Chapter 3 — First Interview—The Ice Breaks

Lucas

Lucas Hale sat rigid in the high-backed leather chair, his gaze drifting out the window, over Mia Harper’s shoulder, to the mist-blanketed hills beyond the estate. The weight of her sharp hazel eyes bore into him, waiting for him to break, waiting for him to give her something. She’d been waiting since the moment she stepped through his doors.

He crossed his arms, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “What do you want to know?”

Mia didn’t flinch. She never did. Instead, she leaned forward, her worn leather notebook balanced on her lap, pen poised. “Let’s start with something simple. What was your childhood like?”

Lucas inhaled deeply, the air cold and sharp, biting at the edges of his composure. His childhood was anything but simple. Expectations. Rules. The constant shadow of his father’s demands. Perfection was never a choice—it was required. He shifted slightly in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him.

“I grew up here,” he said curtly. “The estate’s been in my family for generations. My father ran a tight ship.”

Her lips twitched into a humorless smile. “And you took over the family business at what, twenty-nine?”

“Twenty-nine.” The word came out clipped, precise. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

But Mia wasn’t one for surface answers. “That’s younger than most CEOs,” she said, her voice cool, probing. “I imagine the pressure was... considerable.”

“Pressure is nothing new,” he replied, his tone flat. “It’s just life as I know it.”

Her pen scratched against the paper, a sound Lucas found grating in the silence. Too loud, too invasive. This was supposed to be about the memoir—his legacy—not whatever she was digging for. She flipped to a new page, unfazed.

“And your wife, when did you two meet?”

The question hit him square in the chest, a forceful blow disguised by her calm delivery. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the armrests, but his face remained impassive. “College.”

She waited, but he didn’t continue. Mia shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, her pen now hovering. “And you got married three years later. That’s what the public record says, at least.”

Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t need me for that. You could’ve found all of this online.”

“I’m not interested in what the public knows, Mr. Hale. I’m interested in what you haven’t told anyone else.”

There it was. The truth of what she wanted. She wasn’t here to write about his business success; she wanted the parts of him he had spent years burying. The parts no one else had the right to touch.

“I don’t see why any of that matters,” he said, his voice colder than the lake outside. “This is supposed to be about the company, about what I’ve built.”

Mia’s eyes locked onto his, unrelenting. “People don’t just care about the empire you’ve built. They want to see the man behind it.”

Her words cut deeper than he expected. The way she said his name—Lucas—felt too personal, too close. He shifted again, the chair groaning beneath him. “I agreed to this for my son. Not to be psychoanalyzed.”

“Well, I’m trying to help your son’s future by telling his father’s story.” Her tone was still calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath it. “But you’re making that difficult.”

He could hear the frustration in her voice, and a part of him took satisfaction in that. He didn’t need to hand over the mess of his life to her, didn’t owe her his pain like some charity case. This was his life. His grief. His failure.

Mia sighed, and for the first time, Lucas noticed the way her fingers tightened around the edge of her notebook, the slightest tremor betraying her composure. “Look, Lucas. I get it. You don’t want to revisit the past. But if this memoir is going to mean anything to Oliver, it has to be more than just numbers and stock prices.”

His chest tightened at the mention of Oliver. The boy deserved better than this. Lucas looked away, his gaze drifting to the heavy drapes that blocked out most of the afternoon light. “Oliver doesn’t need to know every detail.”

“Maybe not,” she said softly, her voice lowering. “But he deserves to know who his father is.”

“I’m doing this for him!” Lucas’s voice rose before he could stop it. “I’ve done everything for him.”

Mia paused, her eyes softening in a way that threw him off balance. “Have you?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and loaded. He stared at her, the words catching in his throat. Of course, he had. He’d sacrificed everything since his wife’s death to make sure Oliver had what he needed. Couldn’t she see that?

But Mia didn’t back down. “You’ve done everything for Oliver materially, yes. But emotionally? He’s a kid, Lucas. He needs more than a roof over his head and a trust fund.”

His fists clenched in his lap, the tightness in his chest threatening to overwhelm him. “You don’t know anything about what Oliver needs.”

Her expression softened again, but this time it wasn’t pity in her eyes. It was something else. Something he didn’t want to name. “Maybe I don’t. But I know what it’s like to feel alone.”

Lucas’s eyes flicked back to her, caught off guard. There was something in her voice—a tremor, a note of vulnerability—that hadn’t been there before. And for a moment, just a moment, he saw past the sharp edges of the determined journalist. He saw someone who was just as guarded as he was. Someone who understood the weight of keeping people at arm’s length.

But he couldn’t afford to open that door. Not now. Not ever.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. “This interview is over.”

Mia blinked, clearly surprised, but she didn’t argue. She simply closed her notebook with a quiet snap and stood, smoothing down her blazer. “Fine. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

Lucas clenched his jaw, his mind already shutting down the conversation. “Tomorrow.”

She lingered for a moment longer, as if searching his face for something, before finally turning and walking toward the door. Her boots echoed hollowly in the vast, empty hallway beyond.

Silence fell over the room, thick and suffocating. Lucas remained standing, staring at the door long after she had gone. The tightness in his chest slowly began to ease, but the weight of the conversation lingered, pressing down on him like the mist outside.

He sank back into the chair, running a hand through his hair. His gaze drifted to the pocket watch resting on the desk beside him, its silver surface gleaming softly in the dim light.

He picked it up, turning it over in his hand, his thumb brushing over the engraved initials. L.H. His father’s. His grandfather’s. His. The weight of the watch felt heavier than usual, as if it carried the weight of all the time he’d lost—time he couldn’t get back.

Mia was wrong. Oliver didn’t need to know everything. He didn’t need to know that his mother had been planning to leave. He didn’t need to know that Lucas’s relentless drive for success had pushed her away, had driven her into that car on that rainy night.

No. Some things were better left buried.

But as he stared at the watch, the second hand ticking steadily forward, he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. A feeling that maybe—just maybe—Mia was right.

Maybe Oliver did deserve to know the whole story. And maybe Lucas wasn’t as ready to tell it as he thought.

He closed his eyes, letting the thought sink in, and for the first time in years, the walls around him didn’t feel as solid as they once had.