Getting through to Alexander Cain is like using a spoon to chip away at an iceberg. Every time I try to reach him, he ignores me completely. If Victor thinks this job will be easy, he clearly has no idea just how devoted Alexander is to shutting the world out.
After our first disastrous conversation, or lack of one, I decide to change tactics. If words aren’t working, maybe actions will.
The next morning, I find him in the library. He sits at a large oak table, a book open in front of him, but his eyes aren’t on the page. Instead, he stares out the window, his fingers drumming softly against the armrest of his wheelchair.
"Good morning," I say brightly, stepping into the room.
He doesn’t even turn in my direction. I know he has felt me since, according to Mario, even though Alexander can't hear, he can sense movement. He can read lip movement and body language better than anyone.
I take a deep breath and walk closer, keeping my tone light. "I thought you might like some coffee. I brought it black, just how Mario said you like it."
I place the steaming mug on the table beside him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.
For a moment, I stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Finally, I sit down across from him, mirroring his position. He doesn’t look at me, but I catch the small tightening of his jaw.
"You’re reading The Prince," I say, nodding toward the book in front of him. "Machiavelli. Interesting choice."
His fingers still. Slowly, he turns his head to face me, his icy blue eyes locking onto mine. For a brief moment, I think I’ve gotten through to him. But then he picks up his notepad, scribbles something quickly, and slides it across the table.
Don’t pretend you understand me. You're irritating me.
I flinch at the sharpness of his words but force myself to hold his gaze. "I’m not pretending. I just thought it was an interesting book."
He scoffs silently and reaches for the notepad again.
You thought wrong.
I bite back a sigh, refusing to let him see how much his annoyance is getting to me. "Okay, fair enough," I say, leaning back in my chair. "But I’m not going anywhere, Alexander. So you can either keep trying to push me away, or we can figure out how to coexist."
His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think he might actually say, or write, something else. But then he turns his chair steeply, wheeling himself toward the far corner of the library without another word.
My shoulders slump as I watch him leave. This man is impossible.
Determined to make some progress, I spend the afternoon researching sign language while Alexander naps. If Mr. Grumpy isn’t going to meet me halfway, I’ll at least try to understand his world.
Mario helps me find a beginner’s guide in the mansion’s expansive library. I flip through the pages, practicing basic phrases in front of a mirror.
Hello.
How are you?
What do you need?
The movements feel clumsy at first, but the more I practice, the more natural they become. Still, I know this is only the beginning. If I really want to communicate with Alexander, I’ll have to do more than learn a few signs. I’ll have to understand him, his habits, his routines, and his preferences.
That evening, I shadow Mario as he prepares new sets of blankets for Alexander. He’s more than happy to share what he knows about our 'king of hate'.
"He’s a brilliant man. Reads constantly. Watches documentaries late into the night. He’s got a mind like a steel trap. Remembers everything."
"Sounds intimidating," I say with a nervous laugh.
Mario smiles knowingly. "He can be. But he’s not as cold as he seems. He’s just guarded."
I nod, filing away his words for later. If Alexander is as intelligent as Mario says, it’s no wonder he sees through people so easily. But that also means he’ll recognize any attempts at manipulation, which makes my task even harder.
The next morning, I decide to test out my improved sign language skills. I find Alexander in the garden, sitting beneath a sprawling oak tree. He has a sketchbook on his lap, but he isn’t drawing. Instead, he stares at the blank page with a distant expression.
"Good morning," I say, signing the words as I speak them.
His head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as they focus on my hands.
"I’ve been practicing," I say, signing slowly. "I want to talk to you."
For a moment, he just stares at me. Then, with deliberate slowness, he closes his sketchbook and sets it aside. His hands move fluidly, faster than I can follow.
"I didn’t catch that," I stammer, struggling to keep up.
He sighs, clearly frustrated, and picks up his notepad.
Stop trying so hard. It won’t change anything.
I frown. "I’m not trying to change anything. I just want to understand you."
His pen hovers over the paper for a moment before he writes again.
Why?
The question catches me off guard. Why am I trying so hard? Is it just because of the money?
But then I say, "Because I don’t think you’re as terrible as you want people to believe."
His eyes widen a little, and for a split second, surprise breaks through his cold demeanor. But his walls go back up just as quickly. He tears the page out of his notebook, crumples it, and throws it to the ground. Then he shuts his eyes and wheels himself away.
I can’t stop replaying the day’s events in my head. Alexander’s sharp words, his cutting gaze, the brief moment of vulnerability I thought I’d seen. They all swirl together in my mind.
Why do I care so much about breaking through to him? Is it just guilt over what I’m here to do?
