were. But underneath, she felt that faint anchor still, the phantom press of Reid’s fingers against hers.
He stayed close, just inside her line of vision no matter where she turned—shoulders squared in his tux, expression impassive to anyone else, but always alert. He played his role perfectly: the attentive security presence who could be mistaken for a polite guest.
Then the first corner closed in. A donor with too-white teeth and a too-heavy watch caught her sleeve lightly, pulling her into a story about endowment expansions and alumni dinners. Claire smiled through it, nodding at the right points, while the air inher chest thinned. Reid shifted a step closer, enough that, when she had the space to break free, she excused herself.
The faculty chair called for attention at the podium, notes in hand. A smattering of applause signaled the evening’s program had begun. Claire stood at the edge of her colleagues, shoulders lifted, her mother’s voice still a ghost in her ear—stand beside me where you belong.
Heather was only a few feet away now, radiant for the cameras, playing the appearance game. Claire felt the cut of it, the way her mother could wield presence. And beneath it all, the truth thrummed. Claire wasn’t here because of Heather. She was here because she belonged to this work, this department, this life she had carved out on her own.
But it was only a matter of time. Heather would make her move again.
And when she did, Claire wasn’t sure if it would be on the record or behind the glass, where no one else could see.
Claire kept to the edges, engaging when spoken to, Reid close but unobtrusive at her side.
Then Heather’s hand found her elbow. “Come.” The smile wasn’t for her but for the crowd. “We’ll do this together.”
Before Claire could object, she was already being drawn forward, guided toward the small podium set up beneath the exhibit’s banner:Language and Power: Beyond Words.
Heather leaned in, whisper-soft but sharp. “Smile. Stand beside me. Don’t improvise.”
Flashbulbs clicked as they mounted the steps. The curator gestured Heather forward, but Heather gestured instead to Claire, showcasing her like a polished ornament. “My daughter,” she announced warmly to the room, “Professor Claire Bowman. She’s the heart of this work.”
