All Chapters of My Student's Father is a Secret Trillionaire: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

POV: Shannon Parker "But I blew it. By hiding the truth, I just look like a director playing with a puppet. In her eyes, I’m not a protector. I’m just another elite fraud who bought her loyalty with a wire transfer." "You saved her! You neutralized Jake Floyd!" I argued, stepping closer. "In a 'dirty way,' according to her," Gareth cut me off, his voice regaining its edge. "She’s a woman who values honesty above everything else, Shannon. And I’ve torched the foundation of us." I fell silent. I was seeing a side of Gareth Hamilton I never expected. Not the pillar of strength who could move markets with a phone call, but a man shattered by his own ego. He looked fragile. Like he was made of glass. "Give her time, Gareth. She’s in shock. She needs a minute to process the fact that her boyfriend could lit

POV: Claire Desmond The wiper blades screeched across the glass, a rhythmic, grating sound that set my teeth on edge. They struggled to shove aside the New York drizzle, but the city lights just smeared into a neon blur of gold and red. Shannon was driving like a woman who had nothing left to lose. She tore through the gridlock of Lower Manhattan, swerving around yellow cabs and ignoring the symphony of angry horns that followed us. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. I gripped the seatbelt so hard my knuckles went white. My breath was shallow, hitching in my chest as if the very air in the car had turned to lead. In my mind, a single image played on a loop, agonizing and sharp. Gareth, pulling a suitcase through a terminal. Gareth, turning his back on the city, on Alana, on me. An apocalypse in a trench coat, vanishing in

POV: Claire This hug was more than just a gesture. It was an anchor, heavy and sure, keeping my soul from being swept away by the wreckage of the last few hours. Gareth’s breathing, which had been jagged and frantic seconds ago, finally smoothed out against the curve of my neck. The heat of his exhale was a physical brand on my skin. He smelled like he always did—rich espresso, cooling rain, and the faint, sharp scent of peppermint. The silence inside the Hamilton Cafe was thick enough to choke on. Nobody moved. Sam, Martha, and Shannon stood like statues in the periphery, holding their breath as if any sound would shatter the fragile peace we’d just built from the ruins. I squeezed my eyes shut, listening to the frantic rhythm of Gareth’s heart slowing down to match mine. This man—this titan who could probably crash a stock market with a sin

POV: Claire Desmond Gareth exhaled, a long, shuddering surrender. He finally let his body acknowledge that it was broken. He fell back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling as his chest rose and fell in a ragged rhythm. "Sleep, Gareth," I whispered, leaning over him. "I’m not going anywhere." I climbed onto the bed, tucking my legs beneath me as I sat beside him. Watching the lines of exhaustion around his eyes finally begin to soften, I felt a genuine smile tug at my lips. I reached out, resting my hand on the crown of his head. With slow, rhythmic strokes, I began to run his fingers through his thick, dark hair. The effect was instantaneous. Gareth’s eyelids, which he had been forcing open by sheer will, grew heavy. He rolled onto his side, facing me, and hooked one powerful arm around my waist in a possessive, territorial arc. He pulled

POV: Claire Desmond The tires of my white Honda Civic crunched slowly over the cobblestones of the alleyway behind the SoHo cafe. I killed the engine. The faint hum of the machine died out, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt physical. 4:00 p.m. Outside, the Manhattan air was crisp, the late afternoon sun casting long, golden shadows against the red-brick facades. The asphalt was still dark and slick from a morning drizzle. I sat there for a moment, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. Staring at the industrial-chic entrance of The Hamilton Cafe, a strange vortex of emotion churned in my gut. The residue of that final, suffocating night at the Desmond estate still clung to me like a second skin. Yesterday, I was a fugitive. A daughter sold to settle a debt, a private tutor hiding from a world that wanted to auction her off. Today, I