Chapter 2 - The Queens Apartment
The morning air smelled of salt and exhaust when Miles stepped out of a yellow cab in Sunnyside, Queens. He had intentionally left his Maybach and his driver, Arthur, back at the penthouse garage. He wore plain jeans, a dark wool sweater, and a black coat—clothing he hadn't worn since his days as an architecture student living in a drafty studio.
He stood before a four-story brick building with rusted fire escapes and a squeaky front gate. It was a stark contrast to his triplex penthouse overlooking Central Park, where the marble floors were heated and the glass windows filtered out the noise of the city. Here, he could hear a dog barking on the third floor and the sound of someone frying bacon down the hall.
At precisely 7:55 AM, Miles walked up the narrow staircase to Apartment 3B. He took a deep breath, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way no billion-dollar acquisition had ever caused, and knocked.
The door swung open almost immediately.
Claire stood there, wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt and leggings, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She looked exhausted, with dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of a sleepless night.
"You're early," she noted, stepping aside.
"Five minutes early isn't late," Miles said, stepping over the threshold.
The apartment was small, but radiant with warmth and color. Framed watercolor paintings—Claire’s work—hung on the walls. Toys were neatly arranged in woven baskets in the corner, and the air smelled of cinnamon, coffee, and baby powder. In the center of the living room, sitting on a colorful foam mat, were the twins.
Julian was banging a wooden spoon against a plastic bowl, while Ivy was intensely focused on pulling the ears of a stuffed rabbit.
When Miles entered, both children stopped. Four eyes—two steel-gray, two vivid green—turned toward the tall stranger.
"Julian, Ivy," Claire said softly, kneeling beside them. "This is... this is Miles."
She hadn't called him 'Daddy.' The omission hurt, but Miles swallowed his pride and dropped to his knees on the foam mat. He felt enormous and clumsy in the small space.
"Hi," Miles said, his voice dropping to a gentle register he didn't know he possessed. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two small, handcrafted wooden horses he had bought from an artisan shop on his walk over. He set them gently on the mat.
Ivy wriggled forward immediately, her tiny hands grasping one of the horses. She turned it over, examined the smooth grain, and then looked up at Miles with a bright, toothy grin. She reached out and touched his knee.
A jolt of pure, unadulterated emotion shot through Miles’s chest. He felt an overwhelming urge to protect this tiny creature with everything he owned.
Julian, however, was far more cautious. He crawled backward into Claire’s lap, hiding his face against her neck while peeking at Miles with suspicious gray eyes.
"He takes time to warm up to men," Claire explained, stroking Julian’s hair. "He thinks everyone is here to take his toys."
"He's cautious. That's smart," Miles said softly, looking up at Claire. "He gets that from you."
"He gets the paranoia from you," Claire countered, though the ghost of a smile touched her lips. She stood up, holding Julian. "Coffee's hot. If you want some, it's in the kitchen. No staff here, Miles. You pour your own."
As Miles walked into the tiny kitchen, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, intending to silence it, but the notification made him freeze.
It was an urgent news alert from the Wall Street Journal:
"HARRIINGTON URBAN DESIGN FACES HOSTILE TAKEOVER BID AS FOUNDER GOES MISSING ON NEW YEAR'S EVE. BOARD MEMBER VICTORIA HARRINGTON CALLS EMERGENCY MEETING."
Miles stared at the screen. His mother was making her move. She had always hated Claire, viewing her as an unwelcome distraction from Miles’s corporate legacy. Now, using his sudden departure from the party as leverage, Victoria was attempting to declare him unfit to lead the firm.
Claire walked into the kitchen, carrying Julian. She caught him staring at the screen.
"Business calls?" she asked, her voice turning cold again. "If you need to leave, Miles, leave. Don't pretend you can be here if your head is in a Midtown boardroom."
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Miles looked from the headline on his phone to the small face of his son staring at him, and then to Claire. He slowly pushed the power button on his phone, walked over to the trash can, and dropped the thousand-dollar device straight into the bin.
"I'm not going anywhere," Miles said firmly. "Teach me how to make oatmeal."
