Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Tompkins SquareThe restaurant had emptied out around us. The waiters had discreetly vanished, leaving us alone in the cavernous, glittering room.
Noah was still by the model train display, laughing as a uniformed attendant handed him a miniature brass caboose. He didn't know anything about wire transfers, forged bank statements, or broken hearts. To him, tonight was just an unexpected adventure with a grandfather he had only seen in grainy photographs on my phone.
Ethan walked toward me slowly, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any second. His custom-tailored Brioni suit looked rumpled, his tie loosened, his hair slightly disordered.
“Seven years, Emma,” he said softly, stopping two feet away from me. “I spent seven years hating you. Every time I signed a multi-million-dollar contract, every time I bought a new car, every time I sat in an empty penthouse overlooking Central Park, I hated you for making me believe that love was just a transaction you walked away from when a better offer came along.”
“And I spent seven years wondering what I did wrong,” I replied, my voice hard, refusing to let him monopolize the grief. “I spent sleepless nights wondering if you ever really loved me, or if I was just a convenient distraction while you climbed the ladder. Every time Noah asked why he didn't have a daddy, I had to lie and tell him his father was a good man who was far away.”
Ethan flinched as if I had struck him. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from my cheek before dropping back to his side.
“Can I... can I talk to him?” Ethan asked, his voice cracking.
I looked over my shoulder at Noah, who was now carefully placing the brass caboose onto the tracks.
“Not tonight, Ethan,” I said firmly. “You don't just walk back into a child’s life because your mother’s lies finally caught up with her. Noah thinks you’re just a nice man in a suit who happens to be yelling at his mom.”
Richard stood up, leaning heavily on his carved mahogany cane. He walked over to us, his expression grim.
“She’s right, son. You’ve earned every bit of this distance. But you don't lose the war on the first day.” Richard looked at me, his eyes softening with an unexpected tenderness. “Emma, my driver is waiting outside. He will take you and the boy back to your apartment safely. As for the legal standing of Blackwood Industries... Ethan, your mother’s signature is on the trust disbursements that funded that forged wire transfer. I suggest you call corporate counsel before sunrise.”
Ethan didn't blink. He kept his eyes locked on mine.
“I’m coming with you,” Ethan said.
“No, you’re not,” I replied.
“Emma, I’m not asking. I know where you live. I know you’re renting that third-floor walkup on 4th Street in Astoria. If you don't let me ride in the car with you, I’ll follow you on a Vespa.”
Despite the heavy, suffocating weight of the evening, a tiny, involuntary snort escaped my lips. “You don't even know how to ride a Vespa, Ethan.”
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“I can learn. Google exists.”
Richard let out a dry, rattling cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Go on, then. Take the car. And Ethan? Fix this. Or I’ll disinherit both of you and leave the entire conglomerate to a cat rescue.”
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