When Reginald Hale returned, Claire Whitmore was already hiding in Alexander Hale's room.
She cracked the window open and looked down. The first thing that caught her eye was a row of vintage cars from the last century—at the center, a Lamborghini Miura.
It was the 1967 release model, a globally mass-produced luxury sports car. Just from that alone, it was clear—Reginald Hale was definitely a man of wealth.
A dozen bodyguards in black stood in a straight line. The sight reminded Claire Whitmore of a scene straight out of a mafia movie.
But as a modern woman of the new age, Claire couldn't help but silently roast the whole situation: "Seriously? This looks like a mob boss' grand entrance. Are they shooting a movie or something? So over-the-top."
Later, Claire would witness a similar scene again—this time with Alexander Hale himself. It was just as grand, but she didn't find it ridiculous at all. Call her a hypocrite if you must, but a man like Alexander Hale? Only this level of extravagance could truly suit him.
But that was a story for another time.
Claire's guess had been right—Reginald Hale looked very much like an older version of Alexander. The only difference lay in their personalities and presence.
One was gentle and refined; the other, cruel and tyrannical.
Reginald Hale's very appearance screamed "villain." His face was cold, his gaze sharp and intimidating. Calling him a tyrant wasn't an exaggeration—he was the type who would snap and lash out without warning.
Suddenly, Reginald Hale looked up, directly in her direction.
Even though the distance made it impossible for him to see her, Claire instinctively ducked away from the window, pressing herself against the wall to stay out of sight.
Turning her head, she saw young Alexander Hale trembling slightly, his expression unnaturally stiff.
Claire could tell—he was afraid of Reginald Hale.
By the time Reginald entered the room, Claire had already hidden inside the wardrobe. Unlike before, this time she didn't dare breathe loudly, curled tightly into a corner, not making a sound.
Reginald Hale was far too sharp. Claire was sure—if she made even the slightest noise, he would find her instantly and drag her out on the spot.
Reginald didn't say much to Alexander. He casually picked up a piano sheet, flipped a page, and then ordered him to play it.
The moment Claire heard the opening notes, she was stunned—Reginald, that psychopath, actually wanted a twelve-year-old to play Beethoven's Pathétique?
She had heard Alexander play it before—he wasn't proficient yet. His performance was shaky and unsteady, though he could make it through the whole piece. But clearly, that level of performance was far from meeting Reginald Hale's expectations.
Claire had thought the worst would be a few harsh insults. She never expected Reginald to slap Alexander across the face. Just from the sound, Claire could imagine how much it must have hurt.
Her fists clenched tightly. Claire gritted her teeth, forcing herself not to make a sound.
"Useless."
Reginald left behind those two words and stormed out, slamming the door shut with a deafening bang.
Claire then overheard Reginald ordering Felita not to give Alexander any food for the entire day. Her fists clenched again.
What a lunatic. Starving his own child? The boy was still growing!
Only after Reginald's footsteps faded did Claire crawl out of the wardrobe. Alexander was still sitting at the piano, practicing Pathétique again and again.
Claire approached him, only to see him bowing his head in silence. She wanted to tell him to stop playing, but her hand, halfway extended, slowly retracted.
Instead, she sat beside him, saying nothing. Asking nothing. Just quietly accompanying him.
She would stay until he stopped playing.
Just as Reginald had commanded, Felita didn't bring any food that day. Claire could handle going hungry, but Alexander couldn't.
So, that night, after everyone was asleep, Claire snuck into the kitchen.
The only edible things left were some bread and baguettes. She took a few, along with two cans of milk.
It was pouring outside. Thunder rumbled across the sky. On her way back, Claire suddenly heard a woman's piercing scream.
She froze in her tracks. The scream came from Eleanor Waverly's room—Alexander's mother.
The closer she got, the clearer the sounds became—screams, the crashing of objects, and finally, painful sobs.
Claire's fists clenched so tightly the veins bulged. That maniac Reginald was abusing his wife.
Then, she looked up and saw a thin figure standing at the end of the hallway. A flash of lightning illuminated Alexander Hale in the darkness. He stood there, unmoving.
He had heard everything…
Claire's eyes darkened. In the next second, she dashed forward, picked him up, and ran back into the room.
Slamming the door shut, she set him down and gently cupped his ears, trying to block out the noise. But Alexander's face remained expressionless, his eyes empty.
Claire stared at him, her gaze unwavering. "Alexander Hale, listen to me. Everyone has their own choices in life—and they all have to bear the consequences. The same goes for life itself. That's their life, not yours. So don't overthink it. It has nothing to do with you. And there are things you don't need to understand right now."
Alexander remained silent.
Claire wrapped her arms tightly around him, patting his back. "Don't be afraid. I'm here. I'll stay with you."
"You really will stay with me… forever?" he suddenly asked.
Claire paused. She didn't know what to say. But in that moment, she gave him the only promise she could.
She nodded. "Yes. I will."
Alexander didn't fall asleep until he was holding Claire's hand. Watching the child frown even in his dreams, Claire sighed. What should she do with him?
If she left… could he really take care of himself?
Claire didn't sleep that night. At 7:30 in the morning, she heard the roar of a sports car engine. Looking out the window, she saw Reginald Hale leaving.
Alexander woke late that morning—8:00—but still insisted on going for his daily run. His self-discipline relieved Claire. With such a hardworking disciple, how could she not be proud?
While he was out, she stretched, thinking about a short nap, when suddenly—footsteps approached.
Claire's eyes flicked toward the door. Without hesitation, she ducked into the wardrobe again.
Just as the door opened, Claire, peeking through the crack, saw a woman enter—wearing a nightgown, hair a tangled mess.
Her neck and arms were bruised, blood at the corner of her mouth, bruises covering her face. She was gripping a fruit knife, her face twisted with madness.
It was Eleanor Waverly.
Stumbling inside, she glanced around wildly, clearly searching for someone. When she found no one, she threw a fit—sweeping books off the shelves, screaming hysterically. Finally, she lunged onto Alexander's bed and began stabbing the pillow, again and again, as if it were a living person.
"Enough!"
Claire grabbed her wrist, stopping the madness. Eleanor's body froze. She slowly turned and looked at Claire, dazed.
Claire frowned and, without a word, knocked her out cold.
She caught Eleanor and then scooped her up. To her surprise, Eleanor was lighter than expected—less than 90 pounds, thin and fragile.
To prevent Alexander from seeing this, Claire carried Eleanor back to her room.
Upon entering, Claire averted her gaze. The room was a disaster—bloody sheets, complete disarray. She glanced at the woman in her arms—so delicate, like a shattered porcelain doll.
Her suffering the night before could only be imagined.
In her heart, Claire cursed Reginald Hale and all his ancestors.
She found clean sheets in the cabinet and, risking being discovered, took care of Eleanor and tidied the place up. Then she returned to Alexander's room.
Before he got back, she had everything cleaned and organized. He never noticed a thing.
There wasn't much Claire could do. But she could protect him, at least a little—to ensure that his childhood held fewer painful memories.