บททั้งหมดของ My Student's Father is a Secret Trillionaire: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

POV: Claire Desmond06:15.The digital clock on the wall blinked in a steady, crimson rhythm. It felt less like a timepiece and more like a countdown to a localized disaster.My heels clicked against the white marble of the foyer, a sharp, lonely sound that echoed through the vaulted ceilings of the Desmond estate. Morning light bled through the silk curtains, casting skeletal shadows across the mahogany dining table. It was a table built for twelve, currently hosting three people who had forgotten how to be a family a long time ago.The air smelled of expensive sandalwood and over-steeped Earl Grey. Beneath that, there was the cold, metallic scent of a brewing storm.My father sat at the head of the table. He wasn't reading the Wall Street Journal spread out before him. He was just staring at the headlines, his index finger drumming a frantic, silent beat against the polished wood.Tap. Tap. Tap.It was the sound of a man watching his empire crumble and looking for someone to blame.

POV: Claire DesmondFor three whole seconds, the concept of language abandoned me.Shannon and I just stood there, paralyzed, watching the man step fully into the classroom. Alana was perched in his arms, her small hands wrapped securely around a neck that looked like it could withstand a gale-force hurricane.My assumption about some "Old Money Trust Fund Brat" disintegrated instantly.He wasn't some soft, pampered heir. He looked like the kind of man who belonged on the cover of a high-end Architectural Digest or brooding in a black-and-white cologne commercial. The sleeves of his black button-down were rolled precisely to his elbows, and every time he shifted Alana’s weight, the muscles in his forearms corded beneath his skin like steel cables.Gulp.The sound of my own throat working was mortifyingly loud in the sudden quiet of the room.He stopped right in front of my desk. With practiced ease, he lowered Alana to the floor, keeping a stabilizing hand on her back until her small

POV: Claire DesmondThe engine died. Silence rushed into the cabin, heavy and suffocating, the kind of quiet that didn't offer peace, only a vacuum for my thoughts to spiral.My hands remained fused to the steering wheel, my knuckles pale against the worn leather. Gravity felt twice as heavy today—a physical weight pulling at my spine, dragging my shoulders toward the floor mats of my aging sedan.It was a modest car, a jarring contrast to the sprawling colonial architecture of the Desmond estate looming ahead of us.The driveway was hauntingly quiet. The gravel didn't crunch under the weight of arriving guests, and the manicured lawn stood frozen under the amber glow of the porch lights. My father’s parking spot was empty—a common sight these days.Robert usually crawled home long after the rest of the world had surrendered to sleep, chasing the ghosts of his failing empire through whiskey-soaked meetings and desperate ledgers.Forcing my legs to move, I stepped out into the crisp Ma

POV: Claire Desmond"Wait, Claire!" Jake opened his door, panic rising in his voice. "I’ll come with you. At least let me walk you—"I turned sharply, my gaze cutting through him with a ferocity that made him halt. "No, Jake. Stay in the car.""But I’m responsible for getting you home! Your father will—""Jake!" I cut him off, my breath coming in short, frantic bursts. "I need time to think about what you said. I need to be alone. If you can't respect a simple request for space... then forget everything we talked about. Forget the 'connection'."Jake froze. His jaw tightened, his ego clearly bruised by the public rejection, but he eventually gave a stiff, jerky nod. "Fine. Have it your way. But text me when you get home. I don't want your father calling me at midnight.""Thanks."Blam.I shut the door with a finality that felt like breaking a spell. Jake lingered for a second, his engine idling, before his car pulled away into the Manhattan traffic, leaving me standing alone on the si

POV: ClaireThe laughter eventually died down, leaving behind a silence that felt strangely, impossibly comfortable.It wasn't the kind of quiet that demanded to be shattered by polite small talk or the rehearsed posturing of a corporate gala.It was just... still.I shifted my focus back to the workbook. Alana was still perched on my lap, the faint, sweet scent of strawberry shampoo rising from her hair every time she leaned into the page.Gareth’s denim jacket remained draped over my shoulders. It was massive, completely engulfing the expensive ivory silk of my dress, but the weight of it felt like a sanctuary.The fabric carried the sharp, grounding notes of dark roast coffee and a hint of something cold, like rain on asphalt.It acted as a sensory anchor, keeping me from drifting back to the mess I'd left behind."Let's try the next one, Alana. What do you see in the barn?" I asked, pointing at the vibrant illustration.Alana tapped a small, sticky finger against the page. "The ho