My Student's Father is a Secret Trillionaire のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 101 - チャプター 110

POV: Claire Desmond The sky over Manhattan wasn’t just overcast this evening; it was bruised. CRACK-BOOM! A massive thunderclap ripped through the air, shaking the very foundations of SoHo. The vibration rattled my ribs, making the windows of my old Honda Civic shudder in their frames. It was only five in the afternoon, but the world outside was as pitch-black as a midnight in a coal mine. The rain didn't fall in drops; it descended in heavy, translucent sheets, hammering the asphalt with a deafening, rhythmic roar. I made a frantic dash from the curb toward the side entrance of The Hamilton Cafe, shielding my head with my leather briefcase. It was a losing battle. Within seconds, the spray rebounding off the cobblestones had soaked my skirt through to the slip, and my flats felt like two small, leather puddles.&n

POV: Claire Desmond The crack of glass hitting the tile was sharper than the thunder rattling the SoHo windows. Thousands of clear shards lay scattered across the floor, catching the dim, amber glow of the cafe’s Edison bulbs. No one moved to clean it up. The air in the room had turned to lead. Gareth stood rigid. His breath came in ragged, uneven hitches—a sound I’d never heard from him. His eyes, usually obsidian pools of calm, were fixed on the woman before him with a look of pure, unadulterated horror. It was as if a ghost had just walked through the brick wall. The woman—Camille—didn't offer an apology. She didn't even look at the mess she’d made. With slow, predatory deliberation, she took a step forward in her designer leather boots. CRUNCH. The sound of expensive soles grinding glass into the

POV: Gareth Hamilton The chime of the entrance bell lingered in the air long after the door slammed shut—a thin, mournful sound swallowed by the rhythmic roar of the Manhattan storm outside. Silence rushed back into the cafe, but it wasn't the warmth of five minutes ago. It was a cold, jagged vacuum that tasted of ozone and expensive, rotting roses. The air felt thin, stripped of oxygen, leaving only the sharp scent of damp pavement and my own escalating pulse. I stood paralyzed, staring at the glass-paned door. My chest heaved in heavy, uneven jerks. Each breath was a battle against the volcanic pressure building behind my ribs. I didn't blink. I didn't move. I waited for the ghost to reappear—for the nightmare to turn around and walk back through that door. Screech. Scrape. The sound of plastic against tile pulled me back. 

POV: Claire Desmond The thunder over Manhattan began to retreat into a low, distant growl, leaving nothing but the relentless rhythm of rain drumming against the window of Alana’s bedroom. Tap. Tap. Tap. Beneath the heavy duvet, Alana’s small frame still hitched with the occasional, jagged sob. Her eyes were squeezed shut, but her body remained taut with a fear no seven-year-old should know. I didn't stop stroking her hair—fine, dark strands damp with a cold sweat that smelled of strawberry shampoo and the ozone of the storm she’d been caught in earlier. "Don't go, Claire..." she mumbled, her voice a fragile, hoarse thread. She sounded like a bird with a broken wing. Her tiny fingers gripped the hem of my sweater so hard her knuckles were white. She was holding on as if this cheap wool was the only thing keeping her from drifting away into the dark. 

POV: Claire Desmond The rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, a relentless, percussive rhythm that underscored the confession currently dismantling my reality. Alana isn’t my daughter. The words didn't just hang in the air; they took up space, heavy and suffocating like a physical weight on my chest. I sat in the heavy silence, my gaze locked onto his. Gareth’s eyes were obsidian, damp and reflecting a fractured sort of light. I didn't see a trace of a lie in them. Instead, I saw the raw, jagged terror of a father. A man terrified that a lack of biological legitimacy would somehow invalidate the love he’d poured into that little girl for seven years. He was waiting for the verdict. Waiting to see if DNA mattered more to me than the man I thought I knew. He was wrong. Blo