Chapter 3 - The Pancake Test
Ten minutes later, Andrew walked down the curved staircase in his shirtsleeves, his tie completely discarded. The penthouse was quiet, save for the faint sound of a jazz radio station playing from the kitchen speaker.
He pushed open the swinging door.
The flour from earlier had been swept into a neat pile near the pantry, but the kitchen counter was covered in mixing bowls, spatulas, and spilled batter. Alex stood on a sturdy wooden stepstool beside the island, wearing a red apron that dragged nearly to his ankles.
Elizabeth was standing behind him, guiding his small hands as he whisked a bowl of golden batter.
When Alex heard Andrew’s footsteps, he froze. The whisk slipped from his fingers, clattering against the ceramic bowl. His shoulders hunched upward, a defensive reflex Andrew had seen a hundred times before whenever he entered a room too quickly.
Andrew felt a sharp pang in his chest. That’s what my presence does to him, he thought bitterly. I am the storm.
Instead of barking an order or stepping back, Andrew did something he hadn't done since before the funeral. He rolled up his sleeves, walked past the counter, and pulled off his suit jacket, tossing it over a barstool.
"Need any help with the flipping?" Andrew asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Alex turned his head slowly, his wide, dark eyes staring up at his father as if he were a ghost.
Elizabeth watched them closely, stepping back to give them space. She didn't say a word, letting the silence stretch between father and son.
"I'm not very good at pancakes," Andrew admitted, stepping up to the griddle. "Your mother was always the artist in the kitchen."
Alex swallowed hard. His lower lip quivered slightly. He looked down at the batter, then back up at Andrew’s face, searching for the familiar look of exhaustion and dismissal that usually sent him running to his room.
Instead, he saw something else. He saw a father who looked tired, vulnerable, and completely broken.
"The... the round ones," Alex whispered, his voice small and raspy from months of disuse, like a rusty hinge moving for the first time. "Not the square ones."
Andrew’s breath hitched. He felt hot tears prick the backs of his eyes—something he hadn't experienced since he stood beside a small bronze casket in the rain.
"The round ones," Andrew agreed, his voice thick with emotion. "Only the round ones, buddy. I promise."
Alex gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. He reached out, his small, flour-dusted fingers tentatively brushing against Andrew’s shirtsleeve. It was the lightest touch imaginable, but to Andrew, it felt like the anchor of a massive ship finally catching hold in solid rock.
Elizabeth stood by the sink, turning away for a second to wipe her eyes with a paper towel.
Just as the first pancake began to bubble on the hot iron, the heavy security intercom by the front hallway chimed loudly through the apartment.
Ding-dong.
Andrew frowned, glancing at the wall clock. It was barely nine o'clock. No deliveries were scheduled. No board members knew he was back in New York yet.
"Stay here," Andrew told Alex gently, kissing the top of his dark curls.
He walked out of the kitchen and down the long marble hallway toward the private elevator foyer. He pressed the intercom screen.
The face that appeared on the digital display made Andrew’s blood run cold.
It wasn't a courier. It wasn't a security guard.
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It was Victor Vance—Elizabeth’s estranged husband, and the former chief financial officer of the very same Chicago institute that had destroyed her life. And behind him, standing in the private elevator lobby with federal marshals on either side, was Robert Sterling, Andrew’s own senior legal counsel and the man who managed all his corporate offshore accounts.
"Good morning, Andrew," Victor’s voice crackled through the speaker, cold and venomous. "Open the door. We know Dr. Vance is inside your house. And we know she brought the file."
