Chapter 4 - THE GATES OF WESTCHESTER
-4
The armored Suburban tore past the towering wrought-iron gates of the sprawling Westchester estate—gates that hadn't opened for me in five years.
The sprawling stone manor loomed out of the dark like a sleeping giant, surrounded by acres of dense pine forest and patrolled by a private security detail that made the White House look casual. The vehicle crunched across the long gravel driveway, coming to a smooth halt beneath the grand stone portico.
“Stay inside until I give the word,” Gabriel commanded, his hand resting on the door handle. He looked back at me, his eyes softening just a fraction. “Claire, I know this place holds bad memories for you. But right now, it’s the safest damned place on the planet. My grandfather built these foundations to withstand an artillery strike.”
“This isn't a safehouse, Gabriel,” I said, my voice hardening as I scooped Leo into my arms while Julian and Asher scrambled out behind us, their eyes wide as they stared up at the towering stone mansion. “This is a golden cage. And I am not staying here a minute longer than it takes to figure out how to bury the Vane syndicate permanently.”
“Fine,” Gabriel replied sharply, stepping out into the cold drizzle and opening my door. “You can call it whatever you want, as long as you're breathing inside its walls while I tear Vane apart brick by brick.”
We hurried up the grand stone steps, the heavy oak front doors swinging open automatically before we even reached them. The interior of the manor was exactly as I had left it on that rainy Tuesday morning five years ago—vaulted ceilings, sweeping double staircases, and polished marble floors that reflected the warm glow of crystal chandeliers.
Not a single piece of furniture had changed. It was as though time had frozen the moment I walked out, leaving a museum dedicated to a marriage that had died in its sleep.
“Mrs. Higgins!” Gabriel called out, his voice echoing through the cavernous foyer.
A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and silver-streaked hair hurried out from the East Wing, her hands clasped nervously in front of her apron. But the moment she saw me—and more importantly, the three little boys clinging to my coat—she stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw dropping open.
“Oh... Oh, sweet Mother of God,” Mrs. Higgins whispered, her hands flying to her mouth as tears instantly welled in her eyes. She looked from my face down to Julian’s stubborn eyebrows, and then to Leo’s gray-green eyes. “They’re... they’re his. They have his eyes.”
“They need dry clothes, hot cocoa, and the west guest suite prepared immediately,” Gabriel instructed, stripping off his wet overcoat and tossing it to a waiting security guard. “And double the interior patrol. I want armed guards stationed outside their door around the clock.”
“Right away, Mr. Gabriel,” Mrs. Higgins said, stepping forward with a warm, welcoming smile that cut through the terrifying tension of the night. She knelt down to the boys' eye level, her voice softening into a gentle croon. “Hello, little ones. I’m Mrs. Higgins. Would you like some warm cookies and milk upstairs?”
Asher looked up at me, seeking permission. I nodded, offering a reassuring smile. “Go with Mrs. Higgins, babies. Mommy and Daddy need to talk for a minute.”
Daddy.
The word slipped out of my mouth before I could catch it, an automatic reflex born of exhaustion and stress. Gabriel froze, his head snapping toward me, a complicated flash of pain, disbelief, and profound hunger washing over his features.
I ignored him, watching as Mrs. Higgins led the three boys up the grand staircase, their small footsteps echoing against the marble.
Once the heavy oak doors of the west wing clicked shut, the silence in the foyer returned, thick and suffocating.
Gabriel turned to face me, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off his broad chest.
“You called me their father,” he said quietly, his voice scraping against my ribs.
“It was a slip of the tongue, Gabriel,” I shot back, stepping away from him, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. “Don't flatter yourself. To them, you’re just the scary man who shot a gun out of a car window.”
“And to you?” Gabriel asked, taking another step closer, trapping me gently against the edge of the mahogany console table. “What am I to you, Claire? Five years ago, you vanished into thin air. You wiped your digital footprint, you cut off every mutual friend, and you raised my sons alone in a city of ten million people. Why?”
“Why?!” I exploded, the five years of boiling rage, postpartum depression, late-night hospital visits with three sick preemies, and crushing loneliness finally breaking through my defenses. I shoved my hands against his chest, pushing him back. “You want to know why?! Because the morning you handed me those divorce papers, you looked at me like I was a piece of trash that was cluttering up your life! You were sleeping with Serena in your office while I was at home packing our wedding albums! I was carrying your children, Gabriel—I didn't even know it yet—and you threw me out because I wasn't glamorous enough for your new billionaire lifestyle!”
Gabriel didn't flinch. He didn't try to defend himself. He let me hit his chest, let me scream the poison out of my lungs, his slate-gray eyes darkening with a heavy, agonizing remorse.
When my voice finally broke, ending in a ragged, breathless sob, Gabriel reached out. Before I could pull away, his strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me tight against his body, burying my face in the crook of his neck.
“I was a blind, arrogant bastard,” Gabriel whispered against my hair, his voice cracking with a raw, shattered emotion I had never heard from him before. “I thought I was protecting you from the war I was fighting. I thought keeping you away from Cross Freight would keep you safe. I didn't know... God help me, Claire, I didn't know.”
I wanted to push him away. I wanted to bite his shoulder, scream at him, and tell him it was too late. But as his arms locked around me, the familiar sandalwood scent wrapping around my senses like a warm blanket, the broken pieces of my heart gave a painful, undeniable thud.
“They were born at thirty-five weeks, Gabriel,” I whispered against his collarbone, the tears finally breaking free. “They were so tiny they fit in the palms of my hands. I sat in that neonatal unit for six weeks all by myself, listening to monitors beep, wondering why the man who swore he loved me didn't even care if we survived.”
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Gabriel’s grip tightened until it hurt. A single, hot tear dropped from his cheek, landing softly against my hair.
“You're never being alone again,” he swore, his lips pressing fiercely against my temple. “Vane is dead to the world, and anyone who tries to touch you or my boys will have to dig through my grave first. I swear it on my life.”
