Chapter 4 - The Morning After
Dawn broke over Manhattan with a pale, bruised sky that promised a brief reprieve from the winter freeze.
When I unlocked the door to the Tribeca loft, the apartment smelled of burnt toast and warm maple syrup.
In the kitchen, Mara was standing at the stove flipping pancakes, while four little boys sat around the island swinging their legs, arguing animatedly about whether Batman could beat Superman in a footrace.
"He has a car, Max, so obviously Batman wins!" Milo insisted, waving a fork in the air.
"Superman can fly, dummy! Cars can't jump over buildings!" Mason fired back.
Mara looked up as the door clicked shut. Her green eyes met mine across the open-plan space. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked exhausted, but for the first time in six years, the defensive wall around her expression was completely gone.
She smiled. A small, tentative, breathtakingly genuine smile.
"You're back," she said softly.
"I'm back," I replied, walking over and setting my keys on the counter.
"Did you...?" She hesitated, her spatula hovering over the pan.
"My father is currently dealing with federal auditors, a frozen asset portfolio, and the realization that his empire is slipping out of his hands," I said, leaning against the counter beside her and reaching out to steal a slice of banana from the cutting board. "He won't bother you ever again. None of them will."
Mara stared at me for a long moment, then let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since the previous night. She set the spatula down, turned off the burner, and leaned her head against my shoulder.
"You really tore down Whitaker Industries for us?" she whispered against my shirt.
"Whitaker Industries was built on lies, Mara," I murmured, wrapping my arms around her waist, breathing in the scent of vanilla and coffee in her hair. "I’d burn down the whole city if it meant getting back what was stolen from us."
"Mommy! Dad said a bad word!" Micah piped up suddenly from the counter, pointing an accusing finger at me with a wide, impish grin.
Mara pulled back, laughing—a bright, musical sound that filled the cavernous loft with genuine warmth. "Did he, Micah? What did he say?"
"He said 'damn' when he dropped his toast!" Milo chimed in helpfully.
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I groaned, burying my face in my hands while the boys erupted into giggles. Mara looked up at me, her green eyes sparkling with playful triumph.
"Looks like you've got a lot of parenting to catch up on, Mr. Whitaker," she teased, picking up the plate of pancakes. "Start by serving breakfast to your sons."
