Chapter 5
Alexander crossed the threshold of the library, the quiet fury in his eyes a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. Lily instinctively took a step back, the worn leather of the sketchbook feeling like a stolen secret in her hands.
"I asked what you were doing," he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.
"I... I was just looking," she stammered, holding the book out to him. "It was on the shelf. I didn't know it was yours."
He snatched the book from her hand, his fingers brushing hers, and she felt a jolt of something she couldn't name. He held the sketchbook as if it were a fragile artifact, not an old notebook. For a fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes was replaced by a flicker of pain, a vulnerability she hadn't thought possible. Then, it was gone, replaced by a wall of ice.
"This is private," he said, his voice flat. "This is a part of my life that you have no business touching."
"I'm sorry," she said, genuinely meaning it. The drawings had given her a glimpse of the boy he once was, a boy who had to have lost something to become the man he was today. The thought made the distance between them feel even greater. "I didn't mean to pry. I just… I saw the drawings. They're beautiful."
He scoffed, turning away from her to place the book back on the shelf, this time pushing it deep into the corner, out of sight. "They're a childish phase. A part of my life that doesn't exist anymore."
"But it does," she countered softly. "That boy who drew houses and families… he's still a part of who you are."
He whirled around, his face a mask of anger. "You know nothing about me. You know nothing about what it took to get here, about the things I had to let go of to survive. Don't you dare presume to know anything about my life."
The raw intensity of his words silenced her. This wasn't just a business deal or a legal obligation. This was a man with deep, unspoken wounds. The cold exterior wasn't just for show; it was a shield he had built meticulously, brick by brick, to protect himself from a past he clearly couldn't bear to revisit.
He ran a hand through his hair, a rare moment of disarray, and let out a long, slow breath. The anger seemed to drain from him, leaving behind a profound weariness.
"Stay out of this room," he said, his voice quiet now. "And stay out of my past. It is not your concern."
He walked out of the library, leaving her alone once again. But the silence this time felt different. It was no longer the silence of indifference, but the heavy silence that follows a storm—the silence of secrets, of pain, and of a man who was far more broken than she had ever imagined.