Claire Ashford lingered outside the grand entrance of Ashford Medical Center, hesitating before stepping into the ballroom.

Tonight was the hospital's annual charity gala. By right, she should have been among the first to arrive. She was the daughter of the Ashford Family, the nominal heiress to the entire institution. Yet ever since her father died, the board took every chance at gatherings like this to remind her of her place: she bore an illustrious name, but held none of the power that came with it.

Still, attendance was not optional. Aunt Veronica had called her first thing that morning to make sure of it.

"Claire, the senior board members will all be there tonight. You had better act respectable," Veronica's voice had clipped through the receiver. "Don't show up in another one of those cheap dresses, and don't bring up your parents' car crash to anyone. That happened ten years ago. It's over."

At that moment, Claire had been breaking down cardboard boxes behind a convenience store, her palms coated in gray dust.

"I understand."

"And remember whose roof you're living under. Whether those Ashford shares belong to you isn't up to you alone."

That remark had left Claire silent for a long time.

She and Julian had lived with the Cross Family for a decade now. After the crash claimed her parents and her older brother Adrian, Claire had remained in a coma for two weeks. When she finally opened her eyes, all she could remember were blinding headlights and the sickening crunch of shattering glass. The doctors diagnosed partial amnesia, and Aunt Veronica promptly took her and Julian into her home.

On paper, Veronica was their sole guardian. But as Claire grew older, she realized the hospital shares her father had left behind had been quietly managed—and controlled—by Veronica all along. The monthly allowance she and Julian received barely amounted to the price tag on one of the gowns the Crosses wore.

She had no wealth of her own, and no elder in her corner to speak for her. If she failed to show up tonight, the board would seize the excuse to declare her unfit to oversee the hospital.

So she came.

Claire looked down at her attire. It was a simple, understated black dress bought with wages saved from part-time shifts. The fabric was decent enough, but surrounded by the shimmering couture filling the hall, it stood out for all the wrong reasons.

Lifting her chin, she walked into the ballroom.

Warm golden light cascaded from crystal chandeliers above, illuminating long tables draped in white roses as the clinking of champagne flutes rose and fell across the floor. Within just a few steps, people began to recognize her.

"Isn't that Claire Ashford?"

"The Cross family took her in after her parents died, didn't they?"

"I heard she still holds twenty percent of Ashford Medical Center."

"What good does that do? She's lived off Cross charity for years."

Claire was numb to the whispers. She squared her shoulders and offered a polite smile to an approaching board member.

"Good evening, Mr. Harrison."

"Claire, you made it." The older man looked her up and down, his eyes lingering for a beat on her plain dress. "How have you been lately?"

"I'm doing well, thank you for asking."

"Living on your own isn't easy. A young woman should learn to lean on family more."

"I can take care of myself."

Mr. Harrison offered an ambiguous smile and let the conversation trail off.

Claire knew what he really wanted to ask wasn't how she was doing, but whether she would accept the board's proposal to redistribute her shares.

She picked up a drink from a passing tray and turned to step away, but a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Claire."

She froze.

Ethan Blackwell stood there in a tailored charcoal suit, his arm resting protectively around the waist of a woman beside him. The woman looked frail and pale, dressed in soft powder blue, a small pill case clasped in her hand.

It was Celeste Vale.

Four years ago, Celeste had abruptly left town, and it had taken Ethan a long, agonizing time to pull himself out of that heartbreak. Claire had been the one by his side through every step of it. She had waited outside hospital wards with him late into the night, helped him move into his new apartment, and stood with him against the pressure of the Blackwell Family.

She had honestly believed she meant something to him.

Yet now that Celeste was back, Ethan's eyes barely left her face.

"Why are you here?" Ethan asked.

"Aunt Veronica reminded me to attend."

"I was going to pick you up, but Celeste started feeling unwell this afternoon," Ethan explained in a low voice. "She just got back from abroad and her health is still fragile."

Celeste let out a delicate cough, as if conscious of intruding.

"Claire, please don't be upset. Ethan is just worried about me."

"I'm not upset."

Claire answered without hesitation, terrified that even a second's delay would betray what she felt.

Ethan seemed to relax slightly. He turned to Celeste and said softly, "Go sit over there for a moment. Let me talk to Claire."

Celeste caught his sleeve instead.

"No, it's fine. I can stay with you."

"You look exhausted."

"Just a little tired, that's all."

Ethan frowned immediately, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder. The gesture was painfully familiar. Whenever Claire used to run a fever, he had shown her that exact same concern. Seeing that tenderness redirected toward someone else, Claire realized she could no longer talk herself into brushing it off.

Claire looked at the two of them and said quietly, "Don't worry about me. I'm going to greet a few board members."

Ethan caught her wrist.

"Claire, are you mad at me?"

Even now, he treated her reaction like a childish tantrum—believing that with a few soothing words, she would soften and fall right back into his arms.

Claire looked down at his grip on her wrist.

"You brought your ex to a gala as your date. Am I supposed to be thrilled?"

Ethan's expression stiffened.

Celeste spoke up at once. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you disliked me this much. I only asked Ethan to accompany me because I wasn't feeling well."

"You don't need to apologize," Ethan said, stepping slightly in front of her. "Claire didn't mean it that way."

"Then how did I mean it?"

Claire looked directly at him.

Ethan parted his lips, but no words came out.

He couldn't explain it because he didn't know what to say. He wanted Claire to accommodate Celeste, yet he didn't want Claire to press him on it. He wanted both women in his orbit, refusing to admit to himself how selfish that truly was.

Right then, Claire's phone buzzed in her palm.

An unknown number had sent her a video file.

There was no title, only a string of corrupted characters.

The clip was short—barely fifteen seconds.

Through the grainy night footage, a black sedan sat parked by the roadside at a crash scene. The car had no license plate, but an emblem faded by rain was visible on the driver's door: an older version of the Blackwell Family crest.

The angle shifted. A dark silhouette stood beside the overturned Ashford car. The figure's face was cropped out of the frame, showing only the lower hem of an overcoat.

Just before the video cut out, a raspy, distorted voice spoke:

"Don't believe the accident report."

Claire's fingertips went cold.

Ten years ago, everyone had told her it was a tragic accident. They said her father had fallen asleep at the wheel and lost control, crashing into the guardrail. Her brother Adrian had died instantly. Her mother Margaret had not survived emergency surgery. Only Claire and Julian had made it out alive.

Yet she had never once laid eyes on the full accident report.

When she woke from her coma, Veronica told her the files were in the hands of the police. Her father's attorney said she was too young to be burdened with the details. Whenever she asked about it later, everyone urged her to let the past go.

Now, this video showed there had been another witness at the scene.

Claire tapped to replay it, but the screen instantly went black. When she hit the back button, the file locked itself, displaying a single prompt: File expired.

"What's wrong?"

Ethan's voice cut in from beside her.

Claire immediately locked her screen.

"Nothing."

The response was purely instinctual. She didn't want to tell Ethan—not when he was tied so closely to the Blackwell Family. A slip of the tongue could be disastrous, and without knowing if the footage was real, bringing it up was too risky.

Ethan looked at the sudden lack of color in her face.

"Are you thinking about the crash again?"

"No. Just spam."

"Claire, don't let some random message rattle you," Ethan murmured, keeping his voice down. "The police closed that investigation years ago."

"Have you ever read the full report?"

Ethan paused, caught off guard.

"Of course I know it was an accident."

"I asked if you've ever seen the full report."

He offered no answer.

Claire realized with sudden clarity that Ethan's certainty was no different from her own—it was just a story told to him by others.

Not far away, Dorian Blackwell stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows.

As Ethan's adoptive father and the true patriarch of the Blackwell Family, he rarely bothered with events like this. He had only shown up tonight to oversee the family's hospital donation agreement. He had little patience for shallow social pretenses, and even less for anyone attempting to test his boundaries.

Yet the look on Claire's face when she checked her phone had caught his attention.

It wasn't the look of a jealous lover, nor the slighted pout of someone abandoned for an ex.

It was the look of someone who had just realized their entire life was built on a lie.

Dorian glanced back at Tristan. "Find out what she just received."

Tristan followed his gaze across the room.

"Claire Ashford?"

"Was I unclear?"

"Understood."

Dorian offered no further explanation. He simply watched Claire force herself to stay composed, set her drink down on a table, and head alone toward the side exit.

Across the room, Celeste's gaze followed Claire as well.

She wasn't actually sick. The pill case held nothing more than regular vitamins; her real medical records were safely locked in her car. Bringing Ethan along tonight was supposed to establish her as the fragile one who needed his care. But whatever Claire had on that phone threatened to tear that facade apart.

Turning slightly to avoid Ethan's line of sight, Celeste sent a quick text to Brielle.

"She got it. We need to find out what she saw."

Brielle's reply came almost immediately: "If she actually digs into that crash, Aunt Veronica won't let her off easy."

Celeste stared at the screen, her lips tightening into a thin line.

She didn't care what Veronica did to Claire. All she cared about was whether Ethan would turn his attention back to her.

Seconds later, Claire's phone lit up again.

A second message arrived from the unknown number:

If you want to know who was behind it, come alone to the backyard pool.

Claire stood by the glass door, staring out into the pitch-black garden.

She knew it could easily be a trap.

Yet she knew even better that if she walked away from this lead, the truth behind her family's deaths might stay buried forever.

Tightening her grip on her phone, she pushed open the door and stepped out into the dark.

Hunger For Me, Daddy’s Obedient Girl — Chapter 6: Too Late for Amends

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