Chapter 9: The First Touch
328 Words
The rain came gently that afternoon, casting the mansion in shades of silver. Rita wandered the east wing out of boredom—until she found herself standing before a locked wooden door she hadn't noticed before.
It was slightly ajar.
Curiosity nudged her forward. She stepped in.
The room was a private gallery. Oil paintings and old photographs lined the walls, some faded by time. Generations of the Hooked family stared back at her with cold, indifferent eyes. But one painting stood out.
A girl—maybe fifteen—smiling in a red dress, clutching a book in her lap. Her eyes danced with life.
“She was my sister,” came Richard’s voice behind her.
Rita turned sharply. “I didn’t hear you.”
“She died when we were seventeen. Car crash.” His voice was flat, controlled. But his eyes—those told another story.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
Richard stepped closer, his gaze locked on the portrait. “She was the last good thing in this house.”
Rita looked back at the girl in the painting. “She looks like you. But happier.”
A silence fell between them. Then slowly, as if it took effort, Richard reached out.
His hand brushed hers.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
They stood there in the quiet, the warmth of his touch lingering like a whisper.
“I never bring people here,” he said, still not looking at her. “I don’t like remembering.”
“But you let me in.”
His jaw tensed. “I didn’t plan to.”
That single moment, that gentle touch—more real than anything since the wedding—left Rita shaken.
There was pain in Richard Hooked’s heart, a deep wound he buried under suits and sarcasm. And for the first time, she felt him choosing her. Even if he didn’t know how to say it.
Even if he was still afraid to try.
- Writer
