Lahat ng Kabanata ng My Student's Father is a Secret Trillionaire: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

POV: Gareth Hamilton The Node, This was the brain of my empire. The walls were lined with dark gray acoustic dampening foam. In the center sat a massive desk carved from a single slab of black tempered glass. Three curved monitors bathed the room in a ghostly blue light. They displayed a constant stream of global market data—candlestick charts flickering like the pulse of a living beast. The panel closed behind me, sealing the world away. I dropped into the ergonomic leather chair. In the cafe downstairs, I was the guy who worried about the acidity of a light roast. Here, I was the apex predator. My fingers flew across the laser-projected keyboard. Tap. Tap. Tap. I should have been checking the European markets. I should have been reading Vincent’s briefing on the sub-Saharan mining acquisition. But m

POV: Claire Desmond The bookstore was a sprawling labyrinth of high shelves, smelling of old paper and vanilla-scented glue. It was my sanctuary. We walked through the aisles in a peculiar formation. Alana was in the middle, holding Gareth’s hand with her left and mine with her right. We were a human barricade, moving slowly through the fiction section. I found I didn't mind the lack of space. "Daddy! The comics are over there!" Alana let go of our hands, darting toward the children’s section at the end of the hall. Suddenly, it was just the two of us. Standing side by side in the narrow aisle of classic literature. Gareth tucked his hands into his pockets, scanning the spines of the books with a quiet, respectful interest. "What do you usually go for, Claire?" he asked softly. His voice seemed to ble

POV: Claire Desmond We arranged ourselves around the table. Alana wedged herself between me and Nora. She immediately slammed her comic book on the table and pointed to a shiny sticker on the cover. "I got a perfect score in math today," Alana announced to the table. "So my dad bought me a prize because of my teacher." Nora melted instantly. She reached out and smoothed a hand over Alana's hair. "That is amazing, sweetheart. Your teacher must be very smart to help you get a perfect score." "She’s the smartest," Alana declared without hesitation. "And she’s nice. Not grumpy like my dad." A burst of laughter erupted around the table. Even Nathan cracked a genuine smile. Gareth just let out a long, defeated sigh and signaled Sam to bring another round of drinks. The initial awkwardness evaporated. I sat back and watched a bi

POV: Claire Desmond The ghost of Nora’s laughter from last night still echoed in my mind as I stepped through the wrought-iron gates of St. Jude’s this morning. It felt like only a few hours ago that I was wrapped in the quiet, suburban warmth of that house in Riverdale—a place that smelled of vanilla candles and actual, honest-to-god peace. It was a jagged, painful contrast to the reality of the Manhattan morning air, which already felt heavy with the metallic tang of the subway and the aggressive thrum of the city waking up. I hopped off the back of Shannon’s beat-up Vespa—the "Battle Hopper," as she affectionately called the rusting hunk of metal—and smoothed out the wrinkles in my pencil skirt. The fabric felt like a straightjacket, a piece of professional armor I was forced to don every single day. The commute from Shannon’s cramped apartment in Astoria had

POV: Claire Desmond The ceiling fan groaned in a rhythmic, metallic stutter. It didn't actually cool the room; it just churned the humid, stagnant air of the Astoria rental, pushing the scent of damp concrete and old laundry against my skin. I sat on the floor, my back pressed against the peeling wallpaper. I was still wearing my white teaching blouse. The collar felt like a noose, tightening with every shallow breath I took. The residual terror from the faculty room this morning hadn't faded. It clung to me like a second skin, thicker and more suffocating than the New York summer heat. The image of those black roses and white lilies kept flickering behind my eyelids. The cloying, sweet rot of their scent seemed to have stained my senses. It was a calling card from Jake Floyd—a reminder that his reach wasn’t limited by gates or distance. He could touch me anywhere, even in my sanctua