On the day she died, Oliver stood beside the hospital bed, swallowed by wires and machines, his tiny hand trapped in hers. When her chest stilled, a sound tore from him—raw, animal, endless—until a nurse lifted him away.
After that, something snapped.
The screaming stopped.
So did everything else.
Oliver’s silence hollowed out the house.
Nate attacked the problem like any other crisis—resources first. International specialists. Private flights. Glass-walled offices where doctors spoke gently but firmly.
“Selective mutism,” they said. “The trauma locked his voice away. He can speak. He just… doesn’t. Not yet. Forcing it will only deepen the damage.”
So Nate spared no expense. Top child psychologists. A playroom bigger than most preschools. Sessions where Oliver drew towers and planes in total silence.
Days blurred into months.
Two years passed.
The silence remained.
Tonight was supposed to prove something: Hawthorne Industries was steady. Tragedy hadn’t cracked the foundation. The house was full again. The wine flowed.
For an hour, Nate performed.
He shook hands. Accepted condolences through clenched teeth. Listened as people told him grief “gets easier,” as if pain were a muscle.