The CEO'S weakness

Chapter 13: far from home.

Lucas's POV.

The Maybach didn't turn toward the grand, limestone arches of the main Elliott Estate. Instead, we veered off onto a private, unmarked road shrouded by ancient oaks and high-tensile security fencing. This was my domain, the "Blackwood Wing." It was a separate mansion, miles from the prying eyes of Uncle Spencer and Aunt Emily, built with my own capital and guarded by my own men.

"This isn't the main house," Beatrice whispered, her breath fogging the window.

"The main house is a graveyard for secrets," I said, my voice tight as a fresh tremor started in my left hand. "You wouldn't survive a night there. Here, you are invisible."

The car stopped before a structure of black glass and basalt. The doors opened, and a warm, golden light spilled onto the gravel. A woman stood there, her hands folded neatly over a simple apron, her face etched with a kindness that felt alien in this city.

"Aunt Patricia". She wasn't an Elliott by blood, but she was the only person who had seen me cry as a child, long before the ice took over.

"Lucas," she murmured, her eyes immediately scanning my face for signs of a seizure. Then, they drifted to Beatrice. "And you've brought a guest. Finally, this house might have a reason to breathe."

"She stays in the master suite, Aunt" I commanded, stepping out. "No one enters this perimeter. Not Emily, not Spencer. If a leaf falls on this driveway that I didn't authorize, I want to know."

...

Beatrice's POV.

I stepped out of the car, my legs feeling like they were made of water. The man beside was a pillar of cold iron, but the woman at the door was different. She looked at me with a deep, maternal pity that made me want to burst into tears.

"Welcome, dear," Aunt Patricia said, with a warm voice. "I'm Patricia. Let's get you inside. You look like the wind could blow you away."

Lucas didn't follow us in. He stayed by the car, speaking in low, urgent tones to Tyler. He looked like a king preparing for a siege.

Inside, the mansion was breathtaking but lonely. It was filled with high-end technology and cold marble, yet Patricia had managed to tuck small comforts into the corners—fresh lavender, soft rugs, and the smell of baking bread.

"Is he always like this?" I asked as she led me up a sweeping staircase.

"He has a heavy burden, Beatrice," Patricia sighed, stopping at a massive set of double doors. "The Elliott name is a crown of thorns. And Lucas... he wears it tighter than most. But you're safe here. In this house, he is just Lucas. Not the 'Ice King' the world sees as."

I looked at my reflection in the darkened glass of the suite. All I saw was a girl from Oakhills, pregnant with the child of a man who treated safety like a military operation. I felt the tiny life inside me stir, and for the first time, the fear was eclipsed by a strange, desperate hope.

Lucas's POV.

Dr. Vince arrived an hour later, bypassing the main estate's security filters per my direct orders. I didn't want the family physician; I wanted the man who knew how to keep his mouth shut.

"The vitals are strong, Lucas," Vince said, stepping out of the suite into the hallway where I was pacing. He adjusted his glasses, looking at me with a clinical sharpness. "But she's under immense psychological stress. And you... your Cystic Agnosia is red-lining. I can see the twitch in your jaw from here."

"I am fine, Vince. Just tell me the child is safe."

"The child is thriving. But Beatrice is not a piece of ZigLan hardware. She's a woman. If you treat her like a prisoner, the stress will do more damage than any cartel assassin."

I watched him leave, my jaw tightening. A prisoner? I wasn't holding her captive.

I pushed open the door to her suite. She was standing by the window. She looked fragile, yet there was a spine of steel in her that I hadn't expected.

"The doctor says you need rest," I said, staying near the door. The Cold was humming in my ears, but as I looked at her, the static seemed to soften.

"I need a life, Lucas," she said, turning to face me. "I can't stay hidden in a black glass box while my father worries and my shop gathers dust."

"I'm sure he'll understand, besides the shop is being managed. Your only job is to stay alive. It is not safe out there. I'm protecting you from ..."

"Damien?" she interrupted, stepping closer. "I remember you mentioning that he was after me, can I ask why? He is your problem not mine."

I felt a seizure coming, a sharp, electric jolt in my spine. I gripped the doorframe, my knuckles turning white. I couldn't let her see me break. Not yet.

I didn't want to say much " Maybe with time you will understand... Now, sleep. Aunt Patricia will bring you breakfast."

I turned and walked away before she could see my hand begin to shake. I had to keep her away from this side of me.

...

Beatrice's POV.

The next morning, the sun broke through the Flensburg fog, hitting the black basalt of the mansion. I woke up to the sound of a light knock. Aunt Patricia entered, carrying a tray of fruit, yogurt, and herbal tea.

"He's already gone," Patricia said, sensing my question before I could ask it. "Business at the ZigLan Rigs. He works as if he's trying to outrun his own shadow."

"Does he ever eat? Or sleep?" I asked, sitting up.

"Rarely." she responded . "He usually stays at his office or the city apartment. But now... he comes home. "

I felt a flush creep up my neck. "He's just protecting his legacy, Aunt Patricia."

"Maybe," the old nanny mused, smoothing the sheets. "But I've known that boy since he was in diapers. He doesn't bring anyone into his personal sanctuary. He brought you here means that he cares about you.

I looked out at the private gardens, watching a black SUV pull down the long driveway. I didn't really know the man who lived here. But as I touched my stomach, I realized that we were both trapped in his world now.