---- Chapter 13 No.13 Life in California began to take on a new shape, one that was solid and real. Isolde, in an act of breathtaking generosity, settled everything. The lawyers, the wedding vendors, the agency. She presented Clare with a folder containing the paid invoices and settlement agreements. "It's done," Isolde said, her tone matter-of-fact. "He has no more claims on you. Not financially, not legally." She looked at Clare, her sharp eyes softening. "| should have been there for you sooner, Clare. My fight with your mother... it was foolish pride. | let it keep me from you. That's on me. I'm sorry." The apology, so sincere and unprompted, healed a wound in Clare she hadn't realized was still bleeding. It was the validation she had craved from her own mother her entire life. "Thank you," Clare whispered, her throat tight. She spent her days in the art studio. The 'ugly little pots' became less ugly. Her hands, though scarred, grew stronger and more confident on the wheel. She found a rhythm, a purpose. She wasn't a hand model anymore. She was a creator. A potter. She was building a new world, a small, self-contained universe ---- where she was in control. One evening, she worked late, losing track of time. She packed up her things, her body aching with exhaustion. As she stepped out of the studio into the dark, deserted parking lot, a wave of dizziness washed over her. She hadn't eaten since lunch. Her blood sugar plummeted. She leaned against the wall, her vision tunneling. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Acar pulled into the lot, its headlights sweeping across her. It was Ben. He was out of the car in an instant, his face etched with concern. "Clare? Are you okay?" He put a steadying hand on her arm. "I'm fine," she mumbled, though she was clearly not. "Just... a little lightheaded." "You're white as a sheet," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "When was the last time you ate?" She couldn't remember. He guided her to his car, settling her in the passenger seat. "Stay here." He disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a bottle of orange juice and a candy bar from a nearby vending ---- machine. "Here," he said, handing them to her. "Eat. Drink." She did as she was told, the sugar hitting her system with a welcome jolt. The dizziness began to subside. "Thank you," she said, her voice shaky. "What are you even doing here?" "Isolde was worried," he said. "You weren't answering your phone. She sent me to check on you." He smiled, a small, self -deprecating quirk of his lips. "| seem to be making a habit of rescuing you." "I need to stop making a habit of needing to be rescued," she said, a hint of her old self-doubt creeping in. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but firm, turning to face her. "There is nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. That's what friends are for. That's what family is for." He didn't touch her, but his presence was a warmth that enveloped her. In the quiet darkness of the parking lot, she felt a flicker of something new. Something that wasn't about survival or desperation. Something quiet, and steady, and safe. Something that felt like hope.