Caspar's POV:

I dragged myself through the foyer of my estate, my mood matching the heavy gray storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Audrey’s rejection echoed in the corridors of my mind, each word a cold weight added to my already burdened shoulders.

"Caspar, darling, you're home early," my grandmother Dorothy noted, looking up from her tea. Her smile faltered as she scanned my face. "You look troubled. Is everything alright?"

"It's nothing," I muttered, loosening my tie as I looked around the empty room. "Where’s Noah?"

"Upstairs. He’s been asking about Audrey again," Dorothy said, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "She hasn't been here in days, Caspar. The boy misses her. Is everything settled between you two?"

The mention of her name felt like a jolt. "She won't be coming here anymore," I said flatly.

Dorothy’s eyes widened in shock. "What? Did you have an argument? Young women sometimes need patience, Caspar. A proper explanation can fix—"

"She rejected me, Grandma." The admission was a bitter pill to swallow. "She won't be returning to the estate."

Dorothy fell silent, but before she could offer a word of comfort, her expression shifted to alarm. She was looking past my shoulder at the grand staircase.

I spun around. Noah was standing there, motionless. His small face was a mask of unnatural stillness. I realized instantly that he had heard every word.

"Noah," I began, the words dying in my throat as I saw the look in his eyes.

Without a word, my son turned and walked back upstairs, his shoulders squared with a rigidity that broke my heart. A moment later, I heard the definitive click of his bedroom door.

The following days were eerily peaceful. Noah became a ghost of his former self. He dressed immaculately, ate every meal without complaint, and followed his schedule with robotic precision.

His silent compliance was far worse than any tantrum. It was as if he had retreated into a shell I couldn't crack. I buried myself in work, packing my schedule to keep my mind from drifting toward thoughts of Audrey—of the way her eyes used to light up when she saw Noah, and the warmth I had mistakenly thought was meant for me.

Perhaps I had been deluding myself. Perhaps the connection I felt was merely a reflection of her affection for my son.

The fragile peace shattered on the third day.

I was reviewing quarterly reports when Edward knocked urgently on my study door. "Sir," he said, his face etched with worry. "Noah is ill. He’s been sick in the bathroom."

I found my son huddled on the floor, his small frame trembling with another wave of nausea. His face was pale and clammy, his skin burning with a sudden fever.

"What happened?" I asked, kneeling beside him and pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.

"He seemed fine this morning, sir," Edward explained, handing me a folded sheet of paper he had found among Noah’s art supplies. "But I found this. He hasn't drawn a single picture in days."

I unfolded the paper with one hand while keeping the other firmly around Noah’s shoulders. Instead of the vibrant colors that usually filled his sketches, there was a single sentence written over and over in careful, childish handwriting:

Noah always does what Audrey says. When will Audrey come get me?

My heart felt like it was breaking. Noah wasn't just sick; he was grieving. He was being "perfect" and "obedient" because he thought that was the price he had to pay for her return.

"Call Dr. Matthews," I told Edward, my voice tight with a mix of fear and resolve.

Edward paused, then added gently, "Should I also call Miss Lane? I think, at this point... Noah needs her more than any doctor."

I looked down at my son’s shaking form. The pride I had in my own self-respect was nothing compared to the desperation of my child. "Call her," I whispered. "Tell her... tell her he needs her."