Lahat ng Kabanata ng My Student's Father is a Secret Trillionaire: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

POV: Claire Desmond"Ah... that..." Panic flared. My hands flew to my hair, a desperate, futile attempt to smooth the wind-blown mess and reclaim some shred of dignity."I’m actually quite the model of obedience, Mr. Hamilton. Usually. It’s just... my mother has a flair for the dramatic."A low, resonant chuckle escaped him. It wasn't mocking. It was warm—a rich sound that made the skin around his obsidian eyes crinkle.He nodded slowly, as if he possessed a doctorate in dealing with 'dramatic' family members."No explanation required, Claire. I have parents too."Heat flooded my neck, rising until my face felt like a neon sign. My carefully constructed image of the poised, professional educator had officially turned to ash.First, I hold him hostage at his own cafe, then I wear his jacket like a security blanket, and now I’m caught acting like a runaway teenager."I should go. It’s late. Before they start printing my face on milk cartons."Gareth straightened, that easy, relaxed slou

POV: Claire Desmond"So... Alana’s dad is the reason you’re grinning like you just hit the Powerball?"Shannon’s voice was dripping with amusement, but her posture was pure interrogation. She stood squarely in the center of the hallway, a human roadblock in a sensible cardigan, arms crossed over her chest."That’s... ridiculous. It has nothing to do with him," I snapped. The denial came out way too fast. High-pitched and guilty.Heat scorched its way up my neck. My body was a traitor, abandoning all logic the second Shannon applied the slightest bit of pressure.Shannon tilted her head, narrowing her eyes like a tabby that had just cornered a particularly slow mouse. She dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper, mimicking the breathy tone of a cheap paperback."Then why was that wave different, Claire? That wasn't a 'Good Morning, Citizen' wave. That was a 'See you later, honey, don't work too hard' wave."My throat went dry."Shannon! Keep your voice down!"A small, persistent tug o

POV: Claire DesmondThe heavy glass door swung inward, dragging in a rush of cool Manhattan air that collided with the thick, velvety scent of dark-roasted beans and steamed oat milk.Ding.The bell chimed—a cheerful, high-pitched note that felt like a mockery of the way my heart was currently hammering against my ribs.Inside, The Hamilton Cafe was a living, breathing beast. The lunch rush was at its peak. It was a symphony of chaos: the rhythmic clack-clack of ceramic saucers, the violent hiss of the espresso wand, and the low, multi-layered thrum of Soho’s elite pretending to be casual.For a heartbeat, I entertained the delusion that I could go unnoticed. If I kept my head down and moved with enough purpose, maybe I’d just blend into the industrial-chic brickwork."Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence!"So much for the stealth mission.The shout erupted from a corner table near the window—the unofficial headquarters of the regulars.Jax, a guy in a scuffed

POV: Claire DesmondThe pan-seared sea bass flaked apart at the slightest pressure of my fork.Steam curled from the plate, carrying the bright aroma of lemon butter and the earthy, sharp fragrance of roasted rosemary.It was a sensory reset—a world away from the silent, refrigerated meals served at the Desmond dining table back in Greenwich Village.In this apartment, the air felt thick with warmth. It felt like a home."And then, I gave the nuggets Daddy made to Toby and the others, Ms. Claire!"Alana was retelling her day with the kind of frantic energy only a seven-year-old could manage. Her fork waved in the air to emphasize her point, a small smudge of tartar sauce clinging to the corner of her mouth."That was very kind of you, Alana. Sharing is a superpower," I said, reaching for the linen napkin in the center of the table.Instinct took over before my brain could flag the boundary.I leaned forward. My thumb brushed against her soft cheek as I gently wiped away the sauce."Ho

POV: Claire DesmondThe digital clock on the bedside table blinked a lazy 3:15 PM.Silence ruled the room, broken only by the soft, rhythmic breathing of the child buried under the rabbit-patterned duvet.Alana looked like a small, misplaced angel, her dark lashes fanning against her cheeks, her grip on the giant brown teddy bear absolute and unyielding.Watching her sleep felt like intruding on a sacred ritual.The sage green walls seemed to absorb the chaos of the outside world, leaving only this pocket of peace. It was a tranquility I couldn't afford, yet here I was, stealing seconds of it.Creak.The sound was barely a whisper, but in the stillness, it snapped like a dry twig.My head turned. Gareth stood in the doorway.He had shed the barista apron, returning to the charcoal t-shirt that clung to his frame. For a second, he just watched us—me sitting on the edge of the bed, his daughter lost in dreams.He moved into the room with the silence of a shadow, his weight shifting over