Chapter 1 – The Therapist Arrives at Ashford Estate

Three years had passed since the day the world learned that Jasmine Ashford was gone. And Rafe Ashford never recovered after her death. He became completely shut off from the world. Jasmine's death had turned him cold and ruthless. He spoke little to the staff. He spoke even less to his son.

Ethan Ashford was three when his mother passed away, he was now six years old. Once he had been a bright little boy who ran through the halls with laughter that filled every corner. 

Now he sat quiet in the nursery most days, a healthy looking child with soft brown hair that fell over his forehead and wide eyes that seemed too careful for someone so young. He drew more than he spoke. He had recurring nightmares and would wake crying and then go silent for hours, sometimes days. The nannies came and went. Tutors tried. Specialists visited. Ethan pushed everyone away, just as his father had done.

Rafe had spoken to the leading child psychologist in the city only a week earlier. The man had been clear.

“Mr. Ashford, your son needs someone who stays. Not another temporary face. He needs consistency. Someone trained in childhood trauma and art therapy since Ethan is more inclined to art. I recommend Brielle Bennett. She has a gift with children, especially in special cases like your son.”

Rafe had refused at first. Strangers in his home were the last things he needed.But then Ethan suffered another panic attack. The boy had curled up on the floor of the playroom, shaking, unable to speak for nearly two full days. That was the moment Rafe’s resistance broke.

He called the psychologist back, he sounded resigned as he spoke.

“Fine. She can come stay. I’ll make the arrangements.”

Now the morning had come. The household staff lined up in the grand entrance hall. Mrs. Harlow, the housekeeper with her silver hair pulled into a tight bun and a voice that never rose above a calm, measured tone, directed everyone into place. Young Tom, the footman who always stood a little too straight and checked his cuffs twice, whispered to the maid beside him.

“Do you think she’ll last longer than the last one? Little Ethan sent that tutor packing in three days.”

The maid, a soft-spoken woman named Clara who had worked at the estate since before Ethan was born, shook her head. “He doesn’t mean to hurt anyone. He’s just… lost. Poor boy.”

Rafe appeared at the top of the sweeping staircase. He wore a dark suit even though he had no meetings until afternoon. His face stayed unreadable as he looked down at the staff.

“Is everything ready?” he asked.

Mrs. Harlow stepped forward. “Yes, sir. The guest suite on the east wing is prepared. Fresh linens, a desk by the window, and the art supplies the psychologist suggested are already in the playroom.”

Rafe gave a short nod. “Good. When she arrives, bring her to me first.”

A car pulled up outside. The sound of the tires on the gravel carried through the open doors. Brielle Bennett stepped out carrying only a modest suitcase. She was younger than many expected,mid-twenties, with calm features and a quiet way of moving that made people notice her without knowing why. Her dark hair was pulled back simply. She wore a plain blouse and trousers, nothing flashy. But her eyes… those eyes held something careful, as if she measured every step.

Mrs. Harlow opened the front door wider. “Miss Bennett? Welcome to Ashford Estate. I am Mrs. Harlow, the housekeeper.”

Brielle’s voice came soft but steady. “Thank you, Mrs. Harlow. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Clara stepped forward with a small smile. “May I take your suitcase, Miss Bennett?”

“That’s kind of you, but I can manage it,” Brielle answered. She kept the suitcase close.

Tom held the door and offered a polite nod. “This way, miss. Mr. Ashford is waiting.”

Brielle walked into the entrance hall. The sweeping staircase rose in front of her. The family portraits lined the walls. The grand piano sat in the corner of the sitting room beyond, she couldn’t help but imagine the sort of melodious sounds it’d make. It had been a while, almost a lifetime ago since she had last played. She could feel the pull to the piano, she was pulled out of her revelry by the sound of heavy footsteps, she looked up in time to see who it was.

Rafe came down the stairs. His steps were measured. When he reached the bottom, he stopped a few feet away and studied the woman who had just entered his home.

“Miss Bennett,” he said. His voice was low, controlled. “I am Rafe Ashford.”

Brielle met his gaze. “Mr. Ashford. Thank you for allowing me to come.”

“The psychologist spoke highly of your work,” Rafe continued. “My son has not responded well to previous caregivers. I need someone who will be professional and stick to providing my son with the best care possible.”

“I understand,” Brielle replied. “Children who have experienced loss often need time and patience more than anything else. Art can help them say what words cannot.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Ethan is intelligent. Exceptionally so. But he withdraws. Nightmares. Panic. Long silences. He rejects almost everyone.”

Brielle nodded. “I have worked with children in similar situations. I will not push him. I will meet him where he is.”

Mrs. Harlow cleared her throat gently. “Shall I show Miss Bennett to her suite, sir?”

Rafe held up a hand. “In a moment. First I want her to understand the household rules. My son’s privacy comes first. No unnecessary questions about the past. No discussing family matters outside these walls. And you report only to me regarding his progress.”

“Of course,” Brielle said. “I work for Ethan’s well-being. That is my only focus.”

Clara spoke softly from the side. “The playroom is ready whenever you wish to see it, Miss Bennett. We set out the paper and colored pencils the psychologist recommended.”

Brielle turned toward her with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Clara. That helps.”

Tom shifted his weight. “If you need anything carried upstairs or rearranged, just say the word.”

Rafe watched the exchange. “The staff will assist you as needed. But Ethan’s schedule is simple. Breakfast at seven. Lessons in the morning. Free time in the afternoon. He eats dinner with me when I am home. Otherwise he eats in the nursery.”

Brielle listened carefully. “And when he has a difficult day? How do you usually handle it?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “We give him space. Forcing conversation only makes it worse.”

“I will respect that,” she said. “But sometimes presence without words can help more than silence alone.”

Mrs. Harlow gestured toward the staircase. “Shall we go up, Miss Bennett? Your suite overlooks the garden.”

Brielle followed. As they climbed, Clara walked a few steps behind with a tray of water and a light snack. Tom carried nothing but stayed nearby in case he was needed.

Halfway up the stairs, Brielle paused. The hallway above stretched long and familiar. Portraits of Ashford ancestors stared down. She kept her voice even. “The house is very beautiful.”

Mrs. Harlow nodded. “It has been in the family for generations. Mr. Ashford prefers it quiet these days.”

They reached the east wing. Mrs. Harlow opened the door to the guest suite. Soft light came through the tall windows. A bed with clean white sheets. A desk. A small sitting area.

“This will be your space,” Mrs. Harlow said. “The bathroom is through that door. If you need anything at all, ring the bell.”

Clara set the tray down. “I brought water and a few sandwiches in case you haven’t eaten.”

Brielle thanked them both. Tom hovered near the doorway. “The playroom is just down the hall if you’d like to see it after you settle.”

Brielle set her suitcase on the bed. “I would like that. But first… is Ethan nearby?”

Mrs. Harlow hesitated. “He is in the nursery at the moment. He has been quiet since breakfast.”

Rafe’s voice came from the hallway. He had followed them up. “I will introduce you when the time is right. Let him adjust to the idea that someone new is here.”

Brielle turned. “Of course. I can wait.”

Clara spoke gently. “He sometimes comes out when he hears new voices. He is curious even when he pretends not to be.”

Rafe’s expression stayed closed. “Curiosity does not mean trust. Remember that.”

Brielle met his eyes again. “I will not forget.”

Mrs. Harlow and the others stepped back. Rafe remained in the doorway for a moment longer.

“You have only to do your job and nothing else,’’ he said. “Do I make myself clear?."

She could hear the hidden warning in his words, not that she expected any less from a man whose child seems to be going through a tough time.

Then he turned and walked away down the corridor.

Brielle stood alone in the suite for a short while. She unpacked only what she needed. Her hands stayed steady even as the memories pressed close. The garden outside the window. The path where a small boy once took his first steps. She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again.

A soft sound came from the hallway. Footsteps. Small ones.

She stepped to the doorway.

Ethan stood several feet away. He wore a simple blue shirt and dark trousers. His brown hair fell across his forehead. He held a crumpled drawing in one hand. His eyes,wide, careful, searching,fixed on her face.

Brielle’s breath caught. She stayed perfectly still.

Ethan did not run. He did not look away. He simply stood there, studying her as if something about her face tugged at a memory he could not name.

Brielle’s hands curled at her sides. She fought the overwhelming need to reach for him, to hold him, to tell him everything with a single embrace.

She remained frozen in place, the distance between them feeling both endless and far too short.