Chapter 2 — A Broken Fortress

Grayson

Grayson Cole stood in the center of his cavernous living room, his eyes trained on the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed an impeccable view of the estate’s sprawling grounds. The late afternoon sun spilled golden light across the polished wood floors, but the warmth stopped at the glass. Inside, the air was cold, sterile, heavy with the quiet hum of automated systems. The kind of quiet that had crept in and stayed, settling into the house ever since Margaret’s absence.

His jaw tightened as his gaze flicked to the pristine leather couch, untouched since his sister-in-law’s last visit to check on Oliver. The house was a fortress—immaculate, impenetrable. But even fortresses had cracks, and his were beginning to show, whether he admitted it or not.

“Mr. Cole, the therapist confirmed. She’ll be here tomorrow.” Patricia’s voice came through his earpiece, crisp and professional as always, though there was a faint undertone of something softer.

Grayson pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a slow exhale. “What makes you so sure this will be any different?” His tone was clipped, laced with weariness he didn’t bother to hide.

“Because you asked me to find the best,” Patricia replied, her calm demeanor unshaken. “And every recommendation pointed to her.”

He paced toward the glass coffee table, his steps measured, deliberate. The symmetry of the décor, the subtle monochrome palette, the meticulous order of the room—everything was exactly as it should be. Everything except Oliver.

“How much do you know about her?” he asked finally, pausing to adjust his watch—a sleek silver one with a minimalist face. His thumb brushed over the engraved words on the back, *Time is precious—M.* The faint pang that followed was automatic, expected. He forced his focus back to Patricia.

“She’s highly regarded in her field,” Patricia said, her voice adopting the practiced efficiency she used when presenting facts. “Dr. Elena Martinez. Private practice. Focuses on pediatric physical therapy, particularly with children who have mobility challenges. Creative, unconventional methods, from what I’ve gathered.”

“Unconventional,” he repeated, the word heavy with skepticism. “That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

Patricia hesitated for a moment, then added, “She’s known for getting through to children who struggle to open up. That’s what Oliver needs, isn’t it?”

His lips thinned into a line. Trust. Connection. The very things he seemed incapable of giving his son. He turned back toward the window, the sprawling grounds outside blurring under the weight of his thoughts.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked, quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I am. And honestly, Grayson, I think this might be the best option left.” Her voice carried a rare note of personal investment, a quiet urgency that made him pause.

He didn’t respond, not because he disagreed but because he didn’t want to admit she was right. His mind drifted to the string of therapists who had come and gone—each one leaving with polite smiles and vague platitudes about Oliver’s progress. Progress that always felt intangible, unreal. He couldn’t pinpoint where they had failed, but the blame always circled back to him. His inability to connect. His inability to fix what was broken.

And then there was his sister-in-law, whose pointed remarks about “doing more” had driven him to this decision. She had been relentless, insisting he couldn’t keep shutting the world out—not for himself, and certainly not for Oliver. Her words still lingered, sharp and unavoidable.

---

Upstairs, the door to Oliver’s room was ajar. Grayson hesitated before stepping inside, his hand briefly resting on the doorknob as if to steady himself. The faint scent of detergent and something distinctly childlike—markers, perhaps—hung in the air. The room was a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the only place where chaos was allowed to exist.

Toys were scattered across the floor—action figures missing limbs, a collection of worn comic books stacked haphazardly on the nightstand. A brightly colored superhero hat lay at the edge of the bed, its brim slightly frayed. The bed itself was unmade, the superhero-themed sheets rumpled and twisted. And in the center of it all sat Oliver, legs crossed, a controller in his hands as he stared intently at the screen.

Grayson cleared his throat. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

Oliver glanced at him briefly, his bright blue eyes—Margaret’s eyes—flickering with acknowledgment before returning to the game.

“Okay,” he said, his voice quiet, neutral.

Grayson lingered in the doorway, uncertainty rooting him in place. It hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time when Oliver lit up at the sound of his voice, when his laughter filled the house, unrestrained and infectious. But that was before.

Now, every interaction felt like walking a tightrope, too much or too little threatening to tip the precarious balance. He took a slow breath and stepped further into the room, his gaze catching on the superhero hat. Margaret had bought it for Oliver on a whim, he remembered. She’d always encouraged his fascination with superheroes, saying they gave him something to believe in, something to aspire to.

“Patricia found a therapist,” he said, the words coming out stiffer than he intended.

Oliver’s hands paused on the controller, and he looked up again, this time with a flicker of curiosity. “A therapist?”

Grayson nodded. “She’ll be coming here tomorrow. To work with you.”

Oliver frowned, his small brows knitting together. “Do I… have to?”

Grayson hesitated, caught between the impulse to reassure his son and the need to enforce what he believed was best for him. His fingers twitched at his sides, tempted to reach out, to offer some small gesture of comfort, but the fear of doing it wrong held him back.

“It’s important,” he said finally. “For you. For… us.”

Oliver’s gaze dropped, and he began fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. Grayson felt the familiar sting of failure creep in, the weight of his inadequacies pressing down on him.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he said after a moment, his voice softer now. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He turned and walked out before Oliver could respond, the door clicking shut behind him.

---

Later that evening, Grayson found himself in the library, a glass of scotch in hand as he stared at the fireplace. The flames danced and crackled, casting shadows that flickered across the walls lined with books he rarely touched. He picked one off the shelf, flipping through its pages without registering the words, then set it back down.

The room was quiet, save for the occasional pop of the fire, but his thoughts were anything but. They churned and twisted, pulling him back to memories he couldn’t escape. Margaret’s smile, radiant and full of life, as she painted in the studio. Oliver’s laughter, unrestrained and joyous, as he played in the garden. The screech of tires, the shatter of glass, the deafening silence that followed.

His grip tightened around the glass, the cool weight of it grounding him momentarily. He glanced at his watch, its engraved message catching the firelight. *Time is precious—M.* The words felt like a taunt now, a reminder of how much he had lost and how little he had left to give.

He hadn’t just lost Margaret that day. He’d lost the version of himself that believed in hope, in connection, in the possibility of something more. What was left was a man who built walls, who controlled every variable, who kept the world at arm’s length because letting it in meant risking everything.

And yet, here he was, about to let a stranger into his home, into his son’s life, because he didn’t know what else to do. Because he was out of options.

The therapist would arrive tomorrow, and with her, the possibility of change. Grayson wasn’t sure if he was ready for it. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready.

But for Oliver’s sake, he had to try.