Chapter 4 - The Midnight Ride
"I took the basement job because it gave me regular hours, Claire," Noah explained, staring at their joined hands. "When Rebecca passed away, Sophie had terrifying asthma attacks every other week. I couldn't be on a flight to Rotterdam or Singapore while my daughter was in an emergency room."
Claire looked at him with profound empathy. "A parent's sacrifice is never a waste, Noah. But you shouldn't have to choose between your daughter's safety and your own dignity."
A soft knock came at the suite door.
Claire’s driver and head of personal security, a burly, gray-haired veteran named Frank, stepped inside, carrying a tailored garment bag.
"The press is swarming the front lobby, Ms. Claire," Frank reported. "We've staged the armored SUV at the underground service elevator. We can leave without being photographed."
Claire stood up, slipping off her bridal earrings and placing them on the vanity. "Thank you, Frank. Noah is coming with us."
Noah blinked, rising from the armchair. "Ms. Claire, I have to get home. The babysitter's time expires at midnight, and every extra hour costs fifteen dollars I don't have."
Claire smiled, a breathtaking, radiant expression that illuminated her face. "Then we had better hurry. We don't want to make Sophie wait."
Twenty minutes later, the sleek black Cadillac Escalade was gliding through the snow-dusted streets of outer Boston, heading toward the working-class suburb of Revere.
Noah sat in the heated leather seat beside Claire, who had changed into a comfortable navy cashmere sweater and dark tailored slacks. She looked younger, softer, and far more approachable than the ruthless CEO who graced the covers of business magazines.
They pulled up outside a weathered, three-story triple-decker apartment building. A single porch light flickered against the peeling gray siding.
"Stay in the car, Frank," Claire instructed her driver, unbuckling her seatbelt.
"Claire, you don't have to come up," Noah protested, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "It's a tiny, drafty apartment. It’s not... it’s not what you're used to."
"Noah," Claire said, placing a firm, warm hand against his chest. "I grew up in a trailer park in Maine before my father built his first three delivery trucks. I know what real life looks like. Lead the way."
They climbed the narrow, creaking wooden stairs to the third floor.
Noah unlocked the door with a quiet click. Inside, the small living room was warm, smelling of cinnamon tea and roasted peanut butter crackers.
On the worn fabric couch, six-year-old Sophie was fast asleep, curled beneath a faded fleece blanket with a stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin.
The teenage babysitter, Jenny from downstairs, was doing her algebra homework at the kitchen table.
When Jenny saw the billionaire CEO of Whitmore Freight walk into the small hallway, her jaw dropped so wide her pencil fell onto the linoleum floor.
"Mr... Mr. Carter?" Jenny squeaked, staring at Claire's designer boots.
Noah pulled his worn wallet from his pocket, handing Jenny seventy-five dollars—every remaining dollar he possessed. "Thank you, Jenny. I'll walk you down."
"No need, Mr. Carter! I'm going right downstairs!" Jenny stammered, grabbing her backpack and darting out the door like she had seen a ghost.
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Noah shut the door, turning around to find Claire already kneeling beside the couch.
Claire was gently brushing a stray lock of dark curly hair from Sophie’s forehead, her eyes filled with an unbearable tenderness that made Noah’s breath catch in his throat.
