Chapter 6 - The Tiger’s DenThe morning air outside the Whitaker Holdings skyscraper on Madison Avenue was biting, but the media horde outside was scorching hot. Microphones, camera lenses, and flashbulbs erupted like a warzone the second my black SUV pulled up to the private executive entrance.
Rumors of my abandoned engagement to Brielle Cartwright had set the financial press ablaze. Headlines screamed across news tickers: WHITAKER HEIR JILTS SOCIETY PRINCESS; MILLION-DOLLAR MERGER IN LIMBO.
I stepped out of the vehicle first, adjusting the cuffs of my tailored black suit—the very suit meant for a wedding that would never happen. Then I turned and opened the rear door.
Milo, Mason, Max, and Micah stepped out in matching miniature navy pea coats, their gray-blue eyes wide with awe at the flashing lights. Mara stepped out behind them, her head held high, wearing a sharp charcoal trench coat that looked every bit as regal as anything Eleanor Whitaker had ever worn.
The flashbulbs paused for a fraction of a second as the press corps took in the impossible tableau: the missing heir, a mysterious woman, and four miniature clones staring down the lenses with my exact, sharp chin.
Then pandemonium broke loose.
"Mr. Whitaker! Who are these children?" shouted a reporter from the Wall Street Journal, shoving a microphone toward my face. "Are you confirming the rumors of a secret family?"
"No rumors," I said clearly, my voice carrying over the din of the street. "These are the four legal heirs to the Whitaker estate. And inside that building, we’re going to have a family meeting."
We pushed through the glass revolving doors before security could even react, striding directly into the private express elevator that led straight to the seventy-second-floor executive boardroom.
Inside the boardroom, seventy of the most powerful corporate executives in New York sat in hushed silence around a massive mahogany table. At the head of the table sat Eleanor Whitaker, immaculate in a cream Chanel suit, her silver hair coiled into a tight, aristocratic bun. Beside her sat Arthur Cartwright, sweating visibly under his collar.
As the heavy oak doors swung open with a loud bang, every head turned.
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Eleanor didn't blink. But as her eyes landed on the four small boys standing beside Mara, the pristine mask of absolute control cracked for one fraction of a second.
"Julian," my mother said, her voice dripping with ice-cold venom as she stood slowly from her chair. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
