After safely returning to the room, Claire Whitmore finally asked, "Who was that just now?"
"My mother."
Claire Whitmore wasn't particularly surprised—she had already guessed. There was a slight resemblance between him and the woman, but he likely took more after his father. Claire had seen the adult Alexander Hale, and from that, it wasn't hard to imagine what his father might have looked like.
But something still struck her as odd. If that woman was indeed his mother, why hadn't she come to see him even once over the past two days?
According to what Claire knew, Alexander Hale had immigrated with his family when he was six. His father was a business magnate, a wealthy tycoon. By all logic, Alexander should have been a pampered, well-loved rich kid.
But after these few days of interaction, Claire didn't think so at all.
The atmosphere here was suffocating, lifeless, devoid of warmth. His daily schedule was more than any normal child should endure. It felt like he was trapped in a cage, restrained, with no freedom at all.
While drying her hair, Claire casually asked, "Do you… not get along with your mother?"
He lowered his head. After a long silence, he finally said, "She gave birth to me against her will. Every time she sees my face, she just wants to strangle me."
Claire's hands froze mid-motion. She looked at him, stunned. Only one thought crossed her mind—what on earth had he gone through?
That night, Claire lay on the sofa, unable to sleep. She stared blankly at the ceiling.
Over the past two days with young Alexander Hale, she had noticed signs of mild autism—quiet, withdrawn, barely spoke or smiled. It made her think of the grown-up Alexander Hale: elegant, charming, gentle and refined.
Claire found it hard to imagine what kind of growth or transformation had led to such a drastic change.
Thinking of this, she sat up and walked over to the bed. Looking at the sleeping boy, she saw his brows furrowed, his hands gripping the blanket tightly—as if caught in a nightmare, restless even in sleep.
She didn't know everything he had gone through at such a young age, but it was obvious—his past was incomplete, deeply damaged.
Claire felt she had to do something. If things went on like this, who knew what kind of person he'd grow up to be? She didn't dare imagine it.
At six in the morning, Alexander Hale woke up right on time. The moment he opened his eyes, he glanced at the sofa—Claire wasn't there. He panicked and sat up abruptly.
Then he heard Claire's voice from behind the sofa, "Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty…"
Alexander walked over and found Claire doing push-ups on the floor. He frowned and asked, "What are you doing?"
"Push-ups! I haven't exercised in days—my joints are stiff." Claire finished the last one, stood up, stretched, and said, "Come on, join me. You can't just bury yourself in books. Physical health matters too—ever heard of all-round development?"
He hesitated and muttered, "I don't want to."
"I can tell you never work out. Just look at you—frail and sickly. Don't be afraid to sweat. Sweating feels amazing!" Claire didn't take no for an answer. She pulled him into the workout, and by the end, had him dripping with sweat.
Alexander collapsed onto the floor, panting heavily. When he looked up, he saw Claire shadowboxing, doing high kicks. It was clear—she knew her stuff.
Once he caught his breath, he asked, "Are you good at fighting?"
"Of course! I do Sanda, boxing, MMA—I'm well-rounded. Only by becoming strong can you protect the people you care about," Claire said proudly.
Alexander fell into thought. No one had ever said anything like that to him. No one had ever encouraged him to build strength. But now, hearing Claire's words, he felt a spark of desire to change.
"Then… you—"
"What?" Claire paused mid-punch, waiting for him to finish.
Alexander met her eyes with courage. "Can you teach me?"
"Of course!" Claire agreed without hesitation. She figured she might as well take on a student—it would make the days less dull.
From then on, except when tutors were around, Claire spent most of her time with him.
They played Go together—Claire lost every time. But she was a sore loser who refused to quit, the type who gets more obsessed the more she loses. Eventually, Alexander had to let her win. Claire was so thrilled, she bragged about it all day.
Alexander couldn't understand why beating a grade-schooler—especially on purpose—made her so happy. Still, seeing her cheerful energy did lift his own spirits, and he slowly grew used to having her around: her chatter, her laughter.
The room, once a place he wanted to escape, began to feel less suffocating.
Days turned into weeks. Before they knew it, a month had passed.
During that time, Claire didn't sit idle. Late at night, she would sneak around and map out the estate. Eventually, she had a good grasp of the entire place.
Technically, it was a manor—but not many people lived there. There were seven or eight maids, a gardener, two chefs, and a butler who had gone on a trip and simply never returned, much to Claire's frustration.
After some investigation, Claire discovered that only Alexander and his mother actually lived there.
The whole arrangement was strange, as if they were being hidden away—like they were being kept in a gilded cage by someone with power.
Claire had always been curious about what Alexander said before: that his mother had been r*p*d by a man, resulting in his birth. But since he didn't want to talk about it, Claire didn't press.
Still, one day she overheard a group of maids gossiping. The name they mentioned gave her a clue to the man's identity.
He was none other than Alexander's father: Reginald Hale.
His mother, Eleanor Waverly, came from a Southern literary family—a well-educated woman of refined background. But as often is the case, the fate of such women is rarely smooth. Eleanor's turning point was her time studying abroad.
As cliché as it sounded, she fell in love with a man while overseas, and he loved her too. But that man wasn't Reginald Hale.
It was someone named Sebastian Carter.
Reginald didn't win her over—he took her by force. Unlike the gentle and scholarly Sebastian, Reginald was ruthless. When he wanted something, he didn't ask. He took. If pushed, he'd rather destroy than let anyone else have it.
That was how he forced Eleanor to bear his child. He used that as leverage to make her marry him.
Eleanor never loved Reginald. Only hated him. She tried to run away many times, but he always dragged her back. And reality wasn't some romance novel—each time she tried to flee, he beat her until she vomited blood.
Alexander Hale grew up in that kind of home.
He witnessed it all—his mother being beaten, his mother strangling him, cursing him, asking why he didn't just die.
Her eyes never held love for him. Only loathing.
Seeing his face grow more and more like Reginald's drove her mad. She'd scream hysterically, violently. Her mental state was clearly unstable.
Claire pieced all this together from fragments of overheard conversation. But such rumors weren't reliable evidence—some parts might be exaggerated or false.
In short, whether the story was true or not still needed further investigation.
As a police officer, Claire wouldn't draw conclusions based on gossip. But whether or not the details were accurate, one thing was certain: Alexander Hale was the biggest victim in it all.
Was Eleanor Waverly pitiful? Yes. But was she innocent? That was debatable.
Her pain had been passed on to her son. Because of that, Claire pitied her—but could not sympathize.
Claire had thought she'd stay by Alexander's side like this until the butler, Cross, returned. She wasn't expecting any surprises.
Until one morning, Alexander came to her and said—
"He's back."
Claire was puzzled. "Who's back?"
"Reginald Hale. My father."
Claire froze.
Reginald Hale… was back?