Chapter 4: The Performance Review

Chapter 4: The Performance Review

The first thing Renée saw when she woke up was the single, damning line.

It lay on the cold black marble of the vanity, a slim white stick of plastic and failure. She had crept out of bed before dawn, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, driven by a sliver of desperate hope. Hope that this month, her body might have finally complied. That this month, the ritual might have yielded its intended result.

One stark, unforgiving line. Negative.

The word echoed the chilling finality of Alan’s phone call from Saturday. Her performance. This little stick was her report card, and she had failed. Again.

She swept it into the waste bin, the clatter unnervingly loud in the morning silence. As she stared at her reflection in the vast mirror, she didn’t see the elegant woman in the silk chemise Alan had purchased. She saw the girl from the cramped studio, terrified of failing her family. The stakes were just higher now, the cage more beautiful.

Later that morning, as she was forcing down a piece of toast she didn’t want, Alan entered the breakfast nook. He was already wearing his suit, a shield of impeccable navy wool.

“My sister will be joining us for lunch today,” he announced, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

Renée’s stomach clenched. “Your sister? Eleanor?”

“Yes. She’s in the city for the day.” He sipped his black coffee, his grey eyes fixed on a tablet displaying market data. He didn’t need to say more. Renée knew who Eleanor Sterling was. In the few, brief encounters they’d had since the wedding, Eleanor had made her role perfectly clear. She was the matriarch-in-waiting, the fierce guardian of the Sterling legacy. Alan might be the CEO, but Eleanor oversaw the family interests.

And Renée, she was now painfully aware, was the family’s most crucial, and currently underperforming, interest.

The “performance review” mentioned by his lawyer wasn’t going to be a phone call. It was going to be a luncheon.

At precisely one o’clock, the formal dining room was ready. The long, gleaming mahogany table, which could seat twenty, was set for three. The porcelain was stark white, the cutlery polished silver, the crystal goblets sparkling and empty. It felt less like a dining room and more like an operating theater. On the far wall, the six charcoal sketches of the stormy sea hung in a perfect line. The raw, emotional chaos in them felt like a scream in the oppressive silence of the room. They were a reminder of a brief, foolish hope, now serving as the backdrop for her interrogation.

Eleanor Sterling arrived with the same punctuality as her brother. She was a decade older than Alan, taller, with the same dark hair pulled back in a severe chignon and the same piercing grey eyes, though hers held none of his occasional neutrality. They were chips of ice. Dressed in a sheath dress the color of dried blood, she moved with an unnerving stillness, her presence sucking the warmth from the air.

“Renée,” she said, the name clipped and sterile. Her gaze swept over Renée, a head-to-toe appraisal that missed nothing and approved of less. “You’re looking… well.” The word hung in the air, weighted with unspoken meaning. Well, but not pregnant.

Alan greeted his sister with a stiff, familial kiss on the cheek that involved no actual contact. “Eleanor. Good to see you.”

Lunch was served by silent, efficient staff. A delicate sea bass with a lemon-dill foam. It was food designed to be looked at, not eaten. Renée felt that if she tried to swallow, she would choke.

“I was just reviewing the quarterly reports for the family trust,” Eleanor began, delicately cutting a piece of fish. She looked at Alan, but her words were aimed squarely at Renée. “Everything is performing as expected. Except for our newest acquisition, of course.”

Alan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Eleanor.” A quiet warning.

She ignored him, her icy gaze pinning Renée to her chair. “It’s been nearly a year, Renée. A significant investment of time and resources has been made. The board—the family board—grows concerned when an asset fails to mature.”

Asset. Investment. The words, so clinical and dehumanizing, stripped the last of Renée’s composure. “I am not an asset, Eleanor. I am your brother’s wife.”

A thin, cruel smile touched Eleanor’s lips. “You are a party to a contract, my dear. A very specific contract with a very clear primary objective. Let’s not pretend this is anything it isn’t. We chose you for your… health. Your simplicity. We expected a timely result.”

Renée looked to Alan for support, for any sign that he would defend her. He was staring at his plate, his face a mask of stone. He was a titan in the boardroom, a king in his corporate empire, but before his sister, before the weight of the family legacy, he was silent. Complicit.

She felt a hot surge of defiance. “These things can’t always be scheduled like a board meeting.”

“No?” Eleanor raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Our legal counsel, Mr. Davies, assures me that the contract is quite clear on the expectations and the timeline. He mentioned he spoke with Alan just the other day about it.”

The blow landed exactly as intended. Renée’s blood ran cold. The phone call. This was the follow-up.

Eleanor placed her fork and knife down with a soft click, the sound as final as a gavel’s strike. “I’m sure you understand. The Sterling legacy is paramount. It must be secured. My brother has his duties, and you have yours.” She paused, leaning forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was more menacing than a shout.

“You should review your copy of the agreement. Pay close attention to the clauses regarding non-performance. The Sterling family has always protected its investments. There are… contingencies.”

The threat hung in the air, shimmering and venomous. Contingencies. The word implied a replacement. A disposal. A nullification of her entire existence in this world.

Eleanor dabbed her lips with a napkin, her duty done. The rest of the meal passed in a suffocating silence. When it was over, she stood, smoothing her dress.

“Alan, walk me out. Renée, it was… illuminating.”

Renée watched them leave, two identical figures of cold, controlled power disappearing down the hall. She was left alone at the head of the monstrous table, surrounded by pristine dishes and food that tasted like ash. Her eyes drifted to the sketches on the wall. The storm wasn’t gathering anymore. It was here. It was inside her.

The fear that had been a dull ache was now a sharp, terrifying blade twisting in her gut. She wasn’t just a disappointment; she was a liability. And the contract—the damned contract she had signed to save her family—had clauses in it to erase her.