Every day, Alexander blasts away at my spirit with cold glares, sharp notes, and his absolute refusal to meet me halfway. But no matter how hard he pushes, I refuse to give up. If I’m here to solve him, it won’t happen by giving in to his walls.
And the storm really breaks one evening when I accidentally stumble into the core of his world.
It starts innocently enough. I’m walking past his study, the door slightly ajar, when the dim glow of his computer screen catches my attention. I wouldn’t dare intrude, but the sound of a screen reader piques my curiosity. It's a voice narrating text aloud in precise, mechanical tones.
I hover outside for a moment before pushing the door open just a crack. Inside, Alexander sits at his desk, his wheelchair positioned perfectly as his fingers whip over a custom keyboard.
It’s not the typing that grabs my attention. It’s the multiple monitors surrounding him. Each screen displays something different: scrolling lines of code, financial graphs, and a digital blueprint of what looks like an advanced prosthetic limb.
I freeze, suddenly understanding the size of the man in front of me. Victor described him as bitter and reclusive, a man broken by a cruel accident that robbed him of his body, hearing, and voice. But what I see is someone whose mind is sharper than ever, someone who wields intelligence like a weapon.
As if sensing my presence, Alexander stops typing. His head turns slightly, just enough to catch me in his peripheral vision. I know I’ve been caught.
"Sorry," I stammer, stepping fully into the room. "The door was open, and I—"
He moves before I can finish, spinning his wheelchair to face me. His face is cold and unreadable, but his eyes burn with silent fury.
"I didn’t mean to interrupt," I say quickly, holding up my hands as if to ward off his anger.
His hands shoot up in sharp, furious gestures, faster than I can hope to interpret. I catch a few signs: Spy. Leave. Victor. Then he grabs a notepad from his desk.
Do you report back to him every night? Or just when you think you’ve found something worth selling?
My mouth falls open. "What? No!"
He scribbles again, thrusting the notepad toward me.
Don’t lie to me. Everyone lies.
"I’m not lying," I insist, shaking my head so hard it makes me dizzy. "I swear, I’m not here to hurt you."
He scoffs silently.
"Look, I know you don’t trust me. But I’m not here to spy on you, Alexander. I just want to help."
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns back to his desk and begins typing furiously, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Are you just going to ignore me?" I ask, stepping a little closer.
His screen reader suddenly reads out loud: Leave the room.
The cold, mechanical voice of the computer feels like a slap. I turn and walk out, closing the door softly behind me.
That night, I can’t sleep.
Alexander’s accusation haunts me.
It’s disturbingly close to the truth, which is what hurts the most. Victor is paying me to be here. The only reason I took this job was to make money, not because I cared about Alexander Cain.
But the longer I stay, the worse it gets.
I think about the way his hands move when he signs, fluid and expressive despite the harshness of his words. I think about the intensity in his eyes, the sharpness of his mind, the pure brilliance that Victor conveniently left out of the job description.
Most of all, I think about the loneliness that sticks to him like a shadow, even when he’s surrounded by luxury.
I want to surround him as well so that he doesn't have to feel that loneliness anymore.
Maybe I can make a difference in his life, even if it wasn't part of the original plan.
When I enter the library the next day, Alexander is already there as his wheelchair positioned by the window. A book rests on his lap, but his gaze is fixed outside.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice softer than usual.
He doesn’t look at me, but his fingers tighten slightly around the book.
"I wanted to apologize for last night," I say, stepping closer. "I shouldn’t have intruded."
Still no response.
"I wasn’t spying on you," I continue. "I swear. I just didn’t realize how much you do. How much you’ve accomplished."
That gets his attention. He turns his head, his icy blue eyes narrowing as they meet mine. Slowly, he sets the book aside and reaches for his notepad.
What do you want?
The question is simple, but it carries the weight of every interaction we’ve had since I arrived.
"I want to understand you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I want to help, if you’ll let me."
He doesn’t write anything this time. Instead, he stares at me for a long moment before wheeling himself away without a word.
Determined not to let him shut me out, I spend the rest of the day digging deeper—not into his secrets, but into who he is. I pour over books and articles about sign language, assistive technology, and anything else I think might help me bridge the gap between us.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m exhausted but motivated.
When I find him in the garden, I don’t bring coffee or attempt small talk. Instead, I sit down across from him and sign as clearly as I can: Teach me.
His expression doesn’t change, but I think I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Curiosity, maybe, or amusement.
He hesitates before signing back. Why?
"Because I’m not giving up on you," I say. "No matter how hard you push me away."
For a moment, he just looks at me. Then, without a word, he reaches for his notepad and writes:
You won’t last. But if you insist, let’s see how far you can go.
It’s not exactly encouragement, but it’s a start.
And for now, that’s enough.
