This Crazy Rich Boy

Has anyone died from walking in the rain? Claire has no idea. But since Gabriel told her she's free to take the rest of the day off, and she thinks maybe she could give the chauffeur some "me time" too and not call him up, she has decided to just take the sidewalk. Revel in the overcast weather. This midday rainstorm is rare, especially in these months, and it brings with it so much melancholy. Perhaps walking all the way to the Residence will help clear her head.

That's what she has been telling herself. But the truth is, she has been on the verge of tears even while the elevator descends. She's confused, really. Why does she feel this way, anyway? It's not like Gabriel had told her to disappear from his life. Other "employees" would be happy to get a precious half-day. So why does she feel like when Gabriel told her to take the rest of the day off, it sounded like a death sentence.

The rain has faded into a drizzle, but as Claire didn't use an umbrella, she's soaked. People stare at her like an oddity. "Is she crazy?" she overheard one. "Are they filming a movie here? Is this a drama scene?" muttered another. "Is she a goddess?" she thought she'd heard one say, too, but maybe it's just the voice in her head.

She passes by the Starbucks where she used to get his coffee. For a split-second, Claire thinks of entering it and see of Brad is there. She stands by the threshold for a minute, undecided. Then she walks on—Gabriel, again. All these things. All these memories. Has she turned into a drama queen?

Back in college, or high school even, Claire Monteverde was the Ice Queen, because she defended her lack of a lovelife as her own decision. "I'm too busy for boys," she'd say. "I'm just focusing now on completing my studies," she'd say. But the truth was, she had been longing for someone who could be with her, to share those nights when she'd been cramming for an important exam or writing a thesis paper. But she intimidated all the boys, and the few that managed to actually date her and get the dubious privilege of being called her "official boyfriend" were social misfits, anyway, the dates awkward and insufferable, leaving her more scarred than hopeful. Long story short, no one has "popped her cherry," as the slang goes. Worse, Claire didn't really "grow up" in an emotional sense; despite her striking beauty and intellect, she's just a little girl, waiting for someone to love. And she's naïve to the core, never realizing that accepting Gabriel's job offer of posing as his fake fiancée would change her, trap her in a vicious cycle of hope and despair, love and melancholy.

All these thoughts run through Claire's head now, and she feels like drowning. She looks up at the sky, and the gray clouds offered little reprieve.

"You're quite early, Ma'am," Dale greets her as she walks absent-mindedly into the Residence's lobby. "And you're wet! Did you have an accident? You could get sick!"

"Then that's good because I want to die," she mutters, but a voice in her head simultaneously berates her with, "Don't be a goddamn fool, woman."

Dale laughs awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to that. "Let me ȧssist you to your suite, Ma'am. You need fresh, dry towels and maybe a soak in warm water."

"What I need is love," Claire slurs, as though she's drunk even when she's not. "The kind of love that won't tell me to take the rest of the day off just because his ex-fiancée paid him a visit!"

"I, uhh," Dale stammers, "I'm not sure about… Are you okay, Ma'am?"

"I'm okay, of course, I'm okay," she says. "I'm just…" Then she remembers the lyrics of a song she'd overheard on her way here. "…Dying inside…to hold you…" she says in sing-song.

Now Dale is panicking. He's thinking maybe he should call up the big boss, Gabriel Tan, and report this strange behavior. Because you don't come in soaking wet, if you're still normal, right?

"Please wait for me here, Ma'am, I'll just call up someone at the reception desk. Will be gone for a sec," Dale begins to say.

But Claire grabs his hand. "You're going nowhere," she says. "Bring me to my lair, pronto!"

Dale gazes at her and wonders if Miss Claire Monteverde's under some kind of spell or something. Maybe some bad juju. But instead of repeating his question, he decides to go along with it. Maybe he'll try to call up Mr. Tan once Miss Claire's safely tucked away in her penthouse suite. "It will be my pŀėȧsurė, Miss Claire."

Once inside the suite, Claire's demeanor suddenly changes. As though she remembers who she is, where she is. "Thank you, Dale," she says calmly. "You can leave me now."

"But Miss Claire," Dale protests. "You don't seem—"

"I'm fine, Dale," she says. "I'm better than fine. I'm super fine. I'm supercalifragilisticexpialidocious fine."

Yeah, right, Dale thinks. You say something like that, then you're the opposite of being fine. But he plays along, promising himself to call up Mr. Tan once he's out of her hair. "Alrighty, Miss Claire. Just press zero for ȧssistance, as always."

Dale is supposed to say the rest of his concierge spiel but Claire has already shut the door to his face.

Standing in the middle of the living room, Claire quietly takes off her blonde wig. She looks at it, as though it's the first time she's seeing it. Then she tosses it over to a corner. She walks toward her favorite place in the suite, the gorgeous Jacuzzi bathroom, the one with breathtaking views of the city below. She climbs into the Jacuzzi and sits in the middle of it, still with her wet dress on. She turns on the water, gazing wistfully at the city's gray, rain-soaked skyline.

Meanwhile, Dale's on the phone as soon as he reaches the receptionist desk. But Gabriel wouldn't seem to pick up. "That's odd," he mutters to himself. "He said to call this direct line for anything that concerns Miss Claire." He makes a few more tries, then gives up. He then tries to call up Miss Cassandra, but his office phone on the second level of the Residence just rings and rings; Dale doesn't remember if she had gone out.

"This must be a bad day for things concerning Miss Claire," he thinks. Something really must have happened. He makes mental note of visiting Claire and asking how she's doing later, before dinner time.

At around 6 PM, just as when Dale's about to go up the elevator to check on her, he hears a cheerful voice coming from the lobby. He cancels the lift and retraces his steps back to the reception area.

"Oh, hey," Miguel says cheerfully, looking every bit like the man-god from wherever they produce gorgeous rich men. "Is Claire here yet?"

Dale hesitates. If he answers yes, he might inadvertently be allowing an intrusion into Miss Claire's privacy at a time when she probably needs to be alone the most. But then again, this is Miguel Tan, not just any other visitor. And maybe he will do, in the absence of his brother. Maybe Miguel could help decode the funk in which Claire seems to be in.

"Miss Claire's in her penthouse suite," Dale says. "Probably sleeping. But I can check her availability for you."

"Sure," Miguel says. "Please tell her if she'd like to join me at the lounge. There's something important I must tell her."

Dale's eyebrows very slightly arc at that. Since when did Gabriel Tan's newcomer brother has been appointed to be the bearer of "important" news? But then again, Dale tries to remind himself, this is Miguel Tan. It would be foolish to be on Miguel's bad side. So Dale, flashing his best smile, just says, "I'll do my very best."