Part 5: The Drive to Elm Street
The next morning, the financial markets opened with Cervantes Holdings taking a sharp three percent hit. Analysts on Bloomberg attributed it to "reputational friction and unpredictable executive optics."
Michael didn’t care about the stock ticker. He sat in his sleek, minimalist office on the forty-fifth floor, staring out at the hazy morning skyline, his coffee growing cold on his desk.
Arthur Vance burst through the double doors without knocking, holding a Manila folder like a shield.
“Michael! You’ve seen the papers? The board is panicking. Investors are calling. They want a public relations strategy. They want us to issue a statement claiming it was a staged prank by disgruntled students, or that you’re planning a joint philanthropic venture with the Nava family—”
“Shut up, Arthur,” Michael said without turning around.
Arthur blinked, freezing mid-stride. “Excuse me?”
“I said, shut up.” Michael turned his chair around, his expression cold, hard, and terrifyingly calm. “Cancel my morning appointments. All of them. Reschedule the board meeting to tomorrow.”
“But the municipal zoning hearing for the interstate expansion—”
“I don’t care about the zoning hearing, Arthur. Listen to me very carefully. I am going to Westbridge.”
Arthur’s jaw dropped. “Westbridge? Why? To yell at the principal? To throw more money at them?”
“No,” Michael said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. “To learn how to be a father from a woman who didn't need a single dime of mine to raise a better man than I’ll ever be.”
Before Arthur could utter another syllable, Michael walked past him, stepping into the private elevator that descended straight down to the underground parking garage.
He didn’t take his chauffeured Maybach. Instead, he got into a nondescript, mid-range sedan he kept for emergencies—something that wouldn’t draw stares in a quiet middle-class neighborhood on the east side of the city.
The drive took forty-five minutes. As he crossed the city limits, the towering glass skyscrapers gave way to leafy maple trees, modest single-family homes with neatly mowed lawns, and bicycles leaning against porch railings.
He pulled up two houses down from 428 Elm Street.
It was a modest, cream-colored house with blue shutters. A wooden porch swing hung near the front door, exactly like the one in the investigator's photographs. In the driveway sat an old, dented Honda Civic with over one hundred and fifty thousand miles on the odometer.
Michael killed the engine. He sat in the quiet car, his hands resting on the steering wheel, watching the front door.
Ten minutes passed. Then the door opened.
Emily stepped out carrying a canvas tote bag filled with library books. She was wearing a simple cotton cardigan and canvas sneakers. She locked the front door, turned around, and froze.
Her eyes locked onto Michael’s parked sedan.
She didn’t run. She didn’t look panicked. She simply walked down the front path, crossed the sidewalk, and marched straight toward the driver’s side window.
Michael rolled the window down electronically.
“You’re driving a cheap car, Michael,” Emily said, her arms crossed over her chest. “Trying to slum it for research? Or did your accountants finally cut your credit cards?”
“I wanted to see where you live,” Michael said, his voice unusually quiet.
“Well, you’re looking at it. It’s paid off. No mortgages, no corporate debt, no secret clauses on page twelve.” She leaned down slightly, her dark eyes locking onto his. “What do you want, Michael? If you’re here to offer a trust fund, save your breath. Noah doesn’t want your blood money.”
“I don’t want to give him money, Emily,” Michael said, swallowing the heavy lump in his throat. “I want to talk to him. Just... five minutes. As a man, not as a billionaire.”
May you like
Emily stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. The wind rustled the maple leaves overhead, dropping a stray seed onto the roof of the sedan.
“You missed ten years of bedtime stories, scraped knees, science fairs, and feverish nights, Michael,” she said softly, the sharp edge in her voice giving way to a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. “You don’t get to buy a ticket to the main event just because the preview went viral.”
