My Student's Father is a Secret Trillionaire のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 71 - チャプター 80

POV: Gareth Hamilton The text message from Claire was a jagged shard of glass embedded in my mind. Even now, as I locked the heavy, reinforced door of The Node, the words refused to dissolve. “There is a very urgent family matter.” It was a clinical sentence, stripped of emotion, yet I could see the tremors between the characters. I knew her well enough to recognize the difference between a genuine emergency and the suffocating weight of a Desmond crisis. This was the latter—a desperate, formal cry for help hidden behind a wall of politeness. I moved toward the center of the room, where my black glass desk sat like an altar to cold logic. The air here was thin and frigid, kept at a constant sixteen degrees Celsius. It was a necessity for the server banks humming behind the soundproof walls, but tonight, the chill felt appropriate. This was my

POV: Claire Desmond The remains of a sleepless night clung to my eyelids like coarse sand. Every blink was a friction-filled labor, a stinging reminder of the hours I’d spent staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the fan rotate in a rhythmic, suffocating dance. The pulse in my temples acted as a relentless hammer, striking the inner walls of my skull with a dull, agonizing beat. *** I leaned against a brick pillar in the St. Jude’s corridor. The mortar was crumbling in jagged flakes, revealing the cold, unyielding stone beneath. It felt like a mirror to my own state—the polished facade of "Ms. Claire" was cracking, showing the mess I was becoming. Around me, the morning recess was a chaotic symphony of high-pitched screams and the rhythmic slapping of sneakers against the pavement. It felt d

POV: Claire Desmond The clock on the penthouse wall ticked with the rhythmic precision of a guillotine blade being sharpened. Tick. Tock. Tick. Every second felt like a hammer blow against the crumbling remains of my life. It was seven-fifteen in the evening. I sat on the thick, sage-green rug, staring at Alana’s open workbook. The numbers on the page blurred, the ink bleeding into the paper through the sting of my unshed tears. "Ms. Claire? Seven minus three is four, right?" Alana’s voice pulled me back from the edge. I blinked hard, forcing the world back into focus. The little girl was watching me, the end of her pencil caught between her teeth. She had her father's brow—the same way it furrowed in that adorable, concentrated line when she was thinking. "Hmm? Yes. That’s right, sweetheart. Four," I said. My voice sounded jagged, like I’d b

POV: Claire Desmond The scent of a stale "New Car" air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror—a chemical, cloying sweetness that failed to mask the smell of damp upholstery and old cigarette ash. It was a nauseating cocktail. I leaned my forehead against the cold window of the Uber, letting the vibrations of the aging engine rattle through my skull. Every pothole in the Manhattan pavement sent a fresh spike of pain through my temples. 11:30 a.m. By all rights, I should have been standing in my classroom at St. Jude’s right now, explaining the alphabet or gently redirecting Toby’s endless stream of interruptions. I should have been looking forward to the afternoon. Watching that unassuming white hatchback pull up to the school gates so Alana could sprint toward her father. Instead, I was a coward in the middle of a tac

POV: Claire Desmond The crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of The Plaza’s Grand Ballroom didn't just provide light. They refracted it into thousands of jagged, golden shards that seemed intent on piercing my retinas. Every prism was a boast—a shimmering display of Manhattan excess that cast long, distorted shadows over the white marble floor. Below them, a sea of people moved in a choreographed dance of vanity. Faces were obscured by layers of La Mer and practiced smiles. The air was thick. It was a suffocating blend of vintage Krug and heavy, floral perfumes that clung to the back of my throat. It was the scent of Old Money and new lies. To anyone else, this was the pinnacle of the New York social season. To me, it felt like standing in the middle of a very expensive wake. I stood at the threshold, fingers white-knuckled as I gripped the frame of my si