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.

Victor’s return is announced by the roar of his car in the driveway. When he strides into the living room, his presence is like a storm cloud blotting out the sun.

I’m there, clutching a stack of books I’d just borrowed from the library, hoping to retreat to my room unnoticed. But Victor’s voice stops me in my tracks.

“Eliza!” he says, his tone sharp and impatient. “Come here.”

I approach slowly. "Hello, Mr. Cain."

“How’s the mission going?”

I bit my lip before saying, "Look, Alexander is brilliant. He’s not the man you described to me. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of our sick plan."

Victor’s expression hardens in an instant. “Not the man I described?” His voice drops to a dangerous low. “And what exactly are you trying to say?”

I swallow hard. “I’m saying he’s a good person, Victor. You don’t need to manipulate him like this. I can’t be part of this.”

The slap comes so fast, I barely see it. My head snaps to the side, and a sharp sting spreads across my cheek. The books in my arms fall to the floor with a dull thud.

“You don’t get to decide,” Victor growls, towering over me. “Do your job, or you’ll regret it.”

I stand frozen, too stunned to respond. My cheek throbs, and my heart pumps in my chest like a jackhammer.

Before I can muster the courage to speak, I hear the unmistakable sound of wheels on hardwood.

Alexander.

He’s in the doorway, his hands gripping the armrests of his wheelchair so tightly that his knuckles are white. His face is a mask of fury, his icy blue eyes burning as they lock onto Victor.

"Alex, my favorite nephew!" Victor flashes a fake smile. He walks toward him while his arms spread wide. "How have you been, my son?"

But Alexander didn't buy it. He glares at Victor, his jaw clenching in anger as he moves his hands so fast. I am able to read the message he's intending to say to Victor.

You touch her again, and you'll regret it!

Victor takes a step back, startled. He glares at me in disbelief and turns back to Alexander. "Do you mean this maid? I'm just trying to instruct her on her duties, nothing more."

Alexander's eyes narrow as he wheels closer to Victor and signs again with fast movements.

Don't make me a fool, Uncle. I saw how you hurt my caretaker.

Then Alexander’s hand shoots up in a sharp, deliberate motion, pointing toward the door. The message is clear: Leave. Now.

Victor’s lips curl into a sneer, but he doesn’t argue. He turns and stalks out, his footsteps echoing through the hall.

I glance at Alexander, my hand still pressed against my cheek. His gaze softens as it meets mine, and he signs quickly: Are you okay?

“Yes,” I whisper. Tears are pricking at my eyes. For the first time in my life, someone has actually defended me. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to defend me. He's right, I’m just a maid in this house.”

He looks at me, then picks up his notepad, scribbles something, and hesitates. For a moment, it seems like he might share what he’s written, but then he crumples the page and tosses it aside.

“Why did you stop?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he wheels himself back toward the mansion.

***

That night, I’m startled by a knock at my door. I open it to find Mario standing there, a sheepish smile on his face.

“I’m taking two weeks off,” he announces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Family thing. But someone needs to take care of Alexander while I’m gone.”

I blink. “Take care of him how?”

“You know,” he says, shrugging. “Help him dress, get in and out of bed, take a bath.”

“A bath?” I blurt out, and I swear, the heat in my face rises as I imagine the task ahead of me. “I don’t know if I can handle him. Can we send his therapist, and I will just assist as needed?"

“Relax,” Mario says with a chuckle. “He’s independent most of the time. He’ll let you know if he needs help. Just be patient with him, okay? He’s a proud man.”

I nod slowly, my mind racing. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”

“Good.” He pats my shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

The next morning, I stand outside Alexander’s bedroom door. The thought of stepping into his personal space, much less helping him with something as intimate as bathing, makes my nerves twist in knots.

Gathering my courage, I knock gently. But the door is unlocked, so I push it open slowly.

Alexander is already awake, sitting by the window in his wheelchair, dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and pajama pants. He glances up when I enter and raises an eyebrow, his hands poised to speak.

Good morning, I sign, forcing a smile.

He responds with a simple nod before signing back. Dresser. Clothes. Bring.

“Okay,” I murmur, moving to the dresser. I pull out a neatly folded shirt and trousers, hesitating briefly before turning back to him. “Here you go.”

He takes the clothes from me, placing them on his lap, then wheels toward the adjoining bathroom. I stay rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do next. He pauses at the door and turns, his hands moving swiftly.

Follow.

I freeze. “Follow?” I repeat out loud before switching to signs. Do you want me to go inside?

He nods once, slowly, then gestures again, more firmly. Yes.

My face burns, and I clutch the hem of my sweater, trying to suppress the surge of panic. “I’m not sure I should…” I trail off, realizing how ridiculous I must look.

I shuffle awkwardly to the bathroom doorway, peeking inside. It’s spotless, with a wide shower, a large mirror, and a set of grab bars along the walls. Alexander wheels himself inside and begins maneuvering to the shower seat with practiced ease.

“Um… Do you need help?” I ask, stepping tentatively into the tiled room.

He glances over his shoulder, signs something too quick for me to catch, then points toward the door, his meaning unmistakable. Wait outside.

Relief washes over me, and I back out of the room with a quick nod. “Got it!” I call out, closing the door halfway, hovering just outside.

Inside, I can hear faint sounds of water running and the soft scrape of the wheelchair wheels against the tiles.

And then, just as I start to relax, I hear a loud crash followed by a sharp intake of breath.

"Alexander!"

The sound of the crash sends my heart into overdrive. Without thinking, I burst into the bathroom, all worry and instinct. What if he slips and falls in the shower? What if he hits his head and gets seriously injured?

No, no, no!

"Alexander, are you okay?" I blurt out, freezing the moment I take in the scene.

Steam billows from the shower, swirling around the room. Alexander stands tall, his back to me, gripping a grab bar for support. The wheelchair lies on its side, a casualty of some misstep. His shirt is gone, only boxers covering his lower half.

The water cascades over his muscular shoulders, tracing every curve of his toned back.

My face burns hotter than the steam. I shouldn’t be here.

"I’m so sorry!" I stammer, rushing to the wheelchair without looking directly at him. My hands tremble as I grip its handles, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears.

Alexander doesn’t move, but I know he detected me. He’s frozen, too, his knuckles white as they grip the bar.