The door clicked shut behind Arthur, leaving Eleanor alone with Ethan in the cavernous library. The air, thick with the scent of leather-bound books and old money, felt oppressive. Ethan, usually a pillar of composed authority, paced before the enormous fireplace, his brow furrowed. Eleanor sat rigidly on the edge of a plush velvet armchair, her small frame swallowed by its grandeur. The fire crackled, the only sound breaking the strained silence between them.

"Eleanor," Ethan began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. He stopped pacing and turned to face her, his usually sharp blue eyes softened with an unfamiliar vulnerability. “I… I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? Leaving? Where would you even go?”

Eleanor met his gaze, her own eyes clear and unwavering. "I've made my decision, Ethan. And it's not something I'm willing to discuss or debate."

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, ruffling it slightly. “But… you're only seven. You need us. You need… me. We can give you everything you could ever want.”

"That's precisely the problem, Ethan," Eleanor said, her voice low and steady. "Everything I *could ever want* isn't material. It isn't something you can buy with a chequebook."

Ethan seemed genuinely perplexed. He was a man accustomed to solving problems with logic and resources, and Eleanor’s motivations defied both. He'd spent his life navigating the complex world of finance, brokering deals worth millions, and anticipating market fluctuations. Understanding his little sister, however, felt like trying to decipher a language he’d never heard.

“What is it then, Eleanor? Tell me. Name it. A pony? A trip around the world? The finest tutors? Anything. Just… tell me what you want and I’ll make it happen.” He punctuated each promise with a step closer, his voice laced with a desperate sincerity that surprised even himself.

Eleanor watched him, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. She knew he was trying, in his own limited way. He was genuinely concerned, driven by a sense of responsibility that had been ingrained in him since birth. But his understanding was fundamentally flawed. He believed that money could solve any problem, fill any void. He had no idea of the hollowness at the core of his own gilded existence.

“It’s not about things, Ethan. It’s about… freedom. It's about choosing my own life, making my own mistakes, learning my own lessons.”

He stopped, bewildered. "Freedom? Eleanor, you have more freedom than any seven-year-old I know. You have the run of this entire house, access to anything you desire. You can do whatever you want!"

"That's an illusion of freedom, Ethan," she countered, her voice tinged with a weariness that belied her age. "It's freedom within the confines of your expectations, your father's rules, the Ainsworth legacy. I want freedom from all of that."

He lowered himself onto the arm of the chair opposite her, his expression softening. "Is it… is it about us? Did we do something wrong? Did we not pay enough attention to you? We’ve been busy, I know, but we do care about you, Eleanor."

Eleanor almost scoffed. Care? They were so consumed by their own dramas, their own ambitions, that they barely saw her. She remembered the countless dinners eaten alone, the missed school plays, the empty promises. The memory of her previous life, of their collective indifference as she withered away, still stung.

"It's not about blame, Ethan. It's about… compatibility. We're simply not a good fit. I need something different."

He looked genuinely hurt by her words, a raw vulnerability etched on his face. "But... we're family, Eleanor. Family sticks together. We're supposed to be there for each other."

Eleanor looked away, unable to meet his gaze. The word "family" felt like a cruel joke. The Ainsworths were a collection of individuals bound by blood and obligation, not by genuine affection or understanding. The disappearance of her sister, Clara, had fractured their family beyond repair, leaving behind a legacy of guilt, suspicion, and unspoken recriminations.

"What about school? Your friends? You'll be lonely," he persisted, grasping at any reason to dissuade her.

“I’ll be homeschooled. And I have no friends here, Ethan. Not real ones.” She thought of the vapid daughters of her parents' acquaintances, the girls who only wanted to play with her because of the size of her doll collection and the brand of her clothes.

Ethan stood up again, agitated. He walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the meticulously manicured gardens. “Look, Eleanor, I know… I know we haven’t always been the best family. Things have been… difficult since Clara disappeared. But we’re trying. We’re trying to be better.”

Eleanor remained silent. The echo of Clara's laughter, the memory of her bright smile, still haunted the halls of the mansion. Ethan's words felt empty, hollow promises uttered too late.

He turned back to her, his voice pleading. "Please, Eleanor. Just tell me what you want. Tell me what we can do to make you stay. I’ll… I’ll spend more time with you. We can go riding, go to the theatre, anything you want. I’ll make sure you’re not lonely. I promise.” He was offering the one thing he thought he had in abundance: his time. He didn’t realize how little he actually had to give.

Eleanor finally looked up at him, her eyes filled with a sorrow that belied her youthful appearance. "Ethan, you can't fix this with promises. You can't rewind time and change the past. What I need… what I crave… isn't something you can give me. It's something I have to find for myself."

She stood up, her small frame surprisingly resolute. "Thank you, Ethan. For trying. But my decision is made."

She walked towards the door, leaving Ethan standing by the window, his face etched with confusion and a growing sense of helplessness. As she reached the threshold, she paused, turning back to him one last time.

"And Ethan?"

He looked up, hope flickering in his eyes.

"Stop trying to buy my affection. It won’t work. You need to address the root of the problem, and that begins with truly asking yourself why our family failed Clara."

With that, she left the library, leaving Ethan alone with the echoes of her words and the weight of his own inadequacies. He sank into the armchair she’d vacated, the scent of her lavender perfume lingering in the air. He looked at his hands, the hands that signed multi-million dollar deals, the hands that held the reins of power and influence. He realized, with a sinking feeling, that they were utterly useless when it came to holding onto the one thing that truly mattered: his family. The hollow ache in his chest grew, a stark reminder of the emptiness that no amount of wealth could ever fill. He knew that Eleanor was right. The past was a gaping wound, and throwing money at it wouldn't make it heal. He just didn't know how to begin the painful process of addressing its festering core.