Noah ate when food was placed in front of him. He slept through the night. He walked, stared, existed.
But he lived behind an invisible wall no one could climb.
And each passing day felt like another brick sealing Daniel off from hope.
Two long years passed like that.
When Daniel was forced to host a crucial investors’ gala at the estate—an event necessary to stabilize his struggling company—he agreed only because he refused to let everything crumble with him.
That evening, the mansion lit up again.
Luxury cars curved along the driveway. A string quartet played beneath towering chandeliers. Guests in designer gowns and sharp tuxedos drifted from room to room, laughing just a little too loudly, complimenting renovations, pretending the Whitmore name was still untouched by tragedy.
No one mentioned Noah.
No one dared.
The boy sat quietly in a small armchair in the corner of the main hall. His nanny stood nearby, distracted by her phone. Noah held his tablet in his lap, but the screen was black.
He wasn’t looking at anyone.
He looked through them.