Chapter 4 - The Fortress on the Cliff
Three days later.
The gates of the Drake Estate in Mercer Island swung open without a sound.
The property stretched across four acres of old-growth cedar and manicured lawns, culminating in a three-story glass and limestone residence that jutted out over the waters of Lake Washington.
A black Range Rover pulled up to the grand stone portico.
Griffin stepped out first, opening the rear door. He extended his hand to Sloan, who was sitting in the middle row, still pale, wearing a thick cashmere coat he had instructed his buyers to purchase from Nordstrom two hours earlier.
She looked at the massive house with a mixture of awe and profound hesitation.
"Griffin," she murmured, her hand resting on the leather seat. "This is... too much. We could have gone back to the duplex. My work—"
"Your duplex lease was canceled this morning," Griffin said calmly, taking her hand and pulling her gently toward the pavement. "Your landlord received a check for the remaining nine months, plus twenty thousand dollars for the inconvenience. Your architectural files, your computers, and your blueprints are currently being installed in the studio on the second floor of this house."
Sloan blinked. "You can't just—"
"I can," Griffin interrupted. His gray eyes were clear, bright, and completely unyielding. "And I did."
Hazel and Iris tumbled out of the other side of the vehicle like two energetic yellow-and-navy packages. They had spent forty-eight hours in a luxury suite at the Four Seasons with Mrs. Gable, eating pancakes off silver trays and watching animated movies on an eighty-inch screen, but the sight of the house made both of them freeze.
"Is this a hotel?" Iris asked, her mouth slightly open.
"It's our house," Griffin said, walking around the car and picking Iris up in one arm effortlessly, while extending his other hand to Hazel.
Hazel didn't hesitate. She grabbed his thumb with her entire small hand.
They walked through the front doors into a double-height foyer with floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the blue expanse of the lake. A grand floating staircase swept up to the second floor, and the air smelled of cedar, fresh lilies, and roasted coffee.
A woman in her fifties wearing a dark gray sweater and trousers stepped forward with a warm smile.
"Welcome home, Miss Callaway," she said kindly. "I'm Mrs. Hughes. The girls' rooms are prepared on the east wing, and Mr. Drake’s private medical staff has delivered your prescription supplements to the kitchen."
Sloan stood in the center of the foyer, looking around at the quiet, staggering wealth that surrounded her. It felt surreal, like a dream she had accidentally walked into after ten years of counting pennies for milk and gas.
"Where is my studio?" Sloan asked softly.
Griffin looked at her, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips for the first time in three days. "Come see."
He led them up the floating staircase to the west wing. He pushed open a set of double oak doors into a room that took Sloan’s breath away.
It was an architectural drafting studio three times the size of her entire living room in Fremont. Two massive drafting tables sat near the window, equipped with top-tier digital monitors, 3D printing equipment, and rolls of high-grade vellum paper. Beside the desk stood her old wooden drafting stool—the worn, stained one her father had given her twenty years ago—restored, polished, and sitting squarely in the center of the room.
Beside the stool was her cold cup of coffee from three nights ago, replaced by a fresh, steaming mug of Earl Grey tea.
Sloan walked up to the drafting table, her fingers brushing the smooth surface of the vellum.
"You brought my stool," she whispered.
"I brought everything," Griffin said from the doorway. He had set Iris down, and the two girls were currently exploring a large leather daybed near the bookshelf. "You built a business on forty hours of sleep a week, Sloan. Now you're going to build it with a full engineering staff downstairs and three assistant draftsmen I hired from your alumni association yesterday."
Sloan turned around, her dark eyes searching his face. "Griffin... you're trying to buy back ten years in ten minutes."
"I know," he said simply, taking three steps toward her until he was standing close enough to feel the heat radiating from her sweater. "And if ten minutes isn't enough, I'll take twenty years."
"Mom!" Hazel’s voice called out from the window. "Come look! There’s a boat!"
Sloan looked at Griffin for three long seconds. The anger that had sustained her in the hospital had evaporated, leaving behind a deep, terrifying vulnerability. She was standing in the home of the most powerful man in the city—a man she had never stopped loving, even when she was sleeping on a twin mattress in a basement apartment in Portland with two newborn infants screaming in the dark.
"They don't know you yet," Sloan murmured, looking toward the window where the twins were leaning against the glass.
"Then we'll teach them," Griffin said.
May you like
He reached out, his thumb brushing gently against her jawline, catching a stray lock of dark hair and tucking it behind her ear. His touch was warm, solid, and entirely real.
"Starting tonight," he whispered.
