The grand estate of the Caldwell family loomed like a monument to wealth at the edge of the city. Gleaming marble floors reflected chandeliers that hung like crystal waterfalls, and every corner of the house seemed to carry the quiet hum of money. Yet, for all its elegance, there was one room where the atmosphere was perpetually heavy: the private suite of young Daniel Caldwell.
Daniel had once been the embodiment of joy. At 12, he was a whirlwind of laughter, energy, and curiosity. But a t.r.a.g.i.c car a.c.c.i.d.e.n.t six months earlier had left him paralyzed from the waist down. Since then, the boy’s once-bright eyes had dimmed, and his smile had become a rare treasure. He hardly left his wheelchair, rarely spoke unless spoken to, and often stared at the window as if searching for a piece of himself that had been left behind on that road.
His father, Richard Caldwell, was a man accustomed to control. As one of the city’s most powerful billionaires, Richard could bend industries to his will. He was a figure who inspired fear and admiration in equal measure, but when it came to his son, he was utterly powerless.
No amount of money, influence, or connections could reverse the cruel hand fate had dealt. Richard buried himself in work, convinced that building more empires was the only way to avoid the aching helplessness that gnawed at him when he thought of Daniel.
It was under these circumstances that Sofia entered their lives.
Sofia was hired as a maid, though in truth, her role was broader. At twenty-three, she had a quiet grace about her, with dark hair that she often tied back and a gentleness that seemed to radiate from her every movement.
She came from modest means, working two jobs to support her younger siblings. When the Caldwell household offered her a position, she accepted it eagerly, grateful for the steady pay.
Though her duties were largely domestic cleaning, tidying, and assisting with household tasks, she often found herself drawn toward Daniel’s suite. At first, she was cautious. The boy rarely looked at her, and when he did, it was with the detached gaze of someone who had stopped expecting kindness from the world.
But Sofia noticed small details others overlooked: the way his eyes lingered on the music videos playing faintly from the television, the way his fingers tapped ever so slightly against the armrest of his wheelchair when a melody filled the air.
One afternoon, as she dusted the bookshelves in his room, Sofia caught Daniel staring at her reflection in the glass. He quickly looked away, embarrassed. Without overthinking, she asked softly, “Do you like music?”
He gave a tiny shrug. “I used to.”