Chapter 4 - Flight of the Phoenix
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The crisp autumn air hit my face as I crossed the private courtyard. Behind the manicured maple trees, the glowing windows of the townhouse made it look like a picture-perfect family home. That was the ultimate talent of the Whitmore family—they could make horrific cruelty look unbelievably expensive.
My phone buzzed in my hand. A notification from my private bank illuminated the screen: an incoming wire transfer of $50,000,000.00 had cleared.
The driver loaded my bags into the sleek black SUV, and we merged onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, heading toward JFK Airport.
My phone began to vibrate violently.
Grant.
I ignored it. It rang again. And again. He called six times before we even crossed the bridge. By the time I cleared the TSA security checkpoint, he had called twelve more times.
I sat at the first-class lounge, sipping a sparkling water, watching my screen light up with his desperate attempts to reach me. Finally, as my flight to San Diego was called for boarding, I typed out a single, final text message.
The third embryo transfer worked. At eight weeks, there was a strong heartbeat. Your genetic fragmentation caused the embryo to stop developing, but I never blamed you because I knew your mother would humiliate you for not being 'perfect.' I went through the physical trauma of the miscarriage completely alone while you were in Madison’s hotel room in Chicago. The $50 million is not payment for eleven years of marriage, Grant. It is the debt you owe the child you abandoned without ever knowing he existed.
I hit send. Before the delivery receipt could even register, I powered down the phone.
I boarded the plane, found my seat, and stared out the window as the glittering skyline of New York City faded into the darkness. I was thirty-five, divorced, and richer than I had ever been. But for the first time in a decade, I felt like I could finally breathe.
When the wheels touched down in California, I switched my phone back on.
Forty-three missed calls. Thirty-one unread messages.
The last text was from Grant, sent just minutes ago: CLAIRE, PLEASE COME BACK. I SWEAR TO GOD I DIDN’T KNOW.
Right beneath it, a message from Evelyn popped up: RETURN OUR MONEY OR RETURN TO MY SON. MADISON’S TWINS ARE IN DANGER, AND THIS FAMILY STILL NEEDS AN HEIR.
I stared at the sheer audacity of those words. Then, a shadow fell over me.
May you like
“You took long enough,” a deep, familiar voice said.
I looked up. Noah Parker stood there holding two coffees, wearing a faded navy jacket and the same quiet, comforting smile I hadn't seen since college.
