Chapter 1 - The Man Behind the GlassThe Whitmore estate glittered beneath a cold November sky, its towering windows reflecting the lights of arriving black cars and the restless flashes of cameras.
Inside, servants moved like shadows.
Crystal glasses were polished. Silverware was aligned. White roses were arranged beneath chandeliers worth more than most houses.
And at the center of it all stood Adrien Whitmore.
Thirty-six years old. Billionaire. CEO. The man newspapers called The Golden Architect of the Eastern Seaboard.
But tonight, none of those titles mattered.
He stood alone in the private dining room, staring at a table prepared for twelve, his loosened tie and tired eyes revealing the exhaustion beneath his polished exterior.
Then he noticed Maya.
She was adjusting a crystal glass by exactly three fingers from the edge of the table.
Adrien watched her for several seconds.
“You still use the three-finger measurement,” he said.
Maya froze.
“It prevents sleeves from catching the glasses, Mr. Whitmore.”
“My mother taught you that.”
“Mrs. Alvarez taught me. Your mother taught her.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
For a moment, the billionaire disappeared.
And Maya saw the boy.
The boy she had known twenty-two years ago.
The boy from the basement.
Neither of them spoke.
Then Adrien whispered:
“Do you remember Ashland Avenue?”
Maya's hand tightened around the polishing cloth.
Her heart stopped.
Because nobody had called that name in twenty-two years.
And suddenly, the mansion didn't feel like a mansion anymore.
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It felt like a frozen basement in Chicago.
And they were twelve again.
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