Chapter Two The Boy the World Waited For - The Cage He Called Love

Ben’s POV

At Hawthorne House, morning did not begin when the sun rose. It began when I opened my eyes.

Until then, the eastern wing remained silent. Housekeepers slowed their carts before crossing the corridor outside my bedroom. Gardeners avoided the lawn beneath my balcony, and all calls to my private floor were redirected to the household office. Breakfast was prepared at eight, replaced at nine and prepared again at ten so that it would still be fresh whenever Benjamin Hawthorne decided to wake up.

No one had officially made those rules. Everyone simply understood that disturbing my sleep was an unnecessary risk.

I opened my eyes at ten forty-six.

Heavy velvet curtains covered the tall windows, keeping the enormous bedroom dark and cool. For several seconds, I remained beneath the Egyptian-cotton sheets and listened to the silence that an entire household had created for me.

Beyond my bedroom, more than forty employees had already begun working. Drivers had polished cars I might not use. Grooms had exercised horses I had not visited in weeks. A private chef had prepared enough food for ten people without knowing whether I would eat any of it.

An entire estate had been awake for hours.

It was still waiting for me.

I pressed the gold button built into my nightstand. The curtains opened automatically, and sunlight spread across the Italian furniture, black marble fireplace and private sitting area. Beside the balcony doors stood a black grand piano that had once belonged to my mother.

No one had played it in eleven years.

The small light above my bedroom door turned green. A knock followed almost immediately.

“Enter,” I called.

The double doors opened, and the room came alive. Mr. Ellis, my personal attendant, entered carrying two garment bags. A maid pushed in a silver breakfast cart while another member of staff went directly into the bathroom to prepare my shower. Someone opened the balcony doors, and another employee replaced the untouched glass of water beside my bed.

“Good morning, Master Benjamin,” Mr. Ellis said.

I glanced at the clock. “How long have you been waiting outside?”

“Since nine o’clock, sir,” he replied.

“And no one thought of leaving?”

“You had not dismissed us.”

“That is either admirable loyalty or a serious lack of ambition,” I said.

Mr. Ellis remained expressionless. Years of working for the Hawthorne family had given him the emotional range of the marble statues downstairs.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Mr. Ellis immediately knelt and slipped warm black velvet slippers onto my feet. My initials had been embroidered across them in silver thread. They had been handmade in Italy, although I could not remember choosing them.

Most things entered my life that way. Clothes appeared before I needed them. Watches waited inside drawers until someone decided which one matched my shirt. Cars arrived at the estate before I had learned the names of the previous ones.

The maid removed the polished covers from the breakfast cart. Eggs prepared three ways, smoked salmon, pancakes, sausages, toast, pastries, fruit, coffee and three kinds of juice appeared beneath them.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

“Chef Laurent can prepare something else, sir,” the maid offered.

“There is already enough food here to feed a small government,” I replied. “Send it downstairs.”

“To the staff dining room?”

“Yes. Someone should benefit from Laurent’s suffering.”

The maid lowered her head, but I noticed the beginning of a smile before the cart was pushed aside.

The bathroom was larger than Henry’s living room. Steam filled the glass shower, fresh towels waited inside a warming cabinet, and a toothbrush had already been prepared beside the sink. At eighteen, I was perfectly capable of putting toothpaste on a brush and turning on the water. Capability simply did not matter in Hawthorne House. Anything another person could do for us became something we were no longer expected to do ourselves.

By the time I returned, three complete outfits had been arranged across the sitting area. I selected a black shirt and dark trousers while Mr. Ellis fastened an expensive watch around my wrist.

“Where is my father?” I asked.

“Mr. Hawthorne departed for Geneva at six fifteen this morning,” Mr. Ellis replied.

I looked at his reflection in the mirror. “He was home?”

“He arrived from New York shortly after one.”

“So he spent five hours in this house.”

“Approximately, sir.”

“And never came upstairs.”

Mr. Ellis adjusted my collar even though it was already straight. “Mr. Hawthorne’s schedule was unusually demanding.”

My father’s schedule had been unusually demanding for as long as I could remember. Victor Hawthorne controlled companies across three continents. He owned hotels, technology firms, apartment towers and enough land to have entire roads redirected. Business magazines called him disciplined, visionary and ruthless.

They never mentioned that his only son sometimes learned he had been home from a servant.

“Did he leave a message?” I asked.

Mr. Ellis hesitated for less than a second. “No, sir.”

“And Celeste?”

“Mrs. Hawthorne returned from the Beaumont gala at three thirty. Complete privacy was requested until noon.”

“Any message?”

“No, sir.”

Of course not.

My father remembered meetings arranged months in advance and the exact value of companies purchased years ago. My stepmother remembered charity dinners, designer appointments and every photographer expected at an event.

Neither had remembered that my final result was being released today.

Then again, neither had remembered to tell me.

Mr. Ellis opened my schedule on his tablet. “Your fencing instructor is waiting in the west gymnasium. Your mathematics tutor arrived at ten, and the tailor is expected at four.”

“Cancel everything,” I said.

“For today, sir?”

“For today.”

“Your father specifically requested the mathematics lesson.”

“My father requested it from another country,” I replied. “He will survive the disappointment.”

Mr. Ellis inclined his head and left with the other staff members. The doors closed behind them, and the bedroom returned to silence.

My attention shifted to the framed photograph beside my bed. I was seven in the picture, standing beneath the cherry tree in our garden with my mother’s arms wrapped around my shoulders. A thin crack crossed one corner of the frame.

It was the only object in my room no servant was allowed to touch.

I had almost reached for it when the bedroom door opened without a knock.

Henry Bennett walked inside.

Henry was the only person who could reach my private floor without being announced. The guards had known him since childhood, and the household staff treated him as the one person capable of making me behave like a reasonable human being.

They greatly overestimated him.

He wore a neatly pressed blue shirt and polished brown shoes with deep creases across the leather. His clothes were never expensive, but everything was always clean and carefully maintained. Unlike most people who entered Hawthorne House, Henry had never tried to impress me.

He looked at me, then at the clock. “You’re finally awake.”

“Your disappointment suggests you hoped to inherit the estate before noon,” I said.

“I called you seven times,” Henry replied.

“My phone was silent.”

“I know. I was the person being ignored.”

“You appear to have survived.”

“Barely,” Henry said. “Your concern is touching.”

He looked around the room and then turned back to me. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Thursday,” I answered.

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Then why did you ask if you already knew?”

Henry stared at me in disbelief. “It is result day, Ben. And thanks to you, we are already late.”

I stopped adjusting my cuff.

“Result day?” I repeated.

“Yes. The day our final results are released. The day we have discussed for months.”

I searched my memory and found nothing. “I forgot.”

Henry’s eyebrows rose. “You actually admitted it.”

“The evidence was overwhelming.”

“We were supposed to reach Bellmere forty minutes ago,” Henry said, visibly frustrated.

“The results will still be there.”

“The headmistress asked everyone to collect the sealed reports personally.”

“I have people for collecting things.”

“Yes, but apparently none of your people remembered either.”

I looked toward the tablet Mr. Ellis had left behind. My schedule included fencing, mathematics and a wardrobe fitting. Nothing about Bellmere appeared anywhere.

Somehow, an office capable of managing private flights, international meetings and an estate with more rooms than I could count had forgotten the only important event of my day.

Henry folded his arms. “Are you coming?”

“I haven’t had breakfast.”

“You said you weren’t hungry.”

“I may develop hunger during the journey.”

“There are restaurants in the city.”

“I do not trust strangers with eggs.”

Henry closed his eyes briefly. “Your future may depend on today’s result, and you are discussing eggs.”

“Bad eggs can also change a person’s future.”

“Ben.”

“Fine,” I said.

I pressed the service button. Mr. Ellis returned almost immediately.

“Prepare the black Rolls-Royce,” I ordered. “We’re going to Bellmere.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And have Laurent pack something to eat.”

Henry pointed toward the untouched cart. “There is already breakfast here.”

“This breakfast has been emotionally rejected,” I explained.

“Food does not have emotions.”

“Then it will recover quickly.”

Mr. Ellis inclined his head. “The vehicle will be ready in four minutes.”

Henry watched him leave and shook his head. “Most people cannot summon a Rolls-Royce by pressing a button.”

“Most people should negotiate better employment contracts.”

“You have never been employed.”

“Exactly. My negotiations were excellent.”

We left the bedroom and crossed the upper gallery. Portraits of Hawthorne ancestors lined the walls, generations of stern-looking men painted beside factories, ships and enormous estates. Every face carried the same expression—the world existed to be owned.

At the top of the grand staircase, a maid waited with my sunglasses. Another employee held a jacket in case the weather changed during the journey. By the time we reached the entrance hall, the twenty-foot doors had already opened.

Outside, the black Rolls-Royce waited beside the fountain. A uniformed chauffeur stood beside the open rear door while a second vehicle carrying security prepared to follow us.

Henry looked at the security car. “Are armed guards really necessary for collecting school results?”

“Disappointing grades can make people dangerous,” I replied.

“The only person in danger will be you when your father sees yours.”

“My father has survived financial crashes. I think he can survive mathematics.”

We climbed into the car. Cool air surrounded us, cold drinks waited inside a hidden compartment, and Chef Laurent had somehow packed a silver breakfast tray within four minutes.

As the estate gates opened, Henry checked the time again.

“The school office might close before we arrive,” he said nervously.

“My driver has never lost a race against office hours.”

“Your driver is obeying traffic laws.”

“That explains the disappointing speed.”

Henry picked up a pastry from the tray. “You should be nervous.”

“I am nervous,” I replied.

“No, you aren’t.”

“I hide it beneath years of emotional discipline.”

“You forgot result day.”

“My discipline has limits.”

Despite himself, Henry smiled. That was how our friendship worked. Henry worried enough for both of us, and I acted as though nothing deserved worry until the problem either disappeared or someone paid to remove it.

The grounds of Bellmere Secondary School were nearly empty when we arrived. Most students had already collected their results and left with their families. A few remained near the entrance, taking photographs or comparing marks.

The Rolls-Royce stopped at the foot of the steps. Henry reached for the door, but the chauffeur opened it first.

“Do you ever open anything yourself?” Henry asked.

“I opened my eyes this morning,” I replied. “It was exhausting.”

Inside, the familiar smell of old books and polished floors replaced the scent of leather and expensive cologne. Bellmere had never been luxurious, but it had been ours for years. Its corridors held memories of examinations, arguments, detentions and Henry dragging me into classes I had planned to avoid.

Mrs. Alden, the headmistress, stood outside the administration office holding the final two sealed envelopes.

“Mr. Bennett,” Mrs. Alden said with relief. Then she turned toward me. “Mr. Hawthorne. How generous of you to join us.”

“I enjoy creating memorable entrances,” I replied.

“You are almost an hour late.”

“That explains why everyone remembered it.”

Mrs. Alden’s expression suggested she would not miss me nearly as much as Henry.

The headmistress handed us the envelopes. Henry’s name appeared on one, mine on the other. Both were sealed with the Bellmere crest.

I looked at Henry. “Let’s exchange.”

Henry frowned. “Why?”

“It will make the disappointment less personal.”

“What if I refuse to return your result?”

“I’ll purchase another copy.”

Henry sighed. “You truly have one solution for everything.”

“It is an excellent solution.”

He handed me his envelope, and I gave him mine. We sat on a wooden bench beneath the school honour boards.

“Whose result first?” Henry asked.

“Yours,” I answered.

“You only want to delay opening your own.”

“That is another excellent solution.”

I broke the seal on Henry’s envelope. His subject marks were printed across the front page.

English Literature: ninety-seven.

Mathematics: ninety-nine.

Biology: ninety-eight.

Chemistry: ninety-eight.

Physics: ninety-six.

History: ninety-five.

At the bottom, his overall percentage appeared in bold.

96.8%.

For once, I forgot to make a joke.

Henry leaned closer. “Well?”

I read the percentage again. “You did it.”

Henry’s expression became tense. “Did what?”

“You know exactly what.”

“Ben, tell me.”

“Ninety-six point eight percent,” I announced, unable to hide my smile.

Henry’s eyes widened. “Really?”

I turned the page toward him. His face changed immediately. Months of worry and late-night study disappeared beneath pure happiness.

“Turn it over,” Henry said eagerly.

I turned the report card over. Beneath the official Bellmere seal, his position appeared in bold.

FIRST POSITION IN THE GRADUATING CLASS.

Below it were his teachers’ remarks:

Henry Bennett is an exceptional student whose discipline, humility and kindness equal his academic ability. Bellmere Secondary School proudly recommends him for St. Gabriel High School’s full academic scholarship.

“You topped the entire class,” I said proudly.

Henry stared at the words, his eyes shining. “This could be enough for St. Gabriel.”

“Could?” I asked. “With these marks, they should personally visit your house and beg you to join.”

“The scholarship committee still has to approve me,” Henry reminded me.

“They would need to be blind, illiterate and unusually stupid to reject this.”

Henry laughed, but emotion tightened his voice. “My parents will be so happy.”

“Your mother will cry.”

“My father might cry too.”

“Your father will walk outside first and pretend something entered his eye,” I said.

Henry looked down at the report again. St. Gabriel High School had been our dream for years. For Henry, it was more than the finest high school in the city. Its science laboratories, university preparation programme and scholarships could transform his entire future.

He had always known his family could not afford the fees.

Now his dream no longer seemed impossible.

Henry stood and pulled me into a quick hug. “Thank you.”

I immediately stepped back. “For what?”

“For helping me prepare for the science examination.”

“I asked three questions and ate your snacks.”

“You still stayed.”

“Do not become sentimental in public,” I warned. “Bellmere has already suffered enough.”

Henry smiled, but then his eyes moved toward the envelope in his hand.

My envelope.

His smile weakened. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Perhaps we should celebrate your result for another hour,” I suggested.

“You said results do not disappear.”

“I may have been mistaken.”

Henry carefully broke the seal. I watched his eyes move down the first page. Almost immediately, his expression changed. The happiness disappeared, his eyebrows drew together, and by the time he reached the bottom, he looked genuinely sad.

“Well?” I asked.

Henry remained silent.

“That good?”

“Ben…” Henry said quietly.

“Just read it.”

Henry took a slow breath. “English Literature: fifty-eight. Mathematics: fifty-one. Biology: fifty-five. Chemistry: fifty-three. Physics: fifty-two. History: fifty-seven.”

“Consistent,” I said.

Henry looked up. “That is not the word I would use.”

“What percentage?”

“Fifty-four point six.”

“Comfortably above zero.”

Henry turned the report card over. His face fell further.

“What now?” I asked.

“You passed,” Henry said sadly.

“I assumed so.”

“Barely.”

“Passed is the important word.”

“You came last in the graduating class.”

I considered that for a moment. “Someone had to.”

“Ben, this is serious.”

“It would have been selfish to deny someone else the second-last position.”

Henry ignored my remark and looked at the mathematics mark again. “Fifty-one?”

“It appears so.”

“I taught you mathematics personally,” Henry said, sounding almost personally betrayed.

“That explains why I felt so relaxed during the examination.”

Henry stared at me. “What did you do?”

“I answered several questions.”

“And the others?”

“I fell asleep.”

“You slept during your final mathematics examination?”

“The room was warm, and the invigilator had a very calming voice.”

“My revision sessions were not bedtime stories.”

“That depends on the chapter.”

Henry closed his eyes and pressed two fingers against his forehead. “I spent three weeks teaching you calculus.”

“And I remember the time fondly.”

“You remember nothing from it.”

“I remember you becoming angry near the whiteboard.”

“Because you used my formula sheet as a coaster.”

“The tea was hot.”

Henry sat beside me and read the teachers’ remarks on the back.

Benjamin Hawthorne possesses considerable natural intelligence but demonstrates little academic discipline. Greater effort, consistency and respect for responsibility are strongly recommended.

“Considerable natural intelligence,” I repeated. “An excellent beginning.”

“You ignored everything after that,” Henry said.

“The rest became unnecessarily negative.”

Henry placed both report cards between us. His showed first position, outstanding remarks and a percentage high enough to make his scholarship almost certain. Mine showed the exact opposite.

His dream had just moved within reach.

Mine should have disappeared.

“What are you going to do now?” Henry asked worriedly.

“About what?”

“St. Gabriel.”

“Attend.”

Henry turned toward me. “Ben, they require at least seventy-five percent. You have fifty-four point six.”

“I know.”

“You finished last.”

“We have established that too.”

“Your application may not even reach the admission board,” Henry said. “We were supposed to attend St. Gabriel together. Same school, same classes. What happens now?”

I folded my report once and placed it inside my jacket pocket. “Don’t worry. We’ll still be together.”

“How?” Henry asked.

“Same high school,” I replied confidently. “Same year. Same class.”

Henry stared at me in disbelief. “How can you possibly guarantee that?”

I stood and adjusted my jacket. “Because my father could buy ten high schools like St. Gabriel without noticing the money had left his account.”

“That is your plan?” Henry asked.

“It is not a plan,” I said calmly. “It is reassurance.”

“Your father cannot buy your grades.”

“He doesn’t need to buy my grades. He only needs to make the school stop caring about them.”

“Schools have rules.”

“My father has lawyers.”

“They have an admission board.”

“My father knows board members.”

“They can still say no.”

I looked at Henry and smiled. “People rarely say no to Victor Hawthorne. The few who do usually change their minds after the second offer.”

Henry tried to remain serious, but a reluctant smile appeared. “You are unbelievable.”

“I am trying to make you feel better.”

“I came first. You came last. Why are you comforting me?”

“Because I understand friendship.”

“You forgot result day.”

“I understand friendship after ten forty-six in the morning.”

Henry shook his head and looked down at his own report card again. “You really believe we’ll be in the same class?”

“I guarantee it.”

“How?”

“If St. Gabriel places us separately, my father will have the timetable changed.”

“That is not how schools work.”

“That is not how schools work for you,” I corrected him.

Henry laughed softly. “One day, the Hawthorne name will fail to open a door.”

“Then we will purchase the building and use another entrance.”

This time Henry laughed properly.

We left Bellmere carrying our envelopes—Henry’s carefully held against his chest and mine folded inside my pocket. At the bottom of the steps, the Rolls-Royce waited with the rear door already open.

Henry paused beside the car. “My parents are going to cry.”

“Your mother definitely will,” I said.

“And your father?” Henry asked carefully.

I looked toward the dark window of the Rolls-Royce. “My father’s office will receive a copy before we reach home.”

“That was not what I asked.”

“I know.”

Henry did not press further.

We entered the car, and the chauffeur closed the door. As Bellmere disappeared behind us, Henry continued studying his result.

First position. Ninety-six point eight percent. A future earned through years of discipline.

My report remained forgotten inside my jacket.

Last position. Fifty-four point six percent. A future that should have become uncertain.

Yet I felt no fear.

Henry had worked hard enough to enter St. Gabriel.

I had been born with a name that would carry me through the same gates.

Same school.

Same class.

I had no doubt about it.