Chapter 2 - The QuestionEthan Caldwell was staring at a screen filled with fluctuating green and red numbers, his jaw tight, his posture rigid. He was calculating a potential acquisition in Singapore, a move that would consolidate his grip on the Pacific shipping lanes. He hadn't blinked in ten minutes.
The door clicked open, and he didn't even look up, assuming it was Walter with his second cup of coffee.
"Walter, I told you I wanted the report on the logistics firm before nine," he said, his voice devoid of warmth.
When no answer came, Ethan finally lifted his eyes. He didn't see Walter. He saw a small girl with pigtails, mismatched shoes, and a yellow rubber duck under her arm, staring at him with an intensity that made him feel inexplicably exposed.
Ethan blinked. He hadn't interacted with a child in a decade. He hadn't wanted to. They were messy, loud, and prone to asking questions that had no logical, bottom-line answers.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice rough from disuse.
"I’m Sophie," she said, undeterred by his glare. She walked into the room, her eyes roaming over the expensive mahogany desk, the leather chair, and finally settling back on his face.
Ethan felt a strange prickle of irritation. "You shouldn't be here. Walter!"
"He can't hear you," Sophie said, stepping closer. "He’s in the kitchen. My mom is cleaning the floors. She’s the ninja one."
Ethan felt a headache forming behind his temples. This was exactly what he had built his fortress to avoid—disruption. "Go back to your mother. Now."
Sophie didn't move. Instead, she tilted her head, observing him with a scrutiny that reminded him, painfully, of Grace. "Why do you look like somebody canceled your birthday forever?"
The air in the room seemed to vanish. The question was so absurd, so direct, that Ethan felt the breath leave his chest. Nobody ever asked him about his state of mind. People asked about his assets, his future, or his charity contributions. Nobody dared to comment on the man behind the desk.
"That is a very rude question," Ethan said, his voice tight.
"My mom says if you're sad, you should eat ice cream," Sophie replied, completely unbothered. She walked up to his desk, ignoring the stacks of contracts worth millions, and placed her rubber duck firmly on top of a signed agreement.
The duck squeaked—a loud, defiant sound that echoed in the silent room.
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Ethan stared at the yellow toy. A flash of memory hit him: a pale yellow nursery, a stack of books he had bought, a dream of a life that never happened. He looked at the duck, then at Sophie. He should have been angry. He should have been calling Walter to have them both escorted out.
Instead, for the first time in ten years, Ethan felt his lips twitch. He wasn't laughing, but he was holding back a smile.
