Chapter 5 The Grandfather's Gaze

Evelyn

The weight of Alexander's words, "Some truths are best left buried," lingered in the opulent dining room long after he retreated behind his newspaper. It was a clear warning, a gauntlet thrown. And in that moment, sitting alone at a table set for a multitude, I knew I had to pick it up. My curiosity wasn't just a fleeting impulse; it was a deep, insistent hunger to understand. My fragmented memories, like scattered puzzle pieces, demanded to be reunited.

After breakfast, I decided to explore the residence. This immense palace, my gilded cage, held secrets. And perhaps, clues. Clara had provided a detailed map of the main living areas, but it did not include the sprawling east wing, a section of the house marked strictly "Private." My intuition, however, screamed that answers might lie in the unspoken, in the forbidden.

I wandered through vast drawing rooms filled with priceless antiques, along hushed corridors lined with more original artworks. Each room was a testament to Sterling's wealth, meticulously arranged, yet utterly impersonal. There were no family photographs, no signs of life beyond the pristine surfaces. It was as if Alexander Sterling had erased any personal history from these walls. This only fueled my conviction that there was a history, deliberately hidden.

My suite, though luxurious, felt equally devoid of personal touch. The wooden box, my only tangible link to that elusive past, was gone. I searched the bedside table, the dresser, even the depths of the expansive wardrobe. Nothing. Clara must have removed it after our conversation last night. Alexander's hand, reaching through his staff, controls even the smallest details. His warning about "ill-advised curiosity" had been swiftly followed by action.

The absence of the box intensified my resolve. He knew. He knew, or at least he suspected, how important that box was to me. Why else would he remove it?

I spent the rest of the morning in the grand library, a room that, unlike the others, possessed a faint warmth from the leather-bound books lining the towering shelves. I pulled out old encyclopedias, history books, anything that might have a timeline of the city's prominent families. I searched for the Sterling family, for any mention of a child named Alexander Sterling growing up in this residence, for any events that might correspond with my hazy childhood memories. The fall. The hospital. Our abrupt move. But the Sterling family history, at least in the public domain, seemed remarkably clean, almost airbrushed. A powerful, private dynasty, with no public scandals or tragedies. No mention of a child's serious accident.

Frustration mounted. It was like trying to catch smoke. Every lead felt like a dead end, carefully obscured. Alexander was a master of control, not just over his present, but over his past.

As the afternoon light began to filter through the stained glass windows of the library, I heard soft footsteps approaching. Clara.

"Evelyn," she said gently, "Mr. Sterling has requested your presence in the solarium in fifteen minutes. He wishes to brief you on the upcoming week's schedule."

My heart gave a jolt. A briefing. More rules, more expectations. But also, an opportunity. "Of course," I replied, closing the book I wasn't reading. "Thank you, Clara."

I made my way to the solarium, a breathtaking glass-domed room filled with exotic plants and the scent of damp earth. Sunlight poured in, creating a vibrant, almost tropical atmosphere. Alexander was already there, standing by a large orchid, his back to me. His posture was, as always, impossibly straight, radiating an aura of impenetrable control.

"Mrs. Sterling," he greeted without turning, "is punctual. Good."

He turned, and my breath hitched. His eyes, usually so cold, seemed to hold a flicker of something unreadable, a shadow. He looked... tired. Or perhaps, troubled. It was a fleeting impression, quickly masked by his usual sternness.

"I've outlined your schedule for the coming week," he began, picking up a slim tablet from a nearby table. "There are several charity galas, a few private dinners, and the annual Sterling Corporation shareholders' luncheon. Your attendance is mandatory at all times. You will be expected to dress appropriately, and Clara will assist you."

He scrolled through the schedule, listing the events and their corresponding expectations. I listened, nodding, my mind, however, elsewhere. His unusual demeanor. The brief flicker of something in his eyes.

"And my... personal time?" I ventured, emboldened by my frustration. "Am I permitted any pursuits outside of these obligations?"

He paused, his thumb hovering over the screen. His gaze sharpened. "Your time, Mrs. Sterling, is now largely dictated by the needs of this marriage. There will be limited opportunities for personal pursuits that do not align with our public image. You are, after all, representing the Sterling name."

"But my art," I pressed, unable to suppress the plea in my voice. "It's important to me. It's who I am."

"Who you were," he corrected, his voice flat, devoid of sympathy. "Who you are now is Alexander Sterling's wife. That requires certain... adjustments." His words were a cold, final dismissal of my passion, my identity. They felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

"I see," I whispered, the fight draining from me. This was it. The full weight of the gilded cage. He wasn't just controlling my movements; he was trying to control my very soul.

"Good. If that is all, Mrs. Sterling, you are dismissed." He turned back to the orchid, his back once again a formidable wall.

I left the solarium, feeling utterly defeated. He was impenetrable. My past was gone. My future, rigidly controlled. This wasn't a marriage; it was a carefully orchestrated performance, and I was merely a prop. But as I walked away, a seed of rebellion, small but potent, began to take root in my heart. He might control my actions, but he would never control my mind. And I would find the truth.

Alexander

The headache had not subsided. It was a dull, persistent throb behind my eyes, a physical manifestation of the turmoil within. Evelyn's questions at breakfast, her audacious probing into "our past," had confirmed my worst fears. She suspected. And that meant the wooden box, despite Clara's discreet removal, had done its damage.

There was only one way to know how much she remembered, or how much she had been told. I had to confront my grandfather.

The East Wing was a world apart from the sleek, modern elegance of the main residence. It was a place of muted light, heavy drapes, and the faint, nostalgic scent of old paper and dust. My grandfather's apartments were meticulously maintained, a reflection of his enduring influence, even in his declining years. He was the patriarch, the true architect of the Sterling empire, the one who had seen everything, known everything. And the one who, in his moments of clarity, could still destroy everything.

I found him in his sunlit study, a room filled with leather-bound books and the faint scent of pipe tobacco, even though he hadn't smoked in decades. He was seated in a worn armchair by a large window, gazing out at the sprawling, manicured gardens below. His silver hair was thin, his once sharp features softened by age, but his eyes, though clouded with the mists of time, still held an undeniable spark of the steel that had built this dynasty.

"Grandfather," I said, my voice softer than I used to. He was fragile now, but still capable of unexpected lucidity.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes focusing on me. A faint smile touched his lips. "Alexander. My boy. You're here." His voice was raspy, but clear. A lucid moment. Damn it.

I pulled up a chair opposite him. "Yes, Grandfather. I need to ask you something important."

He nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Always so serious, Alexander. Just like your father. Never learned to truly live, did you?" He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound unlike your mother. She had a laugh that could light up a room. Like a summer day."

I stiffened, pushing down the familiar pang of grief. My mother. Another ghost I tried to keep buried. "Grandfather, I need to know. Have you... have you had any visitors recently? Specifically, Miss Hayes?"

His eyes, momentarily clear, clouded again. He frowned. "Miss Hayes? Who is Miss Hayes, my boy?"

My heart pounded. Was he playing dumb? Or genuinely unaware? "Evelyn. My wife. She moved into the residence yesterday."

A flicker of recognition in his eyes. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ah, the new one. The pretty one. She has kind eyes, Alexander. Like... like Evie."

My blood ran cold. He knew. He had seen her. And he had made the connection.

"Grandfather," I said, my voice tight, "what did you tell her about Evie? About our past?"

He looked at me, a hint of confusion mixed with something else, something wistful, in his gaze. "Past? What past, my boy? Only the future matters, eh? Always looking forward. That's what you always said. 'No looking back, Grandfather. It slows you down." He laughed again, a fragile, unsettling sound. "But you kept the box, didn't you? The one she loved so much. I told her it was a treasure box. She used to put stones and feathers in it. Little pretty things."

He hadn't told her. He had merely observed and, in his wandering state, connected the past to the present. He had seen the resemblance. He hadn't given her details, but he had confirmed a connection. And that was enough. More than enough.

A flash of memory, raw and painful:

The hospital room, sterile and cold. My small hand gripping his strong one. "She's going to be okay, Al," my grandfather had said, his voice unusually soft. "But her head... some of the memories might be a little hazy for a while." I had looked at Evie, lying pale and still in the bed, her forehead bandaged. The guilt had been a crushing weight. My fault. All my fault.

"Grandfather," I said, forcing calm into my voice. "It's important that you don't speak about these things. About my... childhood friends. It's a private matter."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense, my boy. A man's past shapes him. You can't outrun it forever. Not even Alexander Sterling." His eyes, for a terrifying second, were sharp, completely lucid. He saw through my carefully constructed facade.

"She has the box, Grandfather. Or she did," I corrected myself, remembering Clara's actions.

"The box? Good, good. She deserves it. A memory. A link." He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reminded me of the man he once was, before age and illness began to claim him. "She was a good girl, Evie. Bright. Full of life. She made you laugh, Alexander. Something you don't do enough of these days."

His words were a sting. They pierced through my defenses, hitting a raw nerve. Laughing. That was a luxury I hadn't afforded myself in years. Not since...

I stood up abruptly. The conversation was going nowhere. He was both too lucid and too lost, a dangerous combination. He had confirmed Evelyn was Evie, at least in his mind. He hadn't revealed specifics, but he had planted the seed of truth. And that seed was growing.

"I have to go, Grandfather. Important meetings." I forced the words out, my voice strained.

He simply nodded, turning his gaze back to the garden. "Remember, Alexander," he murmured, his voice fading, "some things are meant to be found."

I left the East Wing, my mind a storm of conflicting emotions. My grandfather's words, his knowing gaze, had shaken me to my core. He believed Evelyn was Evie. He was the one who could inadvertently unravel everything. I had to ensure he was more closely monitored. And I had to find out exactly what Evelyn had learned, and what she planned to do with it.

My immediate impulse was to confront Evelyn again, to shut her down. But that would only confirm her suspicions. No. I needed a different approach. A more subtle one. I needed to control the information, to guide her towards a different conclusion, a different truth.

As I walked through the silent corridors of the main residence, a chilling thought took hold. If she truly started to remember, if she saw the boy from her past in the ruthless CEO, her reaction would be unpredictable. And I couldn't afford unpredictability. My empire depended on it. My future. But perhaps, most importantly, my carefully buried heart. The game of hiding the truth had just escalated, and I had to win, no matter the cost.