Chapter 4 - Race Against the ClockEdward didn’t hesitate. He scooped up the crumpled paper, grabbed his coat, and threw a glance at Martha, who was watching from behind the counter with her hand over her mouth.
“Call my driver,” Edward commanded Martha, pulling out his phone with trembling fingers. “Tell him to bring the Maybach around to the front entrance immediately. And pack up the rest of that cake.”
“Go, Mr. Blake,” Martha said, her voice shaking with emotion. “And bring our Claire home.”
Within three minutes, Edward was in the back of his bulletproof, midnight-black luxury sedan, the leather seats smelling faintly of cedar and rain. Beside him sat Maya, clutching a takeout box containing the remaining chocolate cake on her lap like it was crown jewels.
“Driver,” Edward barked, the absolute ruler of the financial world returning to his voice, though his hands were still trembling. “4th and Elm. Basement apartment B. Step on it. Ignore every red light; I’ll handle the fines.”
The car surged forward into the slick, gridlocked chaos of the downtown evening commute. Horns blared. Rain lashed against the bulletproof glass in sheets. Edward stared out the window, his mind racing back five years to the night Claire had walked out of his life.
It had been over a man Edward deemed unworthy—a struggling acoustic musician with holes in his shoes and no pedigree. Edward had used every weapon in his arsenal: threats of disinheritance, brutal insults, and ultimatums designed to break them apart. Claire had stood her ground, looked her father in the eye, and said words that haunted his nightmares every single night:
“You think your money makes you a king, Dad, but it’s just a cage. I’d rather starve in the real world than live as a prisoner in your gold-plated mausoleum.”
She had walked out into the rain that night, exactly like this. And Edward, too proud to chase her, had locked the door behind her.
“Grandpa?”
Edward snapped out of his memory. He looked down at Maya. She was staring up at him with wide, worried eyes.
“Is my mommy going to die?” she asked, her voice cracking.
May you like
Edward pulled the little girl close against his charcoal coat, ignoring the dampness of her raincoat soaking into his expensive wool. For the first time in over thirty years, Edward Blake wept—not tears of self-pity, but tears of pure, unadulterated terror.
“No, sweetheart,” Edward choked out, kissing the top of her damp chestnut curls. “I swear to God, your grandfather is right here. Nobody is taking her away from us ever again.”
