All Chapters of My Student's Father is a Secret Trillionaire: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

164 Chapters

Chapter 31: The Silence of the Script

POV: ClaireThe streetlights of Greenwich Village blurred past the window, rhythmic flashes of amber cutting through the dark interior of the car.I’d just dropped Shannon off at the school gates so she could grab her bike. Now, driving toward the estate alone, the familiar weight of the Desmond name began to settle back onto my shoulders. It felt like returning to a high-security prison after a few hours of parole.Eight p.m.I turned into the long, winding driveway. The grounds were swallowed in shadow; no garden lights, only the cold, automated glow of the porch lamps.I’d hoped they’d be out late. Some charity gala or another soul-sucking dinner in the city. But as the garage came into view, my stomach did a slow, nauseating flip.My father’s black Bentley was already there. The engine gave a faint, metallic tink as it cooled—he hadn’t been home long.Damn it. They were early.I killed the ignition. For a long minute, I just sat there, my fingers white-knuckled against the leather

Chapter 48: The Clean Slate

POV: Claire Desmond Sunday morning light filtered through the rusted wire mesh of the vents. The sunbeams caught millions of dust motes dancing in the air—a silent, microscopic party mocking my current state of affairs. I stood at the threshold of the back room. Or rather, a walk-in closet that had been brutally coerced into becoming a bedroom. It was tiny. Barely eight by ten. No windows, just peeling eggshell paint that revealed patches of damp, gray drywall underneath. The floor was a graveyard of old shoe boxes, battered suitcases, and whatever prehistoric relics Shannon had decided to hoard over the years. "It’s called 'Industrial Minimalism,' Claire. Very trendy in Brooklyn right now," Shannon piped up from behind me, her grin wide and unapologetic. I turned, giving her a flat, unimpressed look. "It’s called a fire haz

Chapter 32: Extraction Point

POV: Claire Click. I turned the deadbolt twice. Leaning my forehead against the cool wood of the door, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. My lungs felt like they were on fire. Outside in the hallway, I heard the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Mother’s heels. She was pacing. A warden doing her rounds. The footsteps stopped right outside my door. I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. A few seconds of silence passed—heavy and expectant—before the footsteps faded toward the master suite. I opened my eyes. My room was a cavern of shadows, sliced into ribbons by the moonlight filtering through the heavy drapes. "Time to go," I hissed to the empty room. I reached for the top of the wardrobe, dragging down a small, nondescript carry-on. I lowered it slowly, bracing the weight so it didn't

Chapter 33: The Silent Threshold

POV: Claire Desmond The hallway was a tunnel of suffocating silence. Only the jagged orange glow of the streetlights filtered through the ventilation slats, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cold marble floor. I stood frozen at the threshold of my room. My right hand gripped the handle of a carry-on suitcase while my left white-knucled a bulging tote bag. My heart hammered against my ribs with such violence I was certain the walls could hear the rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump. I lifted the suitcase entirely off the ground. I couldn't drag it. Rolling wheels on marble at two in the morning would sound like a tank battalion charging through the estate. The muscles in my arm protested immediately, a sharp ache blooming in my shoulder, but I ignored it. I had to. My first step landed without a sound. Then the second. Safe.

Chapter 34: The Midnight Rescue

POV: Claire Desmond Gareth Hamilton stood before me, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed, yet somehow, he managed to look infuriatingly handsome. “Good morning, Claire,” he greeted me. His baritone was a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the quiet air. “What on earth are you doing here at this hour?!” I hissed, my eyes darting from him to my luggage and back again. “Are you stalking me?” My face felt like it was on fire. Here I was, running away from home, wearing an oversized t-shirt and leggings, covered in nervous sweat, and I had been caught by my student’s father. My professional dignity had just plummeted into the negatives. Gareth looked genuinely flustered. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes shifting away from

Chapter 35: Safe Harbor

POV: Claire Desmond The white Volkswagen Golf slowed to a crawl, its tires crunching over loose gravel before coming to a smooth, silent halt. The engine died with a final, metallic sigh, leaving us submerged in a pool of thick, suburban silence. 2:40 AM. The digital clock on the dashboard glowed with a faint, clinical green. Outside, the world was a graveyard of shadows. This corner of Astoria didn't have the manicured, oppressive quiet of Greenwich Village; it had the heavy, stagnant stillness of a neighborhood that had simply run out of energy. The distant rattle of the N-train and the low hum of a nearby power transformer were the only things filling the air. "We’re here," Shannon whispered from the back seat. The sound shattered the silence like a stone through a window. A long, jagged breath escaped my lungs. It fel

Chapter 36: Artistic Chaos

POV: Claire Desmond Heat flared in my cheeks, a sudden, violent flush that had nothing to do with the cold. My mind traitorously flashed an image of being held against that charcoal t-shirt, the strength of those arms anchoring me. "Shannon! Get your head out of the gutter!" I hissed, pinching her arm. She giggled, skipping away toward the front door. "Welcome to my humble castle! Mind the dust!" Click. The front door swung open. Shannon fumbled along the wall until her fingers found the switch. Flick. A harsh, flickering fluorescent light flooded the living room. It was small. It was cramped. And it was a disaster zone. A mountain of fashion magazines leaned precariously against the coffee table. Shoes were scattered like casualties of war near the rack, and

Chapter 37: The Quiet Dawn

POV: Claire Desmond Fifteen minutes later. The cramped living room was filled with the rich, savory aroma of chili oil and the thick, comforting clouds of steam. The three of us sat cross-legged on the floor, gathered around a plush faux-fur rug—the only item in the house that looked intentionally aesthetic. In the center sat a large pot filled with three servings of noodles, the broth a deep, vibrant red. Gareth distributed three small ceramic bowls and spoons. "Dig in," he said, his voice warm. I looked at my bowl. The noodles were perfectly firm, not a second overcooked. The broth was thick, and resting on top was a poached egg with lacy, white edges and a yolk that looked like a liquid sun. "Wow," I whispered, my eyes widening. "This looks incredible." "Al dente technique," Gareth joked, sitting d

Chapter 38: The Geography of Neglect

POV: Claire Desmond The neighbor’s rooster didn't just crow; it committed a felony against my eardrums. It was a sharp, jagged sound, devoid of a snooze button, tearing through the paper-thin walls of the Astoria rental with a rhythmic, urban violence that made me want to scream. My eyes snapped open, heavy and gritty. Instead of the high, vaulted ceilings of the Desmond Estate with their intricate crown moldings, I was greeted by a low expanse of white paint marred by brownish water stains. They formed an abstract map of my new reality—a geography of neglect that leaked every time the New York clouds grew heavy. I tried to shift my weight, and my spine immediately screamed in protest. "Damn it..." My neck felt like a pillar of rusted iron. This ancient sofa, with foam that had long ago su

Chapter 39: Solar-Flavored Reality

POV: Claire Desmond I sat on the pillion, wrapping my arms around Shannon’s waist. My heart hammered. The last time I had been on a moped was during a summer in Rome, and even then, I wasn't the one worrying about my job. The bike lurched out of the narrow alleyway, immediately swallowed by the predatory flow of New York’s morning traffic. Queens Boulevard was a sea of iron and exhaust. The morning wind hit my face without mercy. It wasn't the filtered, chilled air of a town car; it was a wind that carried road grit and the thick, black soot of a passing city bus. My eyes stung. A sleek black Mercedes glided past us on the right. Its windows were tinted dark—a silent capsule of jazz and climate-controlled peace. The driver was likely sipping a latte, insulated from the hellscape outside. Yesterday, I was

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