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My reflection in the mirror stared back at me, juxtaposed against four pint-sized carbon copies. The gesture—that unconscious habit of dragging my left hand behind my neck whenever I felt cornered or deep in thought—was entirely, uniquely mine. At least, I had always believed it was. / Chapter 5 / 17

Chapter 5 - Race to Logan

The traffic on Interstate 93 was a parking lot of brake lights and frustrated commuters. I slammed my hand against the steering wheel of my rental car, watching the digital dashboard clock tick relentlessly.

8:15 PM.

Clara’s flight to Seattle was scheduled to push back from Logan International Airport at 9:10 PM. If I hit security delays, if traffic didn't clear, or if she slipped through the boarding gate before I could reach her, I might lose them forever.

My phone buzzed incessantly in the passenger seat. Displayed across the screen: Father. Mother. Sloane Barrett. Legal Counsel.

I hit the power button, turning the phone off completely and tossing it into the backseat.

For the first time in thirty-seven years, nobody was telling me where to go, what to wear, or who to love. But the freedom felt hollow if I couldn't fix the wreckage my family had left behind.

Think, Julian, think, I muttered to myself, weaving the car onto the breakdown lane with a reckless disregard for the rules I had obeyed my entire life.

Logan Airport was three miles ahead.

If Clara was taking a direct flight to Seattle, she would be boarding out of Terminal E—international and transcontinental departures. With four six-year-old boys in tow, moving through TSA security, gate checks, and boarding lines would be a logistical nightmare. That was my only advantage.

Ten minutes later, I slammed the rental car into park outside Terminal E, ignoring the angry honks of a terminal shuttle bus as I leaped out onto the freezing tarmac.

I sprinted through the sliding glass doors, dodging bewildered tourists and businessmen with rolling luggage. The cavernous terminal buzzed with the chaotic energy of late-night flights.

Terminal E, Gate 24.

I pushed through the crowd, my lungs burning, my chest heaving as I scanned the departure boards.

Flight 492 to Seattle: Boarding.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I bolted toward Gate 24, past the airline ticket counter, pushing past the gate agent who shouted after me.

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

"Sir! You need a boarding pass to enter the jet bridge!"

"I'm not flying!" I yelled back, sprinting down the carpeted ramp toward the boarding tube.

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