Chapter 7 - Breakfast with Strangers
Claire closed her eyes tightly, turning her face away from me.
"It was a mistake," she whispered. "I was exhausted. I had just been in labor for twenty-six hours alone in a county ward. The nurse asked for middle names, and before I could stop myself, it just slipped out."
"You loved me," I said, taking a step toward her. The narrow hallway offered no escape. I could smell her now—not the cheap hotel industrial soap, but the scent that had haunted my dreams for almost a decade. Lavender and rain. "Claire, you still loved me when they were born."
"Loving someone who leaves you to the wolves doesn't make you noble, Ethan. It makes you an idiot," she said bitterly, her voice razor-sharp. "And I stopped being an idiot the day I brought three infants home to an unheated studio apartment and had to boil tap water on a hotplate just to keep the room warm."
The mental image struck me like a physical blow.
While I had been closing an eight-hundred-million-dollar logistics merger in Frankfurt, staying in five-star suites with heated marble floors, Claire had been boiling water on a hotplate to keep our sons from freezing to death.
"I'm staying," I said suddenly.
Claire stared at me, dumbfounded. "What?"
"I am not leaving this apartment tonight," I said, walking past her into the small living room and sitting down firmly on the worn sofa. The springs creaked beneath my weight. "It's three in the morning. You’re exhausted. The boys need to sleep. I am not getting back into that limousine and pretending I didn't see this."
"Ethan, you cannot stay here! This is my home!"
"Call the police then," I challenged quietly, loosening my tie and tossing it onto the armrest. "Tell them Ethan Whitmore is sitting on your couch refusing to leave until he talks to the mother of his children. See how quickly the Chicago press corps shows up on your front lawn."
Claire’s breath hitched. She looked at the front door, then at the bedroom where our three boys were sleeping. She knew the media would devour this story alive. *Billionaire CEO’s Secret Triplets Discovered in Bridgeport Slum.* The paparazzi would descend like vultures. They would harass her at work, photograph the boys walking to school, turn their quiet life into a circus.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
"No," I replied, looking directly into her eyes. "I was a coward nine years ago. But tonight, I am just a father who wants to see his sons in the morning."
She stared at me with pure loathing for several agonizing seconds before turning on her heel and marching into the tiny kitchen. The sound of water running in the sink and the aggressive clatter of a kettle told me she wouldn't be sleeping either.
I didn't sleep.
I sat on that sagging couch for four hours, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling as dawn crept over Chicago. I read every single page of Marcus’s dossier on my phone.
I read about Claire working thirty hours a week as a lab assistant while taking night classes to finish her biology degree. I read about her taking a second job at a 24-hour pharmacy to pay for Leo’s asthma inhalers when he was three. I read about her declining public assistance because she was terrified the state welfare system would run a background check, flag my name as the likely father, and alert the Whitmore family lawyers.
She had lived in terror of my family for nearly a decade.
At 6:30 AM, the bedroom door clicked open.
Sam walked out first, rubbing his eyes, wearing oversized flannel pajamas. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me sitting on the sofa.
"You're still here," he said, his voice flat with curiosity.
"Good morning, Sam," I said, offering the gentlest smile I could muster. "I am."
Leo emerged behind him, instantly alert, his eyes narrowing into that familiar, fierce frown. He crossed his arms over his chest, blocking Toby who was trailing behind him clutching a worn stuffed bear with one missing ear.
"Why is he on our couch?" Leo demanded loudly.
Claire rushed out of the kitchen, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt and faded jeans, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looked entirely different from the subdued server at the gala—she looked real, beautiful, and desperately tired.
"Boys, go wash your faces and brush your teeth," Claire instructed, steering them toward the tiny bathroom. "School starts in an hour."
"Is he having breakfast with us?" Toby asked, peering around Claire’s leg, his hazel eyes wide and curious. "We only have four eggs left, Mom."
The innocence of the question ripped through my chest.
"I'm not hungry, Toby," I said softly, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I'm just here to visit."
"He's leaving after breakfast," Claire stated firmly, glaring at me over Toby's head. "Go on, boys. Teeth. Now."
Ten minutes later, the three boys were seated at the laminate table. Claire placed a plate in front of them: half a piece of toast each, and a small portion of scrambled eggs. There was no plate for her. She poured herself a mug of black coffee from a chipped mug.
I stood by the kitchen door, watching in agonizing silence.
Sam ate methodically, chewing each bite carefully. Leo ate quickly, his eyes never leaving me, watching my every movement as if expecting me to pull a weapon.
Toby looked at his plate, then looked up at me. He picked up his half-slice of toast, broke off a small corner, and held it out toward me.
"Here," Toby said softly. "You can have some of mine."
Claire froze, her coffee mug hovering halfway to her lips.
I felt a hot tear escape my eye before I could stop it. I stepped forward, took the tiny piece of dry bread from his small fingers, and popped it into my mouth.
"Thank you, Toby," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "That’s the best toast I've ever had."
Leo rolled his eyes and slammed his fork down. "He's lying, Toby. He eats at fancy restaurants. He doesn't want our food."
"Leo, manners," Claire warned, though her own eyes were suspiciously shiny.
"I'm not lying, Leo," I said, crouching down beside his chair so we were eye-to-eye. "I would trade every fancy meal I've ever eaten in my entire life just to sit at this table with you three."
Leo glared at me, his jaw tightening. "Then why didn't you come eight years ago?"
The room fell completely silent.
May you like
Even Claire couldn't find the words to answer him.
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