Adrian Wolfe's penthouse, late at night. The city skyline glows behind him, but inside — it's quiet, somber, and dimly lit.
The apartment is pristine, modern, and soulless— like a hotel suite. The only warmth comes from a single lit candle beside an old photograph: A beautiful, gentle-faced woman smiling beside a young Adrian.
Adrian stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, still in his shirt and vest, his tie undone. A glass of bourbon in one hand. He's staring out but not really seeing.
"It's been fifteen years… and I still hear her voice. Soft, never angry. Even when she cried."
He turns from the window and walks to a small, discreet drawer. He opens it and pulls out a folded scarf—his mother's. Silk, ivory white, still holding faint traces of her perfume. He holds it to his face.
"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."
He sits on the couch, the scarf in his hand, eyes distant.
"He broke her. Every word, every silence. And I watched it happen. The great patriarch—celebrated businessman, model husband in public. Tyrant behind closed doors."
His jaw tightens.
There's bitterness now. Guilt. Rage that never found a release.
Suddenly—the front door SLAMS open.
"Ugh! I've been calling you for hours, Adrian!"
Enter CASSANDRA — his girlfriend. Striking, dressed in high-end designer from head to toe, makeup perfect, tone completely indifferent to the atmosphere she's walked into.
"Do you even check your phone? God, it's exhausting keeping up with your moods." She said,
She throws her clutch on the console table and kicks off her heels with a loud sigh.
Adrian doesn't move. He doesn't even look at her.
Mocking, noticing the scarf, "What's that? Another one of your tragic memory nights?"
She pours herself champagne without asking, tosses her coat across the armchair.
She continued, "Honestly, Adrian… you need therapy, not another pity session."
Adrian's still. Then, finally, he speaks—voice low, dangerous.
"Don't speak about my mother."
She scoffs. "Oh, please. She's dead. And this whole haunted-son act is getting old."
He stands up slowly, placing the scarf down gently. His eyes meet hers — cold now.
"You can leave. Now."
"What?" she shockingly said
"I said—get out."
Silence. She looks stunned for the first time. Then scoffs again, but gathers her things.
"You'll call me by tomorrow. You always do."
She slams the door behind her.
Adrian stands alone again.
He walks back to the photo of his mother. Touch the frame.
"If only you could see me now, Mum. Would you be proud… or heartbroken?"
Light fades
PRIVATE CEMETERY – NEXT MORNING
Adrian stands alone before a modest, elegant gravestone. No entourage. No assistant. No driver. Just him—and the silence.
He's dressed in a black coat, collar turned up, and hands in his pockets. A small bouquet of white lilies sits at the base of the grave. The headstone reads:
Clara Wolfe (1963–2010)
"Softness is not weakness."
Adrian crouches slowly, brushing a fallen leaf from the name. His fingers linger on the engraving.
He said softly. "I didn't come last year. I couldn't… face you. Not with the life I've built."
He sits on the damp bench beside the grave. The trees whisper in the breeze. Birds chirp faintly, a quiet contrast to the heaviness in his chest.
"You deserved better, Mum. You deserved a husband who loved you... a son who stood up for you."His voice cracks as he speaks, real for once—not the perfectly measured tone of Wolfe & Co.
"Every time I speak like him… I feel sick. I hated him for what he did to you. Still do. But sometimes… I catch myself doing the same. To people."
He trails off, thinking of Cassandra—but also of every assistant, every woman, every vulnerable soul he dismissed or dominated.
Adrian's eyes sting with tears. He wipes them roughly, but they keep coming anyway.
"You were the only softness I ever knew. And when you left… I let the world harden me. I let him win."
He kneels again, placing a gold locket on the grave—inside it, a photo of young Adrian hugging his mother at the beach.
He whispered. "Help me find my way back."
A sudden wind stirs the trees. A feather falls near his hand.
He stares at it, quietly stunned. A sign? A memory? A coincidence?
"This is the only place I feel real. The only place I let myself cry."
Adrian walks away, slower than he came, shoulders less stiff. No phone in hand. No driver waiting.
Just a man, walking.