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.

The garden is my battlefield today.

After weeks of silence, bitter glares, and sword-like notes, I decide to change my strategy.

No more pushing, no more prying. Today, I’ll let Alexander take the lead if he wants to.

When I find him beneath the oak tree, he’s sketching. His hand moves with sharp, deliberate strokes across the paper, and I can’t help but admire the precision. I approach quietly, sitting on the edge of the stone bench across from him.

Instead of speaking, I sign a simple greeting: Hello, Alexander.

His hand pauses mid-stroke. His cool blue eyes flick up to meet mine, narrowing slightly. Then, with exaggerated slowness, he sets his pencil down and crosses his arms.

I take a breath, keeping my hands steady as I sign again. What are you drawing?

He doesn’t answer, not at first. Instead, he picks up his notepad and scribbles furiously.

What do you want this time?

I read the note and meet his glare head-on. He’s testing me, just like always. Fine. Two can play this game.

I set the notepad aside and respond entirely in signs. I want to know you. Your interests. Your thoughts. The real you.

For the first time, there’s no immediate comeback. He watches me. Then, slowly, he lifts the sketchpad, angling it so I can see.

It’s a drawing of the mansion’s garden, but it’s not just a replica. There’s something alive in the way he’s captured the light filtering through the leaves, the delicate details of the flowers.

It’s beautiful, I sign.

His lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. He sets the sketchpad down and writes another note.

Why are you pretending to care?

I shake my head, signing deliberately. I’m not pretending. I mean it. Teach me.

That gets a reaction. His brow furrows, and he leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

Instead of pushing further, I sit quietly and let the moment linger. Eventually, he picks up his pencil again, glancing at me once before returning to his sketch.

It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.

***

Evening approaches and I'm smiling like an idiot as I retreat to my room. I can't believe I actually got him to open up a little. Maybe there's hope for us after all.

But my little happiness is interrupted by a call coming from Victor. I frown when I swipe to answer. "Hello, Mr. Cain."

“Eliza. You’ve been there for weeks. Where’s the progress?”

I clutch the phone tighter, leaning against the door. "These things take time. Alexander isn’t—”

“Spare me the excuses,” he cuts in. “I don’t care about his tantrums or his mood swings. Just get the signature. Or do I need to remind you what’s at stake?”

My stomach twists. He doesn’t need to remind me.

“I’ll handle it,” I say tightly.

“You’d better.” He hangs up without another word.

My knees weaken so I let my back slides down the door. I need to find a way to get Alexander to sign those papers before it's too late.

But the truth is, I’m not sure I can handle it. Alexander is like a fortress, and every step forward feels like two steps back.

But quitting isn’t an option. Not for me. Not for my mother.

***

The next day, I make a bold decision. I won’t speak at all.

I spend the morning preparing, brushing up on the signs I’ve learned and rehearsing potential conversations in my head. When I finally find Alexander in the library, I take a deep breath and step inside.

He glances at me briefly before returning to his book.

Good morning, I sign.

His head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. He watches as I take a seat across from him, my hands already moving. Today, I’ll only use sign language. No words. Just this.

His brow arches, and for a moment, I think he might laugh. Instead, he shakes his head and picks up his notepad.

You’re wasting your time.

Maybe, I sign back. But it’s my time to waste, not yours.

That earns a faint twitch of his lips. He closes his book and signs something too fast for me to catch.

I hold up my hands, smiling apologetically. Slower, please. I’m still learning.

With a sigh, he repeats the signs more deliberately: Why are you doing this?

Because I want to understand you, I respond.

His hands move again, slower this time.

No one ever has.

The honesty in his words catches me off guard. For a moment, I forget to respond, staring at him in stunned silence. Then I quickly recover, signing back: Then let me try.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans back in his chair.

The rest of the day passes in a strange pace. I follow Alexander through his routines, communicating solely through signs and gestures. At first, he seems irritated by my persistence, but gradually, his walls begin to crack.

In the evening, as we sit together in the garden, he surprises me by signing something unprompted.

Before the accident, I used to paint.

The admission is so unexpected, it takes me a moment to respond. Do you still paint?

He shakes his head. Not anymore.

Why not?

His gaze drops to his lap, his hands stilling. For a long time, he doesn’t answer. Then, finally, he signs: Because it doesn’t feel the same. Nothing does.

The pain in his words hits me like a punch to the chest. I want to say something that might help, but I know better than to offer empty reassurances.

Instead, I sign: I’d like to see your paintings someday.

He doesn’t respond, but the way his blue eyes dilate is enough to tell me I’ve planted a seed.

For the first time, I think Alexander Cain might actually let me in.