The first rays of dawn pierced the tall windows of the Vale estate, painting the walls with gold and rose. The city below had begun to stir, but Adrian Vale did not notice. Not yet. He lay in the grand four-poster bed of his room, cocooned in the dark comfort of silence, staring at the ornate ceiling as if it held answers. The absence in his chest felt heavier this morning, a weight pressing down on him where his mother's laughter used to echo.
She had been gone for six years, and yet, in every corner of the house, in every carefully polished surface, in every whisper of the wind through the curtains, her absence screamed louder than any presence could.
Adrian finally moved. His body felt like iron wrapped in ice, each motion deliberate, controlled. He sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the polished oak floor, and ran a hand through his thick black hair. Green eyes, sharp and calculating even in their sorrow, scanned the room as though seeking her, though he knew he would not find her here.
The silence was broken only by the soft murmur of the household waking around him: the distant clatter of silverware in the kitchen, the quiet footsteps of someone already walking through the halls. Adrian did not flinch. He had lived in this mansion long enough to know who moved where at what hour. Every butler, every maid, every member of staff was a moving piece of the Vale machine, and he was the center — cold, untouchable, untouching.
A knock came at the door."Master Adrian," a voice said, deferential and careful. It was Thomas, the head butler. His tone carried a note of worry, though he would never dare let it rise above a whisper. "Breakfast will be served in ten minutes."
Adrian did not answer. He did not even look at him.
Thomas knew better than to insist. Instead, he left, and the silence returned, wrapping around Adrian like a familiar cloak. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the morning chill biting his skin, and stood. Today, like most days, he would skip breakfast. His father would frown, his stepmother would sneer, and the household would murmur behind their gloves and trays, but none of that mattered. Not today.
He dressed quickly in the tailored black suit that waited on the stand — crisp, perfect, uncompromising. The tie was straight, the shirt ironed to perfection. Adrian's eyes flicked to the photograph on his bedside table: his mother smiling, sunlight in her hair, a warmth he could never recreate. He did not touch it. He only stared long enough for the memory to sharpen the ache in his chest before turning away.
The hallways of the Vale estate smelled of polished wood and faint lemon, a scent meticulously maintained by the housekeeper. Adrian passed portraits of ancestors who had built empires and commanded fleets; he barely glanced at them. They were irrelevant. Legacy, he had learned, did not soothe absence.
In the dining hall, the long mahogany table gleamed, set perfectly for the morning meal. But Adrian did not sit. His father, William Vale, sat at the head, the embodiment of entitlement and cold authority, reviewing papers with one hand, the other resting casually on a glass of orange juice. The man glanced at him briefly. "Adrian, come eat."
Adrian shook his head. "Not today." His voice was calm, soft even, but the weight behind it left no room for argument.
His father's lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. He never did anymore. Instead, he turned back to his papers, dismissing the boy as though he had already anticipated the refusal. That was the Vale way: control, respect, fear — but no affection. Adrian did not need the lecture; he had learned it in the years after his mother's death.
He bypassed the dining hall entirely, stepping into the quiet marble corridors that led to the garage. Even here, in the vast expanse of steel and leather, the house felt alive with his absence. Cars gleamed under the soft glow of the overhead lights: Lamborghinis, Ferraris, custom rides that most people would dream of for a lifetime. Adrian paused before the one he always chose, running a hand over its sleek surface, feeling the cold pulse of power beneath his fingertips.
"You're up early," a voice said, sharp, carrying the thin edge of disdain.
Adrian turned slightly. There, leaning against the polished wall of the garage, was his stepmother. Claudia Vale. Blonde hair meticulously styled, sharp blue eyes assessing him like a predator judging prey. A smile played across her lips — but it did not reach her eyes.
"You've decided to skip breakfast again?" she asked, as if it were a game she had won merely by noticing.
Adrian said nothing. He did not raise his eyebrows, did not tighten his jaw, did not meet her gaze. Her presence was irrelevant. Her taunts were irrelevant.
"Not hungry?" she pressed, circling slightly, the heels of her shoes clicking softly against the marble floor. "Or are you punishing me for something I didn't do? Perhaps… a subtle rebellion against your father?"
Adrian finally looked at her, and only for a moment. His gaze was flat, unyielding. "I'm not interested," he said. No inflection, no warmth.
Claudia laughed, soft and calculated, as though amusement could penetrate the armor around him. "Very well," she said, stepping aside as he moved past. "But remember, young master, the world is full of consequences. Even for breakfast skippers."
He ignored her. The Lamborghini awaited. Its black surface reflected the dim garage lights, the lines of the car elegant and unforgiving, much like him. Adrian slid into the driver's seat, the leather cool against his palms. He pressed the start button, and the engine roared to life — low, throaty, commanding. It was music. It was control. It was a promise that he could still dominate some part of a world that felt increasingly empty.
The garage door lifted, revealing the first hints of the city morning. New York sprawled out in a sea of glass, concrete, and steel — vibrant, loud, and unyielding. He drove out, the engine vibrating beneath him, heart steady, mind sharper than ever despite the ache of grief. He would not allow the loss to slow him. The world had to bend to the living, not the mourning.
As he merged into the streets, traffic weaving around him, Adrian let his gaze drift over the city — a world of people, possibilities, and distractions. But he would not be distracted. He had learned early that attachment could be a weakness, that empathy could be a trap. It was why he buried himself in control, in detachment, in the cold perfection of movement and action.
Even as he raced through the avenues, the orange glow of the rising sun reflecting off glass towers, he allowed himself a single thought of her. Just a fraction of a heartbeat, a memory of laughter in sunlit rooms, of warmth in a life now extinguished. He blinked, and it vanished. There was no room for softness in the world he navigated, not yet.
By the time he reached the outskirts of school, the hum of the engine subdued beneath the roar of city life, Adrian's mind was already elsewhere. There would be assemblies, teachers, the usual stream of peers with their trivial problems and petty dramas. None of it mattered. He only needed to maintain the illusion — the perfect student, the untouchable heir, the cold boy who could bend the world around him without ever bending himself.
But even illusions required constant vigilance. And Adrian Vale was nothing if not vigilant.
He parked the Lamborghini in the designated lot, stepping out with precise control, hands in his pockets, back straight. The first light of morning caught the green of his eyes, sharp as ever, and the shadow of the past months lingered there like smoke. He did not look back. He could not. The streets behind him were alive, chaotic, loud. But the corridors of school — structured, predictable — would allow him to breathe, if only slightly.
And yet, even here, in the heart of his structured existence, a single truth remained: control was all he had left. Control, and the faint, unyielding echo of her absence. Mother, wish me goodluck. He sighed heavily and began to walk forward.