The vast entry hall of the Cook estate absorbed the noises. Sunlight, heavy with dust motes, poured through the stained-glass window above the great oak doors, painting the marble floor in fragmented, muted colors.
Kenneth Cook stood at the foot of the tall staircase, a quiet guard in a mansion designed for laughing, the only sound being the faint scuff of his leather shoes on polished stone. He was a man sculpted from stone, with sharp angles and unbending lines, yet underneath the fitted suit and perfectly constructed façade of indifference, sorrow gnawed at him like a constant stream.
His attention turned to the guarded door to the east wing, Gabriella's realm. Seven years old and a ghost in her own house. Kinneth was smothered by the dispute, which wrapped about her like a deadly snake. Spectacular headlines had shattered his once-impeccable image and whispered allegations, prompting him to withdraw within himself.
But Gabriella was the collateral damage, a bright light extinguished by the powerful spotlight of public attention. Her laughter, which had before resonated beautifully over these enormous distances, had been replaced by a deep stillness that remained uncomfortably present.
He recalled the last time he saw her smile, with a natural, unburdened curve of her lips.
It was before. Before the stories, there were incessant phone calls, and the doors to their world slammed closed. Her small face had become a canvas of carefully maintained neutrality, with eyes that spoke knowledge well beyond her years.
He tried, and God knows he did. He had already brought her toys, reading, and even a little pony. Each effort was greeted with the same subtle opposition, a courteous but firm retreat that said volumes. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to close the gap between them.
"Sir?"
Mrs. Gable, his housekeeper for the last two decades, startled him with a sweet voice. He had not heard her approach. She was a lady formed by years of silent service, her silver hair tucked back in a tidy bun and her face indelibly engraved with
terror and resignation. She carried a silver tray with a solitary teacup and an untouched dish of toast.
"Gabriella's breakfast," she said softly, her eyes following him to the east wing. "She hasn't touched it again."
Kinneth let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It was a common refrain, a constant cause of anguish. "Did she say anything?"
Mrs. Gable wrung her hands, an uncommon expression of her sadness. "She just wasn't hungry. She just sits by the window and looks out."
He nodded, and his jaw tensed. Looking out at what? The groomed lawns and the far, towering wrought-iron gates that separated them from the outside world? Or was she seeing something else, something only she could detect in the silence of her room?
"perhaps if you went to her, sir?" Mrs. Gable ventured, her voice scarcely audible.
Kinneth flinched as though hit. The thought lingered in the air, full of unspoken undertones. He knew she had good intentions, but seeing Gabriella's polite, distant stare and the grief he couldn't heal reflected in her eyes was a new hurt. He was her father and guardian, yet he failed her badly. What more could he provide but his silent despair?
"She prefers her solitude, Mrs. Gable," he said, his tone bland and indifferent. He turned and proceeded to his study, his usual place of refuge during his alone.
Mrs. Gable let out a quiet, almost undetectable sigh and padded away. Kinneth heard the clink of porcelain as she set the untouched supper on the service cart. Another day, another dinner refused. Another piece of Gabriella has slipped away.
Inside his study, the rich aroma of leather and vintage books provided a brief respite. He approached the large mahogany desk, its top immaculate save for one cream-colored file folder. It came in the morning. "Candidate Profiles. Live-in Nanny."
He lifted it, and the paper felt heavy in his grip. He had been battling it for months if not years. He ruled his empire from beyond these walls, a once-powerful industrialist transformed into a ghost. But Gabriella slipped through his fingers, and his efforts to reconnect failed. He needed help. Professional assistance. Someone who could reach her in ways that he couldn't.
He opened the folder. The first few profiles blended to become a continuous stream of credentials and glowing testimonials. He inspected them, seeking anything that would indicate a spark, a connection beyond clinical formality. Most were very severe, rigid, and similar to him. He needed warmth and patience, something he had long forgotten how to provide.
He came to a stop in front of a photograph. A lady with lovely, intelligent eyes and a kind smile. Morran Oscar. Her résumé was outstanding, highlighting her extensive experience working with children, particularly those with emotional difficulties. She had a background in child psychology, which attracted his curiosity. However, her statement prompted him to re-read it.
"My approach to care is based on empathy and understanding. Every youngster carries their cosmos with them, usually encircled by calm stars. My goal is to let people explore the constellations and find their light, no matter how faint it seems.
Silent stars. The sentence rang true in his own damaged heart. Gabriella seemed to him like one of those stars surrounded by a nebula of peaceful pain. Could this lady see her? Could she help her regain her light?
He continued reading, impressed with her credentials and recommendations. However, there was a faint whiff of something more, something unspoken. A gap in her professional past was readily explained, yet with a sense of suspicion. Her look imparted a cool hardness and almost palpable resolve, which piqued his interest. He'd seen enough of life's jagged edges to recognize them in others.
He closed the folder, a weird combination of hope and anxiety rising inside him. This is the solution, the key to Gabriella's universe. Trepidation because introducing someone new into their carefully guarded private seems to touch a raw nerve. Beyond that, there is a prickly feeling. He had sworn off romantic relationships, particularly after the disastrous public exhibition of his last romance. Falling for an employee was banned, he couldn't and wouldn't cross that line.
When he stared at Morran Oscar's placid attitude in the photos, he felt a small, almost undetectable tremble down his spine. It wasn't chilly. It was a sensation of expectation, as if the stillness in his home would soon be shattered, whether he was prepared or not. He found himself picking up the phone, a single unprompted idea repeating across the wide emptiness of his mind. Someone is watching. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid of more than the cameras.