جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 120

POV: Claire Desmond Gareth let out a long, heavy breath. He knew his presence was a lead weight on the conversation, turning the air between us women stiff and formal. He glanced at Shannon, who was still standing in her typical "don't mess with me" stance, then shifted his gaze to me. His eyes softened the second they landed on Alana, curled up and trembling in my arms. "Sam," Gareth called out, his voice a low, steady rumble directed toward the bar. "On it, Boss!" "Make a hot chamomile tea for Shannon. Extra honey. She looks like she needs to thaw out after that mess outside," Gareth ordered. His tone was flat, but there was a flicker of genuine concern beneath the surface. Shannon snorted, though I saw her bite back a grateful smile. "I’ll take the tea. But don’t think I’m leaving without one of those maple crullers." 

POV: Claire Desmond The dim glow from a star-shaped nightlight on the bedside table projected imaginary constellations onto the ceiling. They swirled in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, painting the shadows of the SoHo loft in shades of soft amber. Beside me, tucked into her bed, Alana was dead to the world. Her breathing was a steady, rhythmic hush, her small chest rising and falling beneath a duvet covered in watercolor bunnies. She clutched "Bear-Bear Hamilton" against her chest, her tiny fingers locked around the plush fur as if guarding her dreams from escaping. I was down on the floor, sprawled on a folding foam mattress I’d dragged over the hardwood. My satin pajamas felt a little too loose around the shoulders, the cool fabric sliding against my skin with every shift. I stared up at the rotating stars, a faint, tired smile tugging at my lips. This was beyond absu

POV: Claire Desmond My fingertips brushed against my lower lip. It felt slightly swollen, a faint, rhythmic pulse thrumming beneath the skin. I squeezed my eyes shut, letting my back sink into the thin foam mattress. The 6:30 a.m. light filtered through the gaps in Alana’s curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, but my mind was still trapped in the dim haze of the kitchen at one in the morning. Heat crawled up my neck, flooding my cheeks and reaching the tips of my ears. I was losing it. Completely losing it. The warmth of Gareth’s lips, the suffocatingly sharp scent of his mint soap, the way his hand had anchored the nape of my neck... it was all branded into my brain. Whatever seal I had placed on my heart hadn't just cracked; the dam was about to burst. "Miss Claire? Why are you hiding und

POV: Gareth Hamilton The sound of Bruce Reynard’s footsteps, followed by the hushed whispers of his legal team, gradually faded into the distance. It left behind only the rhythmic drumming of rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass—a storm finally beginning to break over SoHo. The Hamilton Cafe was silent again, but the air was heavy, charged with the ozone of a battlefield recently vacated. The tension didn't leave; it just settled into the cracks of the floorboards like suffocating dust. I stood motionless behind the bar, staring at the "CLOSED" sign hanging on the door. It swayed slightly, caught in a draft from a door that hadn’t quite latched shut. My hands rested on the rough, reclaimed wood of the counter. Slowly, my fingers curled into fists. I squeezed until my knuckles turned a ghostly white, the veins on the back of my hands bulging l

POV: Gareth Hamilton The lobby of The Plaza felt different tonight. Or perhaps, the difference was in me. Usually, I move through places like this with my head down, features obscured by the brim of a cap, a shadow blending into the background of New York’s elite. But tonight, I wasn't here to hide. The rhythmic click of my black leather Oxfords against the marble floor echoed with a heavy, deliberate cadence. Clack. Clack. Clack. Every step was a declaration. I walked straight toward the elevators, ignoring the concierge who would usually demand a key card. A broad-shouldered security guard moved to intercept me, but he froze the moment our eyes met. I don’t know what he saw in my expression. Perhaps it was the coldness my father used when he dismantled entire boards of directors. Or perhaps it was the look o