My Student's Father is a Secret Trillionaire のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

POV: Claire Desmond The sharp, citrus sting of a peeled orange cut through the stale scent of Manhattan exhaust lingering in my lungs. Gareth peeled it with a practiced, one-handed efficiency, his other hand draped casually over the steering wheel of the white VW Golf. His thumb dug into the rind, a soft snap echoing in the cabin before the mist of essential oils filled the air. "Want some?" He offered a wedge, meticulously stripped of its white pith. His long fingers brushed against my lower lip, a touch so fleeting it felt like a phantom limb. I took it. The sweet-tart juice exploded across my tongue, cold and bracing. "It’s perfect," I murmured. In the back, Alana was pressed against the glass, her gaze lost in the blur of trees racing past along the Palisades Interstate Parkway. She was humming a soft, tuneless melody—something about

POV: Claire Desmond Cshhh! A plume of scalding steam hissed from the espresso nozzle, clouding the air for a fleeting second before vanishing into the humid kitchen. The rhythmic clink of metal spoons against ceramic sounded like a frantic, caffeinated symphony, echoing off the white subway tiles of the Hamilton Cafe. It was 4:30 p.m. SoHo was in the middle of its late-afternoon rush. Outside, the muffled roar of New York traffic and the occasional sharp blast of a taxi horn created a chaotic backdrop, but inside, the air was thick with the comforting scent of roasted beans and the buttery warmth of fresh pastries. My hands moved in a practiced rhythm, drying the porcelain plates Martha had just rinsed. The towel in my grip was damp, heavy with the afternoon’s work, but I didn't mind the weight. There was something grounding about it—watching the rows of plates glint under the indust

POV: Claire Desmond The tires of my white hatchback crushed the fine gravel of the Greenwich Village driveway with a rhythmic crunch that sounded like snapping bone. I gripped the steering wheel, letting the engine idle. Beside me, Gareth sat in perfect stillness. He didn't look restless or tense. He simply stared at the massive mahogany doors standing haughtily under the amber glow of the estate lights. "Ready?" Gareth asked. His baritone cut through the cabin's silence, anchoring my drifting consciousness. I gave a stiff nod. "Ready or not. This is the lion’s den, Gareth." "I’m right here," he said. The weight of those three words was enough to let me breathe again. We stepped out. The crisp New York night air hit us instantly, carrying the scent of damp earth and a familiar, sharp fragr

POV: Claire Desmond A child’s shrill, unfiltered laughter bounced off the high-molded ceilings, splintering the heavy, stagnant silence that usually governed the Desmond estate. Sean, Nora’s four-year-old, darted across the hand-tufted rug, chasing a bright plastic ball that had taken a wild, erratic bounce. His small feet, clad in dinosaur-print socks, made a rhythmic thud-thud-thud against the dark oak parquet. I leaned back into the velvet sofa, sipping my Earl Grey as the steam curled before my eyes. The scent of bergamot filled my lungs, slowly unraveling the tension in my neck—a knot that had been wound tight as a piano wire since we crossed the threshold this afternoon. The drawing room, which usually felt like the inside of a walk-in freezer, felt strangely warm tonight. It wasn't just the heating; the atmosphere itself had finally begun to thaw. "Grandma

POV: Claire Desmond The metallic scrape of my key in the lock cut through the stagnant midnight air of Astoria with a sharp, lonely clarity. Click. I pushed the door open, moving with the exaggerated caution of a thief. I didn't want to wake the neighborhood, let alone the person currently occupying my living room. It was a futile effort. The moment the hinges groaned, a figure materialized in the center of the cramped space—a spectral vision in silk pajamas and a thick, chalky layer of a charcoal face mask. Shannon. She stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing behind the stiffening gray goop. In the dim flicker of the streetlamp outside, she looked like a disgruntled urban legend. "Home at this hour, smiling like a lunatic, and your face is glowing like a Times Square billboard," she dead