Chapter 6 - The Storm Breaks
The rain in Manhattan turned into a torrential downpour by six o'clock that evening.
In the grand ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel, four hundred of the city’s most powerful corporate figures gathered for the annual Cross Atlantic Holdings Gala. It was the night Nathaniel had spent five years preparing for: the formal announcement of the Vancouver acquisition and his elevation to Chairman of the Board.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm, brilliant light over tables draped in black silk. Champagne flowed freely, classical string quartets played in the background, and photographers’ flashes lit up the room every time a high-profile guest entered.
Nathaniel stood near the center stage, wearing a bespoke tuxedo, holding a crystal glass of aged scotch.
He looked successful. He looked invincible.
Beside him stood Vanessa, wearing an emerald green backless gown, smiling radiantly for the camera lenses. She held his arm tightly, her fingers digging slightly into his sleeve, claiming her victory before the entire city.
Yet, Nathaniel felt completely hollow.
Every person who walked up to congratulate him said the exact same words: “Incredible achievement, Nathaniel.” “Your father must be so proud.” “A masterclass in corporate leadership.”
Not a single person asked him how he was doing. Not a single person looked at him with genuine warmth.
His eyes drifted toward the grand entrance doors, watching every woman who entered in a white or pastel dress, hoping—against all logic—to see a familiar face with soft brown eyes and a quiet smile.
He was losing his mind. He knew it.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom burst open.
A tall, elderly man with silver hair and a heavy wooden cane walked into the ballroom, flanked by two security guards.
The room went quiet. The music stopped.
It was William Cross—Nathaniel’s seventy-two-year-old father, the legendary founder of Cross Atlantic Holdings, who had been bedridden in a private clinic in Connecticut for six months due to failing heart health.
Nathaniel’s eyes widened in shock. “Father?”
William Cross did not look like a dying man tonight. His face was set in a terrible, terrifying mask of absolute rage. He walked down the center aisle of the ballroom, his cane thumping heavily against the marble floor, his icy blue eyes locked onto his son.
The four hundred guests parted like the Red Sea, whispers rippling through the crowd.
Vanessa immediately adjusted her posture, offering a warm, humble smile. “Mr. Cross! What a wonderful surprise! We didn't expect—”
“Silence, girl!” William Cross barked, his voice echoing off the high ceilings like a thunderclap.
Vanessa froze, her smile shattering instantly.
William stopped two feet from Nathaniel, leaning heavily on his cane, his chest heaving with exertion.
“Father, what are you doing here?” Nathaniel asked quickly, stepping forward to offer his arm. “You should be resting—”
William raised his heavy wooden cane and slammed it against Nathaniel’s shoulder, forcing his son back two steps.
The ballroom gasped. Photographers began snapping pictures frantically before security guards pushed them back.
“I raised a brilliant businessman,” William rasped, his voice trembling with fury and sorrow. “And a utter, disgraceful fool!”
Nathaniel’s jaw clenched. “Father, please. The press is here. Whatever this is about—”
“It is about honor!” William roared, pulling a thick brown folder from beneath his coat and throwing it directly into Nathaniel’s chest. The papers scattered across the polished floor, sliding against the shoes of the surrounding billionaires.
Nathaniel looked down.
They were private investigator reports. Photos. Medical affidavits.
And on the top page, stamped with the seal of Rhinebeck Memorial Hospital, was a high-resolution ultrasound image showing four distinct, tiny skulls.
Nathaniel’s heart stopped beating.
The room, the lights, the four hundred guests—everything vanished into a cold, terrifying void.
He stared at the ultrasound photo.
Four.
Not one baby.
Four.
“What... what is this?” Nathaniel whispered, his voice cracking, his hands trembling as he fell to his knees on the ballroom floor, picking up the scattered papers.
“That,” William Cross said, leaning down until his face was inches from his son’s, “is your legacy. Your wife—the woman you drove out of your home, the woman you threatened with poverty—is currently in Rhinebeck Hospital giving birth to four heirs to the Cross dynasty!”
A massive, collective gasp tore through the ballroom.
Four heirs! Quadruplets!
Nathaniel felt as if a physical blade had been driven through his chest.
Four babies.
Claire had been carrying four children while he was threatening her with lawyers, while he was sleeping with Vanessa, while he was obsessing over board votes and Vancouver shipping rights.
He looked at the date on the ultrasound. She had known for six months. She had carried the weight of four lives all by herself, in a drafty cottage in the mountains, while he spent millions buying off his conscience.
“Nathaniel...” Vanessa stammered behind him, her voice pale with terror. “Nathaniel, listen to me, it’s a setup! She hid it from you on purpose to ruin tonight!”
Nathaniel turned his head slowly.
He looked at Vanessa. In that single, horrific second, the scales fell completely from his eyes. He saw the cruelty, the greed, the utter selfishness that he had invited into his life while casting away the only real love he had ever known.
“Did you know about this?” Nathaniel asked, his voice deathly quiet.
Vanessa took a step back. “I... I went to see her today...”
“Did you know she was carrying quadruplets?” Nathaniel roared, standing up like a demon unleashed, stepping into Vanessa’s space.
“I didn't know it was four!” Vanessa shrieked, backing away in terror. “I just wanted her to sign the waiver!”
Nathaniel turned to his security team. “Remove her from this building. Strip her of her credentials at Cross Atlantic Holdings. If she ever sets foot on any property owned by my family again, have her arrested.”
“Nathaniel! No! You can't do this to me!” Vanessa screamed as two massive guards grabbed her arms, dragging her kicking and screaming through the shocked crowd of billionaires toward the rear exit.
Nathaniel didn't watch her go.
He turned to his father. William Cross looked at his son with deep, painful sorrow.
“She is in surgery right now, Nathaniel,” the old man whispered softly. “Thirty-two weeks. A high-risk emergency C-section. She might not survive the night. And neither might those babies.”
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Nathaniel felt his soul break into a thousand jagged pieces.
He didn't speak to the board members. He didn't offer an apology to the press. He dropped his glass of scotch onto the carpet, turned on his heel, and sprinted out of the ballroom into the pouring rain.
