Chapter 4 Echoes in the Silence

Evelyn

The limousine deposited us back at the Sterling Residence in the dead of night, the silence of the marble foyer more profound than ever after the cacophony of the charity dinner. Alexander offered a curt nod to the waiting Clara before disappearing into the depths of the mansion. I assumed he had an equally opulent "private suite" of his own.

I stood there for a moment, the sapphire gown suddenly feeling heavy, suffocating. The pearls around my neck seemed to constrict my throat. The performance was over, and the exhaustion of maintaining that perfect facade settled deep in my bones.

"Mrs. Sterling, may I assist you?" Clara's voice was soft, breaking my reverie.

"Please, just Evelyn," I repeated, my voice hoarse. "And yes, please. This dress is beautiful, but I'm not used to it."

Clara led me back to my suite, her movements as quiet as a whisper. Once inside, she helped me shed the restrictive gown, replacing it with a silk robe that felt impossibly soft against my skin. While she tidied the discarded clothes, I walked to the window, gazing out at the sleeping city. The dazzling lights of the skyline, once a symbol of opportunity, now felt like a thousand watchful eyes, trapping me.

"Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, Evelyn?" Clara asked, her voice tinged with genuine concern. She had seen through my practiced smile earlier, I was sure of it.

I hesitated. My mind was reeling from Alexander's cold dismissal, from Eleanor Maxwell's cryptic words, and most of all, from the resurrected memory of a childhood friendship. The wooden box lay on the bedside table, a silent witness.

"Clara," I began, turning from the window, "this might sound strange, but... how long have you worked for Mr. Sterling?"

Clara paused, her hands stilling over the folded gown. "Many years, Evelyn. Since before the tower was built, even. I was at his family home."

My heart gave a nervous flutter. "His family home? You mean... when he was a child?"

A subtle shift in Clara's expression. A tightening around her eyes, a faint press of her lips. "Yes, Evelyn. I was there. I watched him grow up."

"And... was there ever a girl, perhaps, who used to visit him? A friend from childhood?" I tried to keep my voice casual, but my breath was shallow. This was it. The moment of truth.

Clara's gaze was direct, unwavering. Too direct. "Mr. Sterling did not have many childhood friends, Evelyn. He was a very private boy. His family was also quite private." She paused, then added, her voice a little too smooth, "Is there a particular reason you ask?"

The subtle evasion was clear. She wasn't denying it outright, but she wasn't confirming it either. She was guarding him, just as Eleanor Maxwell had suggested he guard his "true self." A wall had gone up.

"No, no reason in particular," I lied, my heart sinking. "Just... curious about his past, now that we're married. Old family friends, perhaps."

Clara smiled, a practiced, polite smile that seemed to say, I know you're lying, but I won't press. "Of course. If there's nothing else, Evelyn, I will leave you to rest. Breakfast will be served at eight in the main dining room, or your suite if you prefer."

"The main dining room is fine," I said quickly, anything to escape the suffocating loneliness of this suite.

After Clara left, the silence descended once more, but this time it was heavy with unanswered questions. Clara's reaction confirmed my suspicion. She knew something. Alexander knew something. And they were both deliberately hiding it.

I picked up the wooden box again. It was solid, real. Not a figment of my imagination. The chip on the pedal. The clumsy carving. This was real. And if it was real, then the boy who made it, Al, was Alexander. And if Alexander was Al, then why the pretense? Why the coldness?

I moved to the large, luxurious bed. Sleep felt impossible. My mind raced, trying to piece together fragmented memories from my childhood. The fall. The hospital. The blanks. What had happened? Why did I lose those memories? And why had my family moved away so abruptly after that? The pieces felt tantalizingly close, yet frustratingly out of reach.

I decided then and there. I wouldn't just be Alexander Sterling's contractual wife. I would be Evelyn Hayes, the artist, the one who sought truth and beauty. I would uncover the mystery of Alexander Sterling, of our past, and of why he was so determined to keep it buried. This gilded cage might be my prison, but it would also be my vantage point.

The next morning, I arrived at the main dining room precisely at eight. It was another opulent space, with a long, polished table that could seat twenty, currently set for one. Alexander was already there, seated at the head of the table, engrossed in a financial newspaper. He looked as impeccable and unapproachable as ever, even over breakfast.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sterling," he greeted, not looking up from his paper.

"Good morning, Mr. Sterling," I replied, choosing a seat several paces away from him. A silent statement of the distance between us.

A uniformed server appeared, pouring coffee and placing a plate of fresh fruit and pastries before me. The food was exquisite, but my appetite was nonexistent. I picked at a strawberry, watching Alexander over the rim of my coffee cup. He ate with quiet efficiency, his movements precise. He was a man of habit, of control.

"Your performance last night was satisfactory," he stated, finally lowering his newspaper to reveal his storm-grey eyes. They held no warmth, only a clinical assessment. "The media coverage is precisely what we require. No undue speculation, only the fact of our union."

"I'm glad I could be of service, Mr. Sterling," I said, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

His gaze sharpened. "Do not mistake civility for familiarity, Mrs. Sterling. We have a contract. Adhere to it."

"And if I have questions about the past, Mr. Sterling?" I pushed, my voice calm despite the tremor in my hands beneath the table. "About our past, perhaps?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His eyes, usually so unreadable, flickered with something I couldn't quite decipher. Alarm? Annoyance? "Our past is irrelevant, Mrs. Sterling. Our future, as dictated by the contract, is all that matters."

"Is it?" I challenged, meeting his gaze. "Or is it simply a past you wish to keep irrelevant?"

His fork clattered softly against his plate. He put down his newspaper entirely, his full attention now on me. The air crackled with tension. "I suggest you focus on your present responsibilities, Mrs. Sterling. Curiosity can be... ill-advised." His voice was low, a subtle warning.

"Perhaps," I said, leaning back in my chair, trying to project a confidence I didn't feel. "But sometimes, curiosity is the only way to truly understand one's present."

He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes like steel. Then, a slow, almost predatory smile touched his lips. It sent a shiver down my spine. "Indeed," he said, picking up his newspaper once more, effectively ending the conversation. "But be warned, Mrs. Sterling. Some truths are best left buried."

His words were a gauntlet thrown. A direct challenge. And in that moment, sitting across from him in the cavernous dining room, I knew I had to accept it.

Alexander

The moment Evelyn exited the limousine, that peculiar dread returned. She had handled the media circus better than expected. Poised. Composed. Alarmingly so. Her quiet strength was a variable I hadn't fully accounted for, and it unsettled me.

Back in the sterile silence of the residence, I retreated to my suite, shedding the layers of formality. The scotch helped calm the incessant throbbing behind my eyes, but it did nothing to quiet the questions swirling in my mind.

Clara's report of Evelyn being "disoriented" after being shown her rooms gnawed at me. Had the wooden box truly triggered something? Or was she merely overwhelmed by the opulence? I needed to be certain. Unforeseen variables were unacceptable.

My mind raced through scenarios. If she remembered, what would she do? Demand answers? Expose me? The carefully constructed facade of Alexander Sterling, the man who had risen from nothing, would crumble. The foundation of my empire rested on that buried past.

I called Clara to my suite. She arrived promptly, her expression the usual blend of efficiency and discreet observation.

"Clara," I began, my voice even, "how did Mrs. Sterling react to the suite? Specifically, to the items placed on the bedside table?" I kept my tone neutral, giving away nothing.

Clara's eyes, always so sharp, seemed to flicker. "She seemed to appreciate the selection of books, sir. And she did pick up the small carved box."

"Did she?" I asked, my voice still flat. "And then?"

"She appeared... thoughtful, sir," Clara replied, choosing her words with precision. "A little pale. She said she was simply overwhelmed, but I detected a hint of distress." Clara knew me too well. She knew what I was probing for. It made me both trust and resent her.

"Distress," I repeated. "Did she make any further comments? Any questions about its origin?"

Clara hesitated. "No, sir. Not directly. She inquired about your childhood, generally. If you had many friends. I answered as I always do. Discreetly."

"And what was her reaction to that?" My pulse quickened imperceptibly.

"She seemed to accept it, sir. Though her expression remained... contemplative."

Contemplative. That was dangerous. Contemplation led to questions. Questions led to truths. And the truth, in this case, was a weapon pointed directly at my heart.

"See that the box is removed from her suite, Clara," I instructed, my voice firm, allowing no room for argument. "And ensure no other personal effects from my past are inadvertently placed in her vicinity."

Clara's eyes widened slightly, a rare display of surprise. "Removed, sir? Is there a particular reason?"

"It is a personal item," I stated, my voice cold. "Not for display, nor Mrs. Sterling's curiosity. Ensure it is placed in secure storage. And ensure that no one, under any circumstances, speaks to Mrs. Sterling about my childhood. Or any perceived past connections."

"Understood, Mr. Sterling," Clara said, her voice now perfectly neutral once more, her face a mask. She was the best for a reason. She followed orders, no matter how unusual.

After she left, I walked to my large window, gazing out at the city. The problem was not just Evelyn, but the fragility of memory itself. My memories, once so clear in their agony, had blurred with time, replaced by the relentless pursuit of power. Now, they were resurfacing, triggered by her presence.

The next morning, I went to the main dining room for breakfast. I preferred the structured routine, the implicit control it afforded. Evelyn was already there, seated far down the table, a conscious distance between us. Her sapphire gown from last night had been replaced by something simple, elegant, yet understated. She was attempting to project her quiet defiance.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sterling," I greeted, keeping my eyes on my financial newspaper. Her presence was a necessity, nothing more.

"Good morning, Mr. Sterling," she replied, her voice firm.

I assessed her. Her posture was straight, her gaze steady when she finally met my eyes. "Your performance last night was satisfactory. The media coverage is precisely what we require. No undue speculation, only the fact of our union."

"I'm glad I could be of service, Mr. Sterling," she said, her voice laced with an unmistakable sarcasm. It hit me like a splash of cold water. She was not as docile as I'd hoped.

My gaze sharpened. "Do not mistake civility for familiarity, Mrs. Sterling. We have a contract. Adhere to it." I needed to establish boundaries immediately.

"And if I have questions about the past, Mr. Sterling?" she pressed, her voice calm, utterly fearless. "About our past, perhaps?"

A jolt shot through me, sharper than any headache. She knew. Or at least, she suspected. The seed of memory, once merely a flicker, had begun to sprout. My jaw tightened. "Our past is irrelevant, Mrs. Sterling. Our future, as dictated by the contract, is all that matters." My voice was a low growl, a warning.

"Is it?" she challenged, meeting my gaze. "Or is it simply a past you wish to keep irrelevant?"

I slammed my newspaper onto the table. The sound echoed in the vast room. She was pushing. Deliberately. And she was right. I wanted it to be irrelevant. More than that, I wanted it buried, forgotten.

"I suggest you focus on your present responsibilities, Mrs. Sterling. Curiosity can be... ill-advised." My words were a veiled threat, a reminder of the power imbalance.

"Perhaps," she said, leaning back in her chair, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "But sometimes, curiosity is the only way to truly understand one's present."

Her words were a direct challenge to my control, to the very foundation of my guarded existence. I stared at her, a profound anger simmering beneath my calm exterior. She didn't believe my facade. She saw through it, or at least, she was trying to. The thought was infuriating. And dangerous.

A slow, chilling smile touched my lips. If she wanted to play this game, I would play. And I would win. "Indeed," I said, picking up my newspaper once more, but my eyes remained on her over the top of the financial page. "But be warned, Mrs. Sterling. Some truths are best left buried."

I watched her for a long moment, observing her subtle reaction. She was shaken, but not deterred. She possessed a steel I hadn't anticipated. It both frustrated and fascinated me.

Later that day, as I was reviewing market projections, a sudden, new thought struck me, cold and sharp. The wooden box. Evelyn's sudden memory. The past I wanted forgotten. There was only one way she could have definitively linked the box to our shared past. Someone else. Someone who knew.

My mind immediately went to the single remaining link to that buried time, the only person outside of myself who remembered everything. My grandfather. He was old, frail, his mind often wandering, but he remembered. He had been the one who'd given me the tools to carve that box, the one who had encouraged my naive childhood friendship with Evie. He lived in the east wing, in his secluded apartments.

Had he, in a moment of lucidity, spoken to her? Had he seen her? He had a habit of wandering the residence when his nurses weren't vigilant.

A cold dread twisted in my gut. If my grandfather had revealed anything, he had inadvertently opened a door I had kept locked for decades. And that meant the carefully constructed walls around my life, around my empire, were not just cracking. They were beginning to collapse. I needed to see him. Now. I needed to know exactly what Evelyn knew. And what I had to do to ensure that the truth remained buried.