Chapter 3 Cautious Heart

Lena followed Damien down the long, quiet hallway, her footsteps nearly silent against the polished marble floors. The house was eerily still, as if it was void of warmth, and the deeper they walked into it's vastness, the more she felt the weight of something unspoken pressing down on her.

The air was too thick, the silence pressing. He was still watching her, eyes narrowing, trying to place her.

The silence was palpable, she had to say something. Act normal. She thought

"This is a beautiful home," she said, aiming for polite conversation.

Damien, without turning. "It's a house."

She blinked. "What?"

"It's a house, Miss Carter. A structure of walls, floors, and ceilings." he said, as though she couldn't notice that for herself.

Lena hesitated. He didn't call it a home. She thought to herself.

Before she could respond, Damien pushed open a set of double doors, revealing a spacious room filled with bright lights at the end of the hallway.

She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus. This wasn't about him. It was about Ethan. Lena had already seen glimpses of the man he had become, but what about his son?

At the end of the hallway, Damien Lena's breath caught.

The playroom was designed with every possible luxury a child could want. Towering bookshelves lined the far wall, stuffed with colorful covers and neatly arranged collections. A thick, plush rug sprawled across the floor, cushioning a small vintage wooden train set and an untouched puzzle. Against the large bay window sat a cushioned bench, and curled up in the corner of it, half-hidden by the folds of the curtain, was a small boy with a book open in his lap, though his eyes weren't on the pages. Instead, they were on her.

Ethan Hale. Her chest tightened at the sight of him.

Even without Damien's cold warning earlier, she would have known something was off. The child before her wasn't like most typical five-year-olds. He wasn't playing, wasn't making a mess, wasn't filled with that uncontainable energy children usually carried. Instead, he was silent, still and watching

He had the same dark brown hair as his father, slightly tousled, but his face was softer, rounder-still clinging to childhood in a way Damien's sharp features had long since abandoned. But his eyes...

"Ethan," Damien called, his voice measured, "this is Lena. She's going to be staying here from now on." Ethan didn't blink.

"Say hello," Damien said.

The silence stretched.

Lena felt something stir inside her.

Ethan's eyes were different. Not just because they were blue-clear and striking, in contrast to his father's amber gaze-but because they held something else. A quietness that he alone understood. Like he had already learned, at five years old, how to shut out the world. Lena swallowed and stepped forward slowly, not to startle him.

"Hi, Ethan," she said gently. "I'm Lena."

No response. She had expected shyness, maybe wariness, but the boy didn't fidget or look away. He just stared at her, expression blank, like he was studying her as much as she was studying him. Lena glanced at the book in his lap-"Where the Wild Things Are".

"You like that one?" she asked, keeping her voice light. "Max is a little troublemaker, huh?"

Still, nothing. She glanced at Damien, who stood a few feet behind her, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

"He doesn't talk much," he said.

Lena frowned. "Much?"

"At all."

She turned back to Ethan. "He doesn't speak?"

"He's selective," Damien corrected. "He hasn't spoken to anyone outside of a few people in years."

Lena's stomach twisted. Years?

"Does he have a favorite book?" she asked.

Damien blinked, as if the question hadn't occurred to him.

"I don't know," he said flatly.

Lena stared at him. Something cold swept through her, the weight of realization settling deep in her chest. Damien didn't know, not because he wasn't paying attention-but because he had never bothered to find out.

For the first time, the distance between father and son became brutally clear.

She crouched down, leveling herself with Ethan, but kept a respectful distance. "That's okay," she said softly. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to."

She thought back to all the children she had worked with before-kids who had been shy, scared, timid, or hesitant to trust new people. Some needed warmth, some patience, and some space.

Damien seemed unimpressed.

"This is pointless," he muttered, stepping forward. "If he doesn't want to talk, he won't."

His tone was sharp, almost detached, and something about it unsettled Lena. She looked up at him, frowning. "Do you always talk about him like he isn't here?"

His amber eyes flickered, but his expression didn't change. "I talk about him the way I see him."

What?

Lena looked back at Ethan, watching the boy's small fingers tighten on the edge of the book. He didn't flinch at his father's words, didn't react outwardly, but there was something about the way his shoulders tensed-like he was used to hearing those kinds of remarks. He wasn't just quiet. He was... cautious. A boy that young, it made Lena's chest ache.

She softened her voice even more. "Max was a little lonely, don't you think?"

A flicker. barely there, but Lena saw it, the way Ethan's eyes shifted, the smallest change in his expression.

She didn't push further. Instead, she smiled. "I'll let you read, but I'd love to hear what you think about the book later."

Lena straightened and turned back to Damien, who was still watching her.

"You think you can get through to him?" he asked, voice low, skeptical.

Lena met his eyes, unflinching. "I think he's just cautious. He'll warm up when he's ready."

Damien tightened his jaw, for a moment, she thought he might argue, but instead, he exhaled and turned toward the door. "You'll be on a schedule," he said, walking away. "The house keeper will give you the details. Make sure you follow it."

Lena watched him leave, her mind whirling.

Then, slowly, she turned back to Ethan, who was still watching her, his fingers curled around the book.

He didn't trust her. not yet at least, but maybe-just maybe-the smallest flicker of curiosity.