Elite Affairs - Book one

Chapter Twenty Six

"Not every goodbye is a lack of care; sometimes, it’s a sacrifice."

The house was a modern marvel, a statement of both luxury and restraint, with sleek lines and expansive glass windows that invited natural light into every corner. Marble floors gleamed beneath soft lighting, while minimalist furniture and carefully curated art pieces created an air of elegance without overwhelming the space. The lesson room, tucked off a quiet hallway, was no exception.

This room, designed specifically for a child’s learning, was thoughtfully laid out with a long, polished wooden desk that had just the right amount of space for books, papers, and coloring pencils—although, today, only the essentials were within young Léon’s reach. The walls were painted a soft gray, with pops of muted colors in the plush armchair, low bookshelf filled with picture books, and the set of vibrant yet tasteful educational posters on one wall.

A large window overlooked a manicured garden, flooding the room with natural light. Shelves lined one side of the room, stacked with books and educational toys, all arranged with a precision that suggested they were rarely touched. The room exuded calm and sophistication, with a touch of warmth that was meant to make children feel comfortable while still encouraging focused learning.

Léon sat at the desk, small and composed, a pencil held carefully in his tiny hand. He wore a look of quiet concentration as he wrote, his expression far more serious than one might expect of a four-year-old. His young tutor, seated across from him, watched with patient interest, hoping to prompt some engagement from her reserved pupil.

The young tutor, a woman in her twenties with a gentle smile and an encouraging warmth, leaned forward slightly, trying to connect with her unusually quiet student. She watched as Léon’s pencil traced precise lines on the paper, his focus intense, as if he were solving something much bigger than any lesson she had prepared for him.

“Léon,” she asked gently, hoping to spark some interaction, “can you tell me what sound a cat makes?”

At the sound of her question, Léon stopped writing. His pencil hovered just above the paper as he slowly looked up, his grey eyes locking onto hers with an expression of faint annoyance, as if he were pondering why anyone would ask such an obvious thing. The room seemed to quiet even further, and his small, composed figure suddenly seemed wise beyond his years.

“Meow,” he replied evenly, his voice calm and precise, without a trace of hesitation. There was no trace of playfulness or curiosity in his tone—just a straightforward, factual answer, as if to say, Is there anything else?

The tutor blinked, slightly taken aback, unsure whether to smile or feel intimidated by the seriousness of his gaze. Léon held her stare for a moment longer, his eyes conveying a silent exasperation, then slowly returned his attention to his writing, immersing himself once more in the task at hand, as if nothing had happened.

The tutor cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure. “Yes, very good, Léon,” she murmured softly, though her words hung in the air with less assurance.

The tutor watched him closely, a bit taken aback by his poise and precision with the first  answer. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Léon wasn’t like any four-year-old she’d ever taught. Determined to see how much he really knew, she decided to test him with questions she knew most children his age wouldn’t understand.

“Alright, Léon,” she said, clearing her throat, “can you tell me what’s inside the earth? Beneath the ground?”

Léon’s pencil stilled again. His small hand clenched it slightly tighter as he lifted his head to give her an exasperated stare, his expression as if to say, Are you serious? With a sigh, he responded, “Layers of rock and magma.”