“Be my nephew’s caregiver. Gain his trust. Convince him to sign the transfer papers. Once the wealth is mine, you walk away with five million dollars. Enough to solve all your problems.”

Victor Cain sits across from me, a smirk etched onto his face as though he can see the dollar signs flashing in my wide eyes.

“You understand the terms, Miss Moore?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

I don’t flinch, even though the words sting. He has no idea what my problems are. The debt collectors banging on my door. The eviction notices piling up. The hospital bills that twist my chest into knots whenever I think about them.

Victor doesn’t care about any of that. To him, I’m just a poor soul in need of a quick fix.

Swallowing hard, I ask, “And Alexander doesn’t have a say in this? He doesn’t know his fortune will be transferred to you?”

Victor chuckles. “My nephew has never been good at saying no. Then again, he’s not good at saying anything.”

The reminder of Alexander’s disabilities twists something deep in my chest. I’ve seen his photos. Sharp cheekbones, icy blue eyes, and a perpetual scowl. He’s handsome in a tortured, untouchable way. But the wheelchair and the silence paint a picture of someone trapped.

“Why me?” I ask. “You could hire anyone.”

Victor’s smirk grows colder. “Because you’re desperate. And desperate people are obedient. Don’t worry, dear. You won’t have to handle most of the caregiver work. Mario does that. But you need to be with him, as if you’re his shadow.”

The word desperate stings, but I clench my fists under the table, keeping my face calm. He’s right, and that’s what makes this nauseating. I hate the way he looks at me, like he already owns me, but I can’t deny his offer is a lifeline. Five million dollars isn’t just a solution. It’s my second chance.

Victor adjusts his cufflinks. “So, do we have a deal, Miss Moore, or shall I find someone else for this opportunity of a lifetime?”

I stare at him. Five million dollars can save my mother’s life and pull me out of the pit I’m drowning in.

“I need the money upfront,” I say.

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Half now, half when you get the signature. That’s the best you’ll get.”

I nod slowly, signing the papers he slides toward me. The pen feels heavy in my hand, and as I seal the deal, a chill runs through me, as though I’ve just sold my soul. Well, I literally have. But for my mother, I'll do anything.

“Good girl,” Victor murmurs, nodding as he reviews the documents.

I say nothing, clutching the check he hands me as I leave his extravagant office.

---

Two weeks later, I find myself standing in the Cain mansion, meeting Alexander Cain in person. The first thing I notice is his eyes. They are sharp and cold, and they seem to take away all of my masks as soon as I enter his world. He sits in his wheelchair near a towering window where the sunlight frames him like a sad painting. His expression is blank, but his posture is tense, as though he’s ready to battle despite being seated.

Victor warns me this won’t be easy, but nothing prepares me for Alexander’s silence.

“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile as I set my suitcase down.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even peer at me. Instead, he turns his chair slightly toward the window, dismissing me with the gesture alone.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I try again. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Alexander.”

Nothing. Not a flinch.

“I’m Eliza. Your caregiver.” My voice fluctuates slightly.

His hands move suddenly, sharp gestures that I can’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” I admit, frowning. “I don’t know sign language.”

A voice cuts through the silence. “He said, ‘Don’t bother.’”

I turn to see Mario, his personal assistant, standing in the doorway. Alexander’s gaze flicks to Mario for a moment before returning to the window.

Mario places a tray on the side table, and he gave me a small smile. “Mr. Cain doesn’t like to be disturbed, especially after therapy sessions. You’ll learn his preferences soon enough.”

With that, Mario leaves, and I’m alone with Alexander again.

I sit down, determined to make this work, even if he refuses to acknowledge me. For a long time, the silence continues between us. His cold gaze rests on me, watching, assessing, but he says nothing.

Finally, he sighs with a sound louder than any words. He spins his chair to face me and scribbles something on a notepad before tossing it in my lap.

The note reads: Go away.

My chest tightens. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say firmly. “I’m here to take care of you. Be your companion and your friend."

His hands shake slightly as he writes another note, this one longer. He tosses it toward me again.

You’re here for the money, just like the others. But I don’t have it. So suffer in the hell you chose.

The words sting more than they should. He doesn’t even know me, yet he’s branded me like everyone else who’s let him down. But I refuse to back down.

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “I’m here for the money. I’m desperate, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. My mother is in the ICU and I need the money to pay for her medical bills."

His eyes narrow, surprised by my honesty, but I press on. “But I’m also here to do my mission. If that means taking your anger and your hate, fine. I'll be your shock absorber and let you unload on me. I get paid for that, don’t I?”

For a moment, his expression falters, and I think I see something beneath the ice. Pain, frustration, maybe even loneliness. But just as quickly, the mask slips back into place. He waves a resigned hand and pivots toward the window again.

I sigh quietly, suppressing the cramp in my throat. This isn’t going to be easy. But I haven’t come all this way to quit.

Getting through to Alexander Cain is like using a spoon to chip away at an iceberg. Every time I try to reach him, he ignores me completely. If Victor thinks this job will be easy, he clearly has no idea just how devoted Alexander is to shutting the world out.

After our first disastrous conversation, or lack of one, I decide to change tactics. If words aren’t working, maybe actions will.

The next morning, I find him in the library. He sits at a large oak table, a book open in front of him, but his eyes aren’t on the page. Instead, he stares out the window, his fingers drumming softly against the armrest of his wheelchair.

"Good morning," I say brightly, stepping into the room.

He doesn’t even turn in my direction. I know he has felt me since, according to Mario, even though Alexander can't hear, he can sense movement. He can read lip movement and body language better than anyone.

I take a deep breath and walk closer, keeping my tone light. "I thought you might like some coffee. I brought it black, just how Mario said you like it."

I place the steaming mug on the table beside him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.

For a moment, I stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Finally, I sit down across from him, mirroring his position. He doesn’t look at me, but I catch the small tightening of his jaw.

"You’re reading The Prince," I say, nodding toward the book in front of him. "Machiavelli. Interesting choice."

His fingers still. Slowly, he turns his head to face me, his icy blue eyes locking onto mine. For a brief moment, I think I’ve gotten through to him. But then he picks up his notepad, scribbles something quickly, and slides it across the table.

Don’t pretend you understand me. You're irritating me.

I flinch at the sharpness of his words but force myself to hold his gaze. "I’m not pretending. I just thought it was an interesting book."

He scoffs silently and reaches for the notepad again.

You thought wrong.

I bite back a sigh, refusing to let him see how much his annoyance is getting to me. "Okay, fair enough," I say, leaning back in my chair. "But I’m not going anywhere, Alexander. So you can either keep trying to push me away, or we can figure out how to coexist."

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think he might actually say, or write, something else. But then he turns his chair steeply, wheeling himself toward the far corner of the library without another word.

My shoulders slump as I watch him leave. This man is impossible.

Determined to make some progress, I spend the afternoon researching sign language while Alexander naps. If Mr. Grumpy isn’t going to meet me halfway, I’ll at least try to understand his world.

Mario helps me find a beginner’s guide in the mansion’s expansive library. I flip through the pages, practicing basic phrases in front of a mirror.

Hello.

How are you?

What do you need?

The movements feel clumsy at first, but the more I practice, the more natural they become. Still, I know this is only the beginning. If I really want to communicate with Alexander, I’ll have to do more than learn a few signs. I’ll have to understand him, his habits, his routines, and his preferences.

That evening, I shadow Mario as he prepares new sets of blankets for Alexander. He’s more than happy to share what he knows about our 'king of hate'.

"He’s a brilliant man. Reads constantly. Watches documentaries late into the night. He’s got a mind like a steel trap. Remembers everything."

"Sounds intimidating," I say with a nervous laugh.

Mario smiles knowingly. "He can be. But he’s not as cold as he seems. He’s just guarded."

I nod, filing away his words for later. If Alexander is as intelligent as Mario says, it’s no wonder he sees through people so easily. But that also means he’ll recognize any attempts at manipulation, which makes my task even harder.

The next morning, I decide to test out my improved sign language skills. I find Alexander in the garden, sitting beneath a sprawling oak tree. He has a sketchbook on his lap, but he isn’t drawing. Instead, he stares at the blank page with a distant expression.

"Good morning," I say, signing the words as I speak them.

His head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as they focus on my hands.

"I’ve been practicing," I say, signing slowly. "I want to talk to you."

For a moment, he just stares at me. Then, with deliberate slowness, he closes his sketchbook and sets it aside. His hands move fluidly, faster than I can follow.

"I didn’t catch that," I stammer, struggling to keep up.

He sighs, clearly frustrated, and picks up his notepad.

Stop trying so hard. It won’t change anything.

I frown. "I’m not trying to change anything. I just want to understand you."

His pen hovers over the paper for a moment before he writes again.

Why?

The question catches me off guard. Why am I trying so hard? Is it just because of the money?

But then I say, "Because I don’t think you’re as terrible as you want people to believe."

His eyes widen a little, and for a split second, surprise breaks through his cold demeanor. But his walls go back up just as quickly. He tears the page out of his notebook, crumples it, and throws it to the ground. Then he shuts his eyes and wheels himself away.

I can’t stop replaying the day’s events in my head. Alexander’s sharp words, his cutting gaze, the brief moment of vulnerability I thought I’d seen. They all swirl together in my mind.

Why do I care so much about breaking through to him? Is it just guilt over what I’m here to do?

Every day, Alexander blasts away at my spirit with cold glares, sharp notes, and his absolute refusal to meet me halfway. But no matter how hard he pushes, I refuse to give up. If I’m here to solve him, it won’t happen by giving in to his walls.

And the storm really breaks one evening when I accidentally stumble into the core of his world.

It starts innocently enough. I’m walking past his study, the door slightly ajar, when the dim glow of his computer screen catches my attention. I wouldn’t dare intrude, but the sound of a screen reader piques my curiosity. It's a voice narrating text aloud in precise, mechanical tones.

I hover outside for a moment before pushing the door open just a crack. Inside, Alexander sits at his desk, his wheelchair positioned perfectly as his fingers whip over a custom keyboard.

It’s not the typing that grabs my attention. It’s the multiple monitors surrounding him. Each screen displays something different: scrolling lines of code, financial graphs, and a digital blueprint of what looks like an advanced prosthetic limb.

I freeze, suddenly understanding the size of the man in front of me. Victor described him as bitter and reclusive, a man broken by a cruel accident that robbed him of his body, hearing, and voice. But what I see is someone whose mind is sharper than ever, someone who wields intelligence like a weapon.

As if sensing my presence, Alexander stops typing. His head turns slightly, just enough to catch me in his peripheral vision. I know I’ve been caught.

"Sorry," I stammer, stepping fully into the room. "The door was open, and I—"

He moves before I can finish, spinning his wheelchair to face me. His face is cold and unreadable, but his eyes burn with silent fury.

"I didn’t mean to interrupt," I say quickly, holding up my hands as if to ward off his anger.

His hands shoot up in sharp, furious gestures, faster than I can hope to interpret. I catch a few signs: Spy. Leave. Victor. Then he grabs a notepad from his desk.

Do you report back to him every night? Or just when you think you’ve found something worth selling?

My mouth falls open. "What? No!"

He scribbles again, thrusting the notepad toward me.

Don’t lie to me. Everyone lies.

"I’m not lying," I insist, shaking my head so hard it makes me dizzy. "I swear, I’m not here to hurt you."

He scoffs silently.

"Look, I know you don’t trust me. But I’m not here to spy on you, Alexander. I just want to help."

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns back to his desk and begins typing furiously, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

"Are you just going to ignore me?" I ask, stepping a little closer.

His screen reader suddenly reads out loud: Leave the room.

The cold, mechanical voice of the computer feels like a slap. I turn and walk out, closing the door softly behind me.

That night, I can’t sleep.

Alexander’s accusation haunts me.

It’s disturbingly close to the truth, which is what hurts the most. Victor is paying me to be here. The only reason I took this job was to make money, not because I cared about Alexander Cain.

But the longer I stay, the worse it gets.

I think about the way his hands move when he signs, fluid and expressive despite the harshness of his words. I think about the intensity in his eyes, the sharpness of his mind, the pure brilliance that Victor conveniently left out of the job description.

Most of all, I think about the loneliness that sticks to him like a shadow, even when he’s surrounded by luxury.

I want to surround him as well so that he doesn't have to feel that loneliness anymore.

Maybe I can make a difference in his life, even if it wasn't part of the original plan.

When I enter the library the next day, Alexander is already there as his wheelchair positioned by the window. A book rests on his lap, but his gaze is fixed outside.

"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice softer than usual.

He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers tighten slightly around the book.

"I wanted to apologize for last night," I say, stepping closer. "I shouldn’t have intruded."

Still no response.

"I wasn’t spying on you," I continue. "I swear. I just didn’t realize how much you do. How much you’ve accomplished."

That gets his attention. He turns his head, his icy blue eyes narrowing as they meet mine. Slowly, he sets the book aside and reaches for his notepad.

What do you want?

The question is simple, but it carries the weight of every interaction we’ve had since I arrived.

"I want to understand you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I want to help, if you’ll let me."

He doesn’t write anything this time. Instead, he stares at me for a long moment before wheeling himself away without a word.

Determined not to let him shut me out, I spend the rest of the day digging deeper—not into his secrets, but into who he is. I pour over books and articles about sign language, assistive technology, and anything else I think might help me bridge the gap between us.

By the time evening rolls around, I’m exhausted but motivated.

When I find him in the garden, I don’t bring coffee or attempt small talk. Instead, I sit down across from him and sign as clearly as I can: Teach me.

His expression doesn’t change, but I think I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Curiosity, maybe, or amusement.

He hesitates before signing back. Why?

"Because I’m not giving up on you," I say. "No matter how hard you push me away."

For a moment, he just looks at me. Then, without a word, he reaches for his notepad and writes:

You won’t last. But if you insist, let’s see how far you can go.

It’s not exactly encouragement, but it’s a start.

And for now, that’s enough.