Chapter 3 - Why the Coldest Boy in the House Finally Dropped His Knife
By November, the dynamic in Fairhaven Manor had shifted in ways none of the estate staff could comprehend. The four boys who had terrified previous employees were slowly retreating into the warmth of the ground floor.
Mason, who used to eat alone in his darkened bedroom surrounded by multiple monitors, began bringing his homework down to the kitchen island. He would pretend he was only there because the Wi-Fi signal was stronger near the pantry. Eleanor never pushed him to talk; she simply placed a warm mug of hot cocoa with roasted marshmallows beside his keyboard and asked him to explain how fiber-optic switches worked. To Mason, whose genius had always been ignored by our father as mere nerdom, Eleanor’s genuine curiosity was a lifeline.
One evening, I came home after getting into a brutal fight behind a pool hall on the south side of Fairhaven. My lip was split, my eye swollen shut, and my knuckles raw and bloody.
I tried to sneak past the foyer, but Eleanor stepped out from the library holding a first-aid kit.
“Sit down, Lucas,” she said quietly.
“Get away from me, Eleanor,” I snapped, leaning against the archway. “I don’t need a babysitter, and I don’t need your pity.”
“This isn't pity. It’s hydrogen peroxide and sterile gauze. You have two choices: you let me clean those wounds, or you let them get infected and explain to your father why his heir looks like an amateur brawler.”
I slammed my fist into the doorframe, trying to intimidate her. “You think you know me? You think because you made Toby stop crying you own us? My father could buy your life twenty times over!”
Eleanor didn’t flinch. She set the medical box on the mahogany table, stepped directly within arm’s reach, and looked straight into my wild, bloodshot eyes.
“Money doesn't heal broken bones, Lucas. And anger doesn't make you strong—it just makes you loud. Now sit down.”
I stared at her, my chest heaving, every muscle coiled to strike. But when I looked into her steady eyes, I saw no disgust. I saw no fear. I saw the look of someone who had survived her own private wars and recognized the scars in me.
My shoulders dropped. I sank onto the edge of the leather sofa.
For twenty minutes, Eleanor cleaned the cuts on my face. Her hands were incredibly gentle, yet steady. When she pressed the antiseptic swab against the deep gash on my jawline, I winced in pain.
“Why did you fight them?” she asked softly, not looking away from her work.
“A guy said my mother deserved what happened to her,” I mumbled through clenched teeth. “He said the Cavanaughs are cursed.”
Eleanor paused. Her fingers rested gently against my bruised cheek. “People talk about what they don’t understand. But throwing punches won’t bring her back, Lucas. It will only lock you in a cage where she can never reach you.”
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Tears burned the back of my eyelids—tears I hadn’t allowed myself to shed in four agonizing years. I gripped my jeans, fighting the tremor in my breath.
From that night on, I never raised my voice to Eleanor Hargrove again.
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