Chapter 1 — The Boy Who Watched From Far Away
The bucket hit Elena before she even had time to lift the puppy from the floor.
Cold water burst across her torn dress, her tangled hair, and the small bowl of food she had been holding with both hands.
The puppy whimpered.
Elena gasped and curled over it instantly, one wet arm shielding the tiny body, the other pressed against her pregnant belly.
Above her, Mr. Hawthorne stood with the empty bucket in his hand like he had just cleaned a stain off the marble.
“You filthy lunatic,” he said.
His voice echoed through the side hall of the Hawthorne mansion.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
Worse.
Comfortable.
As if humiliating a pregnant woman on the floor was part of the household routine.
Elena did not answer.
Water dripped from her hair onto the white stone beneath her knees.
Her hands shook as she pulled the puppy closer to her chest.
“Don’t hurt him...” she whispered.
That was all she begged for.
Not a towel.
Not mercy.
Not even her dignity.
Only the puppy.
Mr. Hawthorne looked down at her with the cold patience of a man who had served powerful people so long that he had learned to borrow their cruelty.
“Mad women don’t belong in this house,” he said.
Elena flinched at the word mad, but she did not look away.
Her eyes were wide, wounded, and far too tired for someone who had once walked through that mansion like she belonged to it.
The chandelier above her glittered.
The staircase curved behind her like something from a magazine.
Everything around Elena looked expensive.
Except the way she was being treated.
No one came.
No one asked why a pregnant woman was soaked on the floor.
No one asked why the butler had dared to speak to her like she was trash.
That was the ugliest thing about the mansion.
It did not need locks.
It had silence.
Mr. Hawthorne set the bucket down and adjusted his sleeve.
“You are lucky Mrs. Hawthorne allows you to stay in the east wing,” he said.
“Most families would have sent you somewhere private by now.”
Elena lowered her head.
The puppy trembled against her chest.
She tucked its face beneath her wet shawl, protecting it from a man who had not even touched the animal, yet had somehow made the whole room feel unsafe.
Her lips moved, but no sound came.
Maybe she wanted to say she used to have a bedroom upstairs.
Maybe she wanted to say this floor had once been polished for her engagement party.
Maybe she wanted to say the child inside her still carried the Hawthorne name.
But Elena had learned what happened when she spoke.
They called it confusion.
They called it hysteria.
They called it another episode.
So she stayed still.
And that made the cruelty look easier to the people who enjoyed it.
Mr. Hawthorne turned half away, satisfied.
The kind of satisfied that comes from hurting someone who cannot afford to fight back.
But then Elena slowly lifted her face.
Water ran down her cheek like a tear she had not chosen.
For one second, the fear in her eyes changed into something sharper.
Not strength.
Not yet.
Memory.
As if somewhere beneath the broken dress, the shaking hands, and the mansion’s lies, a different Elena was still alive.
Mr. Hawthorne saw it and frowned.
“Do not look at me like that,” he said.
Elena held the puppy closer.
The little animal gave another weak whine.
That tiny sound filled the empty hall.
And somewhere far from the mansion, someone else heard it too.
In a private suite lined with dark wood shelves and a school blazer hanging neatly over a chair, Ethan Hawthorne stood frozen in front of a phone.
The screen was still playing.
Elena was there on it, soaked and shaking on the marble floor.
Mr. Hawthorne’s voice came through the speaker, cold and clear.
“Mad women don’t belong in this house.”
Ethan’s face went red.
Not with childish anger.
With insult.
With disbelief.
With the kind of rage that arrives when a child realizes adults have been lying to him for a long time.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
On the screen, Elena bent over the puppy again, as if even through humiliation, she still believed something smaller than herself deserved protection.
Ethan’s breathing turned sharp.
Then the phone flew from his hand.
It smashed into the wall.
Glass cracked across the screen like ice.
The room went silent except for his breath.
A man near the door stepped forward.
“Master Ethan?”
Ethan did not look at the broken phone.
His eyes were fixed on the door now.
Cold.
Clear.
Older than twelve.
“Prepare the car,” he said.
His voice did not shake.
“We’re going home.”
Dừng tại đây đúng cliffhanger của Chapter 1.
Khi bạn yêu cầu, mình sẽ viết tiếp Chapter 2 và giữ bí mật Ethan là ai / Elena là ai để kéo tò mò mạnh hơn.
