The quiet in Dr. Alston's office was an expensive, deep stillness, perfectly conducive to silence. Elise Hayes sat in the upholstered armchair, rigid and unmoving, feeling the hours of her life defined by this painful, weekly exercise in compliance. Every Tuesday at 11:00 AM, she was here to prove to her parents that the clinical management of her severe depression and low self-esteem was ongoing.
Dr. Alston, with his practiced, gentle demeanor, looked at her over his notepad. "Elise, we need to touch base on the schedule. Your brother, Elliot, and Julian Vance are due back on Saturday. Your mother is preoccupied with the arrangements. Are you maintaining your structure this week, despite the shift in focus?"
Elise stared at the precise knot of her braid, tracing the line of her own contained hair. Julian Vance. The name was the first spike of internal noise in an otherwise carefully managed week, and it immediately fueled the silent, ceaseless anxiety she carried. Julian's return meant the end of the necessary, protective silence.
She allowed a heavy, drawn-out pause to settle. Her only response was the minimal, non-committal language necessary to secure her exit.
"Structure is maintained," she whispered, her voice dry, barely audible.
"And how are your academic deadlines? We need to ensure that the anxiety of the arrival isn't affecting your work—your primary source of external engagement."
My primary source of survival.
She thought of the complex Structural Engineering thesis that was currently consuming her hours. The work was demanding, cold, and entirely logical—a perfect counterweight to the chaotic despair of her mind. She thought of her submission: a dense, written argument that would never be challenged verbally, thanks to the university exemption purchased by her family's foundation. The silence was her shield.
A curt nod. "Submissions are current."
"Did you feel any compulsion to break your silence during the seminar, even in the private chat?" the doctor probed gently, seeking a sign of spontaneous engagement.
Elise offered a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head. "No."
She gave him only the barest minimum of communication required. The true content of her mind—the consuming guilt of her father's early retirement, the self-loathing that convinced her she was a flaw in the Hayes lineage, and the cold comfort of contemplating the absolute silence of permanent absence—remained locked away. She was there to clock in, not to confess.
The Burden of Love and Preparation
The drive back to the Hayes estate was long and quiet. The moment Elise stepped inside, the atmosphere, usually one of subdued order, was thick with nervous anticipation. Saturday was two days away, and the house was in the throes of professional, anxious preparation.
Her mother, Mrs. Hayes, intercepted her in the main foyer, her worry a visible, stressful energy.
"Darling, you're back. Did Dr. Alston approve of the dinner arrangement? I'm debating the seating chart. We need to ensure you're comfortable, but Elliot needs to be able to talk business with Julian."
Elise offered the obligatory, small smile.
"We've decided to seat you next to your father. He can buffer you. And I've had the staff entirely rearrange the library adjacent to the East Wing study. Julian prefers to work late, and your father insists he has absolute focus. Everything must be perfect for this partnership."
The focus was relentless: ensuring the perfect integration of the two competent men, while simultaneously creating a safe buffer zone for the one fragile exception—Elise. Her family's love manifested as a vast, expensive machinery designed to manage her permanent state of crisis.
"It sounds organized, Mother," Elise murmured, her voice flat, barely audible.
She walked away, retreating toward her third-floor sanctuary. She passed her father, Mr. Hayes, in the main corridor, reviewing a security schematic with a staff member. He had once commanded global finance; now, his focus was entirely on the intricate logistics of managing his family.
"Elise," her father stated, his voice tight. "Your room is being checked for final soundproofing adjustments this afternoon. When they arrive, the noise will be considerable. You are to prioritize your peace. Do you understand?"
Elise looked at her father, acknowledging the massive cost of his vigilance. She offered the minimal, obedient confirmation that allowed him to refocus on the logistics. "Understood, Father."
The Monologue of Anticipation
Elise spent the remainder of Tuesday and all of Wednesday barricaded in her wing. She forced herself into a deep dive on her structural thesis. She used the logic of physics to combat the chaos of her mind.
If the stress load exceeds the tensile strength, the structure fails. My tensile strength is low. I must maintain absolute isolation to reduce the stress load.
She rarely left her wing, relying on the muted efficiency of the staff. She ate alone, studied alone, and processed the mounting tension entirely through the relentless internal monologue of self-criticism.
She watched the preparations from her window: the detailed maintenance of the East Wing, the precise manicuring of the formal gardens, the continuous traffic of delivery trucks bringing specialized equipment for Julian's study. Every action outside her window was a physical manifestation of the demanding, competent world that she felt utterly excluded from.
She remembered Julian from years past: his intense grey eyes, his sharp intelligence, and the unnerving way he had always looked at her, not through her. He had never accepted her sisterly silence as simple shyness; he had always treated it as a choice, a carefully constructed fortress.
Her anxiety spiraled: He will see the lie. He will see that I am not delicate; I am simply broken, and I am relying on my parents' wealth to contain the damage.
On Thursday, she needed a specific, obscure text from the deep archives of the main library. It was the furthest she had traveled from her wing all week.
She walked through the silent corridors, noticing the final, obsessive touches. A new, custom drafting light had been installed in the East Wing study. The room radiated competence and readiness.
She pulled the required volume from the archive and retreated to a shadowed, remote corner of the library. She opened her journal, not the clinical one for Dr. Alston, but the hidden record of her emotional decay.