Chapter 2 — Arrival at Hale Estate

Mia

The road to the Hale Estate wound like a serpent through the trees, each bend swallowed by the thick mist that clung to the forest. Mia’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles stark white against the leather. The silence inside the car felt heavy, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and the occasional tap of rain against the windshield. She hadn’t expected the estate to be this remote, but the farther she drove, the more tangible Lucas Hale’s isolation became.

Her eyes flicked to the GPS on her phone, the signal flickering in and out. Even technology seemed reluctant to venture this deep into the woods. "Almost there," she muttered, though the words felt hollow. What was "there," anyway? The assignment? Her career? Or was it something deeper she wasn’t ready to admit—something that mirrored her own isolation?

As the trees parted, the mansion emerged from the mist, looming like a relic from another time. Ivy crawled over the weathered stone walls, its tendrils reaching for the edges of tall windows that gleamed coldly in the fading light. The estate itself was grand but marred by neglect, its once-pristine gardens now a wild sprawl of untamed weeds and wildflowers. Nature had reclaimed what had once been carefully curated—a reflection, she thought, of the man who lived within.

Mia parked and stared up at the house, unmoving. The silence outside was different—thicker, almost oppressive, as if the estate itself held its breath, waiting. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease curling in her stomach. This was just another job. She’d interviewed powerful men before. But Lucas Hale wasn’t like the others—his coldness, his grief, it all hit too close to home.

The weight of his story hung over her, heavy with the mystery of a man who had retreated so completely from the world. And yet, it wasn’t just curiosity that had driven her here. Something about Lucas Hale—his isolation, his loss—mirrored her own. She wasn’t sure she wanted to explore that connection, but it lingered, nagging at the edges of her thoughts.

Stepping out of the car, Mia felt the chill of the damp air sink through her coat, the scent of moss and wet earth filling her lungs. She adjusted her scarf, wrapping it tighter around her neck—a small gesture that felt like armor against the unfamiliar. Her boots sank slightly into the soft ground as she approached the front door, the crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound in the stillness.

Before she could knock, the door swung open, and there he was—Lucas Hale. He stood framed by the dark interior of the house, his sharp features as severe as the mansion behind him. His dark hair, streaked with silver, fell just above brows that furrowed slightly as he took her in. But it was his eyes that held her—piercing blue, cold and calculating, as though he were already assessing her worth.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice low and clipped. His gaze flicked to her car, then back to her, his expression unreadable.

Mia’s jaw tightened. She had expected hostility, but not this immediate, razor-edged disdain. “It’s hard to find a place that doesn’t want to be found,” she replied sharply, meeting his coldness with her own.

Lucas’s lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes flickered for a moment—something unreadable passing through them—but he didn’t argue. “The road can be tricky. But you’ve made it.”

Without another word, he stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter.

Mia hesitated for a beat, adjusting her scarf again as if she could shake off the tension settling over her. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped over the threshold, into the heart of the Hale Estate.

Inside, the mansion was just as somber as its exterior. Dark wooden floors stretched beneath her feet, and the walls were lined with heavy tapestries and portraits of stern-faced ancestors. The air was cold, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and dust, as though time itself had grown stale within these walls. Everything about the place felt frozen, untouched by the world outside. It was as if the estate had been locked in its own grief, unable—or unwilling—to move forward.

Lucas led her through the grand foyer in silence, his steps measured, his broad shoulders held rigid. Every inch of him screamed control, but there was something else beneath that—something tightly coiled, as though he were holding himself in check. She had seen it before in men like him—men who built walls so high they forgot what it felt like to let anyone in.

They passed a large window that overlooked the garden—or what was left of it. Mia slowed her pace, her eyes drawn to the wild tangle of vines and overgrown bushes. There was beauty there, but it was hidden beneath the chaos, waiting for someone to unearth it. Much like Lucas himself, she thought.

“This way,” Lucas’s voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. He led her down a long hallway lined with old family portraits, their eyes seeming to follow her as they passed. She shivered, though whether from the cold or the weight of the house’s history, she wasn’t sure.

They stopped at a large study, the door already ajar. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the desk. The shelves were lined with leather-bound books—business, finance, history. No fiction, no personal touches. The room felt like a fortress of control, designed for efficiency, not comfort.

“You’ll work here,” Lucas said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “Your quarters are upstairs. Someone will show you later.”

Mia raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to show me yourself?”

Lucas’s expression didn’t change. “I have more important matters to attend to.”

Of course you do, she thought, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. The man was impossible—arrogant, cold, and uninterested in making her feel welcome. But she hadn’t come here for warmth. She had come for the story. And beneath Lucas’s icy exterior, she knew there was a story worth uncovering.

“I’ll find my own way,” Mia said, her voice tight, matching his formality. She could play this game too.

Lucas gave a curt nod, then turned on his heel, leaving her standing alone in the dim study. The silence that followed his departure felt oppressive, as if the very walls were closing in on her.

Mia exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair, which was already beginning to frizz from the damp air. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she took in the room—dark wood, heavy drapes, no sign of life. It was a room built for control, like every other part of the estate. But the air here felt different, heavier. As though the house itself had long since given up on warmth.

She crossed to the window, her gaze drawn once more to the garden. The wildness of it called to her, a stark contrast to the rigid order inside the house. It felt like a mirror to Lucas’s grief, untended and left to grow unchecked.

A soft knock startled her from her thoughts. She turned to see a small boy standing in the doorway, his wide blue eyes—eerily similar to his father’s—watching her with cautious curiosity. His sandy blond hair fell in soft waves, and in his small hands, he clutched a sketchbook like a shield.

“You must be Oliver,” Mia said, her voice softening instinctively. She had read about him, of course, but seeing him in person was different. He seemed so small, so fragile in this vast, empty house.

Oliver nodded but said nothing. He shifted his weight, his eyes flicking nervously between her and the hallway, as though unsure of his welcome.

Mia smiled gently, but the guardedness in her still lingered. “I’m Mia. I’ll be here for a while, helping your dad with his memoir.”

At the mention of his father, Oliver’s gaze clouded, his small frame stiffening. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave either. Instead, he stood there, hovering in the doorway as if torn between staying and retreating.

Mia hesitated, unsure how to approach him. “Do you like to draw?” she asked, nodding toward the sketchbook in his hands.

Oliver’s eyes brightened ever so slightly, and he nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Yes.”

“Maybe you can show me some of your drawings sometime,” she offered, keeping her tone light.

For a moment, Oliver’s lips parted, as if he might speak. But then, just as quickly, he glanced over his shoulder, his shoulders tensing once more. Without a word, he turned and hurried down the hallway, retreating into the shadows.

Mia straightened, watching him disappear. Despite the briefness of the encounter, something about the boy pulled at her. Oliver Hale was a mystery, just like his father. But unlike Lucas, she sensed that Oliver’s walls weren’t as impenetrable.

She turned back to the window, her gaze lingering on the overgrown garden. Yes, there was a story here—one buried beneath layers of grief and guilt. But it wasn’t just about Lucas Hale, the billionaire recluse. It was about the boy who had lost his mother, the man who had lost his wife, and the house that had forgotten how to be a home.

Mia adjusted her scarf once more, feeling the weight of the task ahead settle over her. This was more than just an assignment. It was a reckoning.

And she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.