Chapter 5 - The Westchester Fortress Reopened
The black armored Maybach glided smoothly through the heavy iron gates of the Westchester estate—the very gates I had sworn I would never cross again.
The sprawling limestone mansion looked exactly as it had five years ago, yet everything felt fundamentally altered. The pristine gardens, the towering oak trees, the glowing amber lights reflecting off the circular driveway—it was a monument to wealth and power, but to me, it had once been a gilded cage.
As the car came to a smooth halt, the driver hurried to open the door. Gabriel stepped out first, carefully lifting Julian, who had fallen asleep against his shoulder during the twenty-minute drive across the bridge. Leo and Mason climbed out sleepily, holding my hands tightly, their eyes wide as they stared up at the massive, castle-like facade of their father’s home.
"Is this our new castle?" Mason whispered in awe.
"It’s your home," Gabriel answered softly, standing beside us, his gaze lingering on my face in the dim porch light. "Every square inch of it belongs to you now."
Inside, the grand foyer was just as cavernous and opulent as I remembered. But within ten minutes of our arrival, the silent, austere mansion transformed into a flurry of frantic activity. Gabriel had summoned the estate’s senior housekeeper, Mrs. Gable—an elderly woman who had known me during my marriage and who nearly dropped her silver tray when she saw me standing in the doorway flanked by three identical miniature versions of her boss.
"My sweet Lord in heaven..." Mrs. Gable gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. "The young masters..."
"Get the west wing suites prepared immediately," Gabriel commanded efficiently, handing a sleeping Julian over to her gentle arms. "Bring up milk, cookies, and anything else three five-year-old boys might need at midnight. I want pediatric nurses on standby by morning. Do you understand?"
"Immediately, Mr. Cross," Mrs. Gable nodded, casting a warm, sympathetic glance at me before hurrying up the grand mahogany staircase with the boys.
Once the children were out of earshot, the heavy silence of the foyer closed in around Gabriel and me once more.
Gabriel turned to face me, stripping off his black tuxedo jacket and tossing it carelessly over the velvet settee. He rolled up his white dress shirt sleeves, revealing strong, corded forearms covered in faint scars—remnants of the violent turf wars he had fought while I was raising his children in secret across the river.
"You planned this brilliantly, Claire," Gabriel said, his voice dangerously low as he walked toward me.
I stood my ground, lifting my chin. "I didn't plan anything, Gabriel. I hid them from you because I wanted them to have a normal childhood, free from car bombs, federal raids, and the shadow of your syndicate."
"A normal childhood?" Gabriel scoffed bitterly, stopping just inches away from me. I could smell the expensive scotch, cedarwood, and rain on his skin. "They're Crosses, Claire. They were never going to have a normal childhood. They have my face, my name, and my enemies. By hiding them in an Upper West Side apartment, you didn't protect them—you left them vulnerable."
"Vulnerable to what?" I snapped, my temper finally flaring. "To a quiet life? To public school, art class, and park dates? The only danger my boys were ever in was the day you decided to trade your wife for a socialite trophy!"
Gabriel flinched. The words hit him like a physical blow. The fierce, angry fire in his eyes flickered, replaced by a deep, hollow remorse that he quickly tried to mask behind a wall of stone.
"Serena is gone," Gabriel said quietly. "She packed her bags and caught a private flight to London forty minutes ago. She will never darken my doorstep again."
"That’s supposed to comfort me?" I laughed harshly. "Should I send her a thank-you card for driving you straight back to your abandoned family?"
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Gabriel reached out, his warm, heavy hand gripping my shoulder. His thumb brushed gently against my collarbone, sending a traitorous, electric shiver racing down my spine.
"Stay here, Claire," Gabriel pleaded, his voice dropping into a raw, desperate register I had never heard from him before. "Reclaim your home. Reclaim your life. Let me be the father and husband I failed to be five years ago. I swear to you on my life—no one will ever touch you or our boys again."
