Chapter 6 Arthur
Chapter six
Arthur
Dinner with Henry is usually quiet.
He eats carefully, like each bite needs to be accounted for. I watch him from across the table, noting the familiar way he lines up his fork and knife.
I ask about school. He answers with three sentences about a science project, delivered with the same tone I use in board meetings.
My chest tightens at the familiarity.
I ask about homework.
He nods, confirming completion without elaborating.
His responses are factual.
The conversation follows its usual pattern—question, answer, pause. Like a status report between colleagues rather than father and son.
I resist the urge to fill the gap with another prompt.
This is normal, I tell myself. Not every household needs noise to feel full.
Providing structure is a form of care. Some families thrive on chaos and constant chatter, but Henry has always been thoughtful, introspective.
Like his mother in that way. Catherine never needed to fill every silence with words either.
Still.
The space between us feels larger tonight. Maybe I'm just noticing it more.
When we move to the living room, Henry curls up on the corner of the expansive leather couch with a book about space exploration that he'd selected himself from the library.
Normally, he'd be playing a videogame, but I assigned him a 'special learning project', and encouraged him to get a book. Now he'll see it through.
His legs tuck beneath him, making him appear even smaller against the oversized furniture.
I take the chair opposite him, laptop closed for once, phone placed face down on the side table where I can't see the constant stream of notifications.
Present.
Or attempting to be.
I keep my hands folded so I don’t reach for the phone out of habit.
The silence settles over us both like a familiar blanket, filled only by the occasional whisper of a page turning and the distant hum of the mansion's climate control system.
I study him in the warm lamplight—the dark hair that falls across his forehead in the same stubborn wave Catherine's used to.
Seven years since she died.
Seven years of mornings and bedtimes and school conferences. Seven years of learning how to parent alone while running a company that requires most of my attention.
I've done it well, by every metric I know how to measure.
Henry is healthy. Safe. Educated at the best schools. He has structure and stability and every resource a child could need.
But watching him now—small and self-contained on that oversized couch—I understand what the staff has been trying to tell me.
What Henry actually needs isn't another scheduled activity or upgraded security protocol.
It’s connection. Something I don’t know how to build, and refuses to be systematized.
"I want to tell you something," I say, breaking the quiet that has settled between us.
Henry looks up immediately, his dark eyes—so much like Catherine's—fixing on mine. Attentive. Serious.
He's always been good at sensing when something matters.
It's a skill I recognize—one I've cultivated myself in boardrooms and negotiations, reading the space between what people say and what they mean, and sometimes even what they want.
"I'm working with a service," I continue, keeping my tone carefully neutral. Measured. Like I'm explaining a schedule change or a new security protocol. Something manageable and straightforward, with clear parameters and expected outcomes.
"A matchmaking service," I add.
The words sound strange in my own ears as they emerge. Clinical. Transactional. Stripped of the emotional complexity that brought me to ERS's office in the first place, reduced to their most basic functional components.
Which is accurate, I suppose, but not the whole truth.
Henry doesn't react right away. He's learned, through years of watching me navigate difficult conversations, that immediate responses often reveal more than intended.
Instead, he goes back to his book, turns a page. The gesture is deliberate, like he's buying himself time to process.
But I see the way his shoulders tense, just slightly, and I have to look away.
"I just wanted you to know," I add.
The sentence comes out wrong the moment it leaves my mouth, carries implications I didn't mean to convey. Like I'm apologizing for the decision. This is a simple fact, not something I need a ten-year-old's permission for.
Still.
Minutes pass.
Henry asks no questions. Makes no comments.
He shifts positions on the couch, tucks one foot under the other leg, presses his thumb into the spine of his book like he's testing its structural integrity.
I've learned not to underestimate silence—especially his.
He's thinking. Measuring. Deciding what's worth voicing and what isn't.
I think about Lindsay laughing with him in the office hallway. How easily she met him where he was. How she didn't fill space with explanation or justification.
She just listened.
I don't know how to explain this to him. Not without making it about something it isn't. Not without risking words that can't be taken back.
So I wait.
Henry finally closes his book.
He doesn't look at me at first. He stares at the blank television screen, his reflection faintly visible in the dark glass.
Older than ten in moments like this. Sharper. More aware.
"You want a new girlfriend?" he asks quietly.
It's not an accusation. Just a statement. Like he's asking about dinner plans or weekend schedules. Matter-of-fact. Clinical, almost.
He's absorbed more of my communication style than I realized.
"Maybe," I reply.
The word feels inadequate even as I say it.
Like I'm simplifying something that refuses to be simple, compressing careful consideration into a single syllable that explains nothing.
It hangs in the air between us, neither commitment nor denial.
He shakes his head once, like he expected that answer.
Then Henry turns and looks at me and I see something in his expression. Something that wasn't there moments ago.
"Is this because you're lonely?" he asks.
The question is steady. Direct. No tears. No dramatics. No attempt to soften the edges or dance around implications.
Just Henry, meeting me where I've always met him—in facts.
I open my mouth and realize for the second time in as many days that I don't have an answer ready.
The silence stretches, filled only by the relentless ticking of the clock, each second marking my inability to provide the kind of immediate, decisive response I've built my reputation on.
"I'm not sure what I want or what I need," I admit finally, my throat tightening around the words.
Uncertainty isn't something I typically voice, especially not to Henry.
"But something is missing. And I think we need someone to fill that gap."
Henry tilts his head slightly, studying me with that unnerving ability he inherited from both his parents.
He's reading between the lines I didn't know I was writing.
"Sounds to me like you're lonely."
He's not wrong.
The conversation shifts after that.
Henry picks up his book again, returning to whatever world exists on those pages. I stay in my chair, laptop still closed, trying to process what just happened.
My ten-year-old son just gave me relationship advice.
When bedtime comes, Henry goes through his routine with the same careful precision he brings to everything. Teeth brushed. Pajamas on. Door cracked exactly three inches.
I stand in the hallway after he's settled, listening to the silence of the house.
Fourteen thousand square feet, and it feels empty.
I rub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted.
I pull out my phone and stare at the message thread with Evelyn Sterling.
Assessment complete. We'll begin evaluating matches within forty-eight hours.
I should feel relieved. ERS is very productive.
Instead, I've set something in motion that doesn't answer directly to me.
And control has been my primary currency for seven years.