All Chapters of The Fathers of My Child?: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

#Joel’s POV#Sometimes I wonder if the building will burn down without me. If the company will dissolve into smoke and headlines and lawsuits the second I stop picking up my phone.But I still don’t pick up.I don’t care right now.They’ve called like ten times today. Some lawyer, some investor, one of the board guys. Kel forwarded a voice note saying someone from JY Capital is threatening to pull out. I didn’t even listen to it fully.Benedict Holdings.That’s what it’s called.Not Joel Holdings.My father’s legacy. My father’s madness. His obsession. Let him haunt it from wherever he is.I just want to be here. In this house. With her.I pull open the drawer in the closet where I dumped old hotel key cards and access tags and random junk. I’m trying to find one that might still work for the old security vault room he built downstairs. Not like I want to go inside, but there’s something in there, maybe old documents or equipment. I just want to check.My fingers skim through broken p

#Rico’s POV#The rain is coming down so hard my wipers can barely keep up, but I don’t slow down. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles have gone pale, and I’m leaning forward like the extra inch will make me drive faster.Paulina.Out of all the stupid, self-serving, God-complex moves she could’ve pulled, she picks tonight to run her “truth” podcast launch? And she has the nerve to do it in my city? Nah. This ain’t just her trying to air dirty laundry. This is her kicking the basket while I’m still inside it.I’ve been telling myself for months she couldn’t go lower. That she’d find some new guy to obsess over, some other bank account to leech off of. But no… she’s still here, still orbiting me like a dying star, waiting to explode. And now, apparently, the whole damn internet gets a front-row seat.Downtown’s lights blur under the rain as I pull up near the venue. The place is lit like it’s Oscar night. Cameras, ring lights, a crowd of try-hards in too-tight

#Joel’s POV#Her scar is right there under my palm, the faint raised line against the warm, damp skin of her back. It’s thinner than I expected. A pale, almost silvery line in the low light, like the quietest reminder of everything she’s been through. My hand almost hesitates there, like I don’t deserve to touch this part of her, the part that marks a battle I didn’t fight, the part I wasn’t there to protect her from. But I’m here now, and my palm curves around it gently, memorizing the shape, the warmth, the resilience underneath it.I’ve seen it before, in passing, but never like this. Not when she was letting me. Not when my touch was welcome. Never when she’s let me close enough for my touch to mean something. This isn’t me catching a glimpse as she changes clothes, or her covering it before I can even register it. This is her, bare to me, letting me have a moment with it like it’s mine to honor. That trust… it hits harder than I thought it would.I lean down and kiss it. Just onc

#Paulina’s POV#I’m not supposed to be here. Not in this overpriced airport lounge with fake leather seats, watered-down cocktails, and the kind of forced politeness from the staff that comes with knowing you’re a paying VIP. I should be halfway across the world already. Or at least anywhere else that doesn’t give me time to think.But here I am. Hiding.The glass of white wine in front of me has already gone warm. I’ve been holding my tablet like it’s a weapon, scrolling and scrolling, looking for something, anything, that makes this morning feel less like failure. My nails drum against the screen impatiently, until the tiny breaking news bar slides across the bottom.HERNANDEZ FAMILY CLEARED. LAWSUIT DROPPED.I freeze. My eyes scan the words twice, as if they’ll rearrange into something less insulting. Joel Hernandez—prideful, arrogant, and just irritatingly untouchable—actually managed to clear it. The one thing I was counting on to keep his precious reputation bleeding out in the

#Dorothy’s POV#I’ve never liked airports. Too much metal and glass, too many eyes darting, scanning, judging. So when the time came to decide how I was getting to Boston, I chose the train without even thinking twice. It’s slower, quieter, and grounded. No taking off into the sky where I can’t breathe. No air pressure messing with my head. Just the steady turn of wheels on tracks, the low rhythm that feels like a heartbeat I can trust.Joel is a few feet away, talking to the driver as he gestures toward my luggage. His voice is calm but firm, telling him exactly how to place the bags so nothing gets scratched or thrown around. I stand there on the platform, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my coat, watching him like I’ve been watching him a lot lately. Tenderly.He really has changed, hasn’t he?The old Joel would’ve rolled his eyes at my choice of travel, called it dramatic, insisted we take his jet because “time is money” or something equally dismissive. The old Joel would’ve a