Chapter 2 - The Weight of the Blood
The private VIP holding room on the third floor of L'Étoile de Nuit smelled faintly of sandalwood and expensive dry cleaning. It was designed for visiting dignitaries and corporate titans to sign papers away from the prying lenses of paparazzi. Tonight, it served as a makeshift asylum for four six-year-old boys who were currently devouring miniature brioche rolls stuffed with smoked salmon like wild animals who hadn't seen food in a day.
Adrian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at Fifth Avenue where the amber glow of streetlamps illuminated the falling autumn leaves. His reflection in the glass looked like a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, and utterly shattered.
On the velvet sofa behind him, the quadruplets sat in a neat, identical row.
Matthew, the self-appointed protector, was currently scolding Noah for getting butter on his polo shirt. Daniel was examining the mechanism of a brass floor lamp with intense, analytical curiosity, while Leo—the smallest of the four—was curled up against Claire’s side, half-asleep.
Adrian turned around slowly. Every movement felt as though he were wading through liquid lead.
"Six years," Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. He looked directly at Claire, who sat on the edge of a leather armchair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "You told me you lost the baby. You told me the doctors said the stress of my father’s death and the corporate takeover was too much. You looked me in the eye in my own apartment and told me there was nothing left."
Claire flinched, her chin lifting with a defensive pride that had kept her alive through years of poverty. "And what would you have done, Adrian? Think back. Really think back to who you were six years ago."
"I would have taken care of you!"
"No, you wouldn't have," Claire snapped, her voice cracking with the strain of a thousand suppressed midnight tears. "Your father had just died of a heart attack at his desk. Your family's company was bleeding forty million dollars a quarter. Eleanor had already moved into your townhouse with three different lawyers and a team of private public relations consultants. You were twenty-six, drowning in debt, and weeping into your scotch every single night because you couldn't save your legacy."
She stood up, pacing toward him, her finger trembling as she pointed it at his chest.
"Eleanor called me into her office three days after I found out I was pregnant. She didn't scream. She didn't threaten me. She just slid a piece of paper across her mahogany desk. It was an NDA and a cashiers check for thirty thousand dollars. She told me: 'You love him, don't you? If you love him, you won't anchor a sinking ship with an unwanted mouth to feed. Adrian’s life belongs to Vance Infrastructure now. You are a footnote he doesn't have time to read.'"
Adrian felt the room spin. "My mother gave you thirty thousand dollars?"
"She gave me an ultimatum," Claire corrected, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "She told me if I stayed, she would make sure I never worked in this city again, that she would tie you up in custody battles so vicious you'd lose your mind, and that you would ultimately come to resent me for destroying your last chance to save your father's company. So I took the money. I walked out. And guess what, Adrian? That thirty thousand dollars ran out after six months of medical bills for four premature infants born at 30 weeks. I didn't spend it on shoes or vacations. I spent it keeping your sons alive in incubators."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone.
Adrian looked at Matthew, who was now staring at him with those exact hazel-green eyes. The boy tilted his head to the side, replicating a habit Adrian’s own father used to mock.
"You're our dad, right?" Matthew asked quietly.
Adrian’s breath caught in his throat. He dropped to his knees on the plush carpet, ignoring the pristine creases of his trousers, and crawled closer to the sofa until he was eye-level with the four boys.
"I am," Adrian managed to choke out, his voice thick with a grief so profound it felt like physical trauma. "I’m so sorry. I swear to God, I didn't know."
Before Claire could respond, the heavy oak door of the VIP room swung open without a knock.
Eleanor Vance stood on the threshold. Her silver hair was coiffed into an immaculate French twist, her emerald necklace caught the light like a cluster of predatory eyes, and a flute of vintage champagne was balanced delicately in her manicured hand.
Then her eyes swept the room. They landed on Claire. Then on the four boys. And finally, on Adrian, kneeling on the floor like a supplicant before a king.
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Eleanor’s smile didn’t drop; it simply turned into something razor-sharp and frozen.
"Well," Eleanor said, her voice dripping with crystalline disdain as she stepped inside and let the door click shut behind her. "It looks like the trash has blown back inside the house. I was wondering why the groom had abandoned his bride-to-be on the night of his engagement. I should have known the vermin would crawl out of the woodwork the moment money started smelling like honey."
