CHAPTER 4
1620 Words
Earl woke up in an unfamiliar room.
The first thing he noticed was the silence—thick, heavy, and expensive. It was not the kind of silence found in small apartments or crowded streets. This silence felt controlled, almost royal.
Slowly, he lifted his head. The ceiling above him was high, painted in soft white and gold. Sunlight slipped through long curtains, touching furniture that looked too clean, too elegant for someone like him.
Then his eyes moved.
A child was standing beside the bed.
The boy looked around six or seven years old. His features were gentle and refined, the kind that could only come from careful upbringing. He wore neat clothes, tailored perfectly to his small frame, like a prince from a storybook. His dark eyes were calm, deep—too deep for a child his age.
For a moment, Earl thought he was dreaming.
“Are you… with the one who saved me?” Earl asked quietly.
His voice came out weak. His body still ached, and every breath reminded him of the accident. But at that moment, pride meant nothing. He had already lost everything. There was no shame in sounding helpless now.
The boy did not answer.
He only stared at Earl—long and unblinking. The gaze was so intense that it made Earl uncomfortable, as if the child could see straight through him.
That look brought back memories he didn’t want.
Bella.
His daughter’s face flashed in his mind—her anger, her fear, and the moment she pushed him away. The way she ran to her mother without looking back.
Earl swallowed hard.
“I…” He tried to speak again, but before he could finish, the door opened.
A woman in a formal black suit stepped inside. Her posture was straight, her movements controlled. She bowed slightly toward the boy.
“Sir Emman,” the butler said respectfully. “Come now. Your mother is waiting.”
The boy finally moved.
Without sparing Earl another glance, he turned around and walked toward the door. His steps were calm, almost emotionless. When he reached the doorway, he paused for half a second—just enough to make Earl think he might say something.
But he didn’t.
The door closed behind him.
Earl was left staring at the empty space.
“Wait…” Earl muttered. “It looked like he wanted to say something.”
A woman spoke behind him.
“He doesn’t speak.”
Earl turned his head slowly.
Standing near the foot of the bed was a female butler. She looked to be in her forties, her hair neatly tied back, her face strict but not unkind.
“What do you mean?” Earl asked, surprised.
“Emman has never spoken since he was a child,” she replied calmly.
Earl froze.
A child like that—rich, composed, intelligent-looking—unable to speak?
Something about it didn’t sit right with him.
“Then… are you with the one who saved me?” Earl asked again.
The woman nodded once. “Yes.”
Relief and confusion mixed inside him.
Before he could ask more, she continued, “You should get dressed and leave the mansion, Mr…”
“Earl,” he said quickly. “Earl Valerio.”
She nodded. “Mr. Valerio, you must leave as soon as you are able.”
Earl frowned. “Leave? I don’t even know where I am.”
“This is the Castillon estate,” she said plainly.
The name meant nothing to him—but the luxury around him spoke louder than words.
“There are no other men allowed in this house,” the woman added. “Aside from young master Emman.”
Earl slowly sat up. “Why?”
A trace of discomfort crossed her face.
“Ma’am Meave despises men,” she said. “She hates them so deeply that she rejects their very existence.”
Earl felt a chill.
Before he could respond, the door opened again.
This time, the atmosphere changed.
High heels clicked against the floor—slow, deliberate. A woman entered the room, dressed in black from head to toe. Her long coat hugged her figure perfectly, and her sharp eyes carried a cold authority that made the air feel heavier.
She was beautiful.
Not the warm kind, but the dangerous kind.
“So,” she said, her voice calm but distant. “You’re awake.”
Earl instinctively tried to stand, but his body protested. He steadied himself instead.
“I… thank you,” he said honestly. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead.”
She studied him for a moment, as if weighing his worth.
“You were hit by my car,” she said. “Saving you was not kindness. It was responsibility.”
The words were sharp, but fair.
“I understand,” Earl replied quietly.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You ran into the road without thinking. Why?”
The question hit harder than expected.
Earl clenched his fists. “I was trying to save my daughter.”
Something flickered in her eyes—but it was gone in an instant.
“Family,” she said flatly. “How unfortunate.”
Earl didn’t know what to say to that.
“You may stay for one night,” she continued. “After that, you leave. I don’t want unnecessary attachments in this house.”
He nodded. “I won’t be any trouble.”
She turned toward the door, then stopped.
“My son was watching you when you woke up,” she said without looking back. “That is rare.”
Earl was surprised. “Sir Emman?”
“Yes,” she replied. “He doesn’t stay near strangers.”
Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “Don’t misunderstand it. It means nothing.”
The door closed behind her.
Earl sat back down slowly, his heart pounding.
This mansion, this woman, and that silent child—none of it felt like coincidence.
Outside the window, the sun began to set.
As Meave Castillon walked out of the room without looking back.
Her steps were firm at first, her back straight, her expression cold—just as everyone in the mansion expected. But the moment the elevator doors slid shut, her strength cracked.
Her knees weakened.
Meave grabbed the golden handrail just in time as her body swayed. Her breathing turned uneven, sharp gasps filling the quiet elevator. Cold sweat formed on her forehead, and her vision blurred.
“No… not now…” she whispered.
The elevator stopped at her floor. She forced herself to walk, each step heavier than the last, until she reached her bedroom. The door closed behind her, and the silence swallowed her whole.
Meave leaned against the door for a second, then slowly walked toward the bed. She sat still, her hands trembling, before reaching into her coat pocket.
A small medicine bottle.
She pulled out two pills—then hesitated. After a brief pause, she added another.
She swallowed them dry.
Meave leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried to calm her breathing.
But the memories came anyway.
Clear. Violent. Unwanted.
Screeching tires. A man thrown onto the road—his body soaked in blood, his eyes barely open. The moment she stepped out of the car and saw his face.
Earl Valerio.
Her chest tightened.
She remembered kneeling beside him, her hands shaking as she checked his pulse. The way her heart reacted—not with fear, but with something dangerously familiar.
Something she had buried for years.
The memory struck her like bullets—one after another—until her head throbbed violently. She pressed her fingers against her temple, her breathing turning shallow.
“Enough…” she whispered.
Her hands reached for her phone.
“Doctor,” she said the moment the call connected. Her voice sounded calm, but her body betrayed her. “Even tripling the dosage isn’t working. Why?”
There was a pause on the other end.
Then the doctor spoke carefully. “Ma’am Castillon, your skin condition may have worsened. Medication alone can no longer suppress it.”
Meave clenched her jaw.
“Then increase it again,” she said coldly.
“That won’t solve the root problem,” the doctor replied. “Your stress level is too high. And Emman—”
“Don’t involve my son,” Meave snapped.
“Ma’am, Emman needs the presence of a father,” the doctor said firmly. “Emotional stability is directly linked to both his condition and yours. Your health is deteriorating faster than expected.”
Silence followed.
“I strongly suggest you find a husband,” the doctor continued. “Before everything becomes too late.”
The call ended.
Meave stared at her phone for a long time before slowly lowering it.
A knock echoed through the room.
Her brows furrowed. “I told everyone not to disturb me.”
Another knock.
Then, a small voice.
“Mom…”
Meave froze.
Her heart skipped.
She turned toward the door slowly, disbelief written all over her face.
“Emman?” she whispered.
The door opened.
Her son stood there, small hands gripping the doorframe. His eyes—those deep, silent eyes—were filled with confusion… and certainty.
“Mom,” Emman said again.
Meave stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor.
“You—” Her voice broke. “You spoke?”
“When did you learn to speak, Emman?” she asked, her eyes wide.
He took a step forward.
“He…” Emman stuttered, struggling with the words, as if they were new to him. His chest rose and fell quickly.
“He is dad."
- Writer
