Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lucas
The wheels crunched over the manor's drive, plane trees slicing the sky on either side.
I eased off the gas, crawling slowly, not my usual style.
Ella rode shotgun, staring out the window, lost in heavy thoughts.
The manor loomed, pulling her back again.
She sat ramrod straight, hands folded over her cashmere coat on her lap.
I caught her index finger tapping fast on the fabric, her tell for anxiety.
I slammed the brakes. The car jerked to a stop midway. Silence hit, thick enough to hear a pin drop, just our breaths tangling.
"Ella," I said her name, dead serious.
She snapped out of it, turning with dazed eyes.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"If you don't want to go back to Rockefeller Manor to see Grandfather, we'll turn around right now." I locked eyes, no bullshit. "I'm serious. Say the word, and we're gone. Back to the Rochester apartment, or straight to the hospital to watch over our son. One word, and I'll take you."
Ella stared at me a long time, her gaze probing, unreadable.
"Lucas," she said softly, "Mr. Rockefeller is waiting for us."
"I can visit him alone." The family doctor's frantic call this morning said Grandfather collapsed, wanted to see me and Ella.
We rushed back in a panic. But as we drove toward the manor, doubt crept in.
I'd forgotten how the place held bad memories for her because of me.
I wasn't sure if it'd stir up resentment again.
She reached out, fingers brushing my hand lightly, like a feather. But it made my heart skip.
"Take me home," she said.
I grabbed her hand. Her fingers felt cold, small in my palm.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." Her voice stayed calm, but her eyes held steel. "This is our home, Lucas. Grandfather's sick—we have to step up."
She paused. "I won't act like an outsider anymore, throwing tantrums."
I fired up the engine and pulled into the inner courtyard. Mrs. Hughes waited at the main steps with the staff, necks craned. When the door opened and Ella stepped out, Mrs. Hughes's eyes rimmed red.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Rockefeller." She bowed deeply.
Ella moved slowly getting out, still weak from childbirth. I circled around, hooked my arm around her waist, taking half her weight.
"How's the old man?" Ella asked.
"He's waiting for you, ma'am." Mrs. Hughes led the way. "He refused meds and sleep until he saw you safe."
We climbed the stairs. Ella gripped the railing tightly, each step careful. My hand stayed on her waist; I felt her tremble.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Just nervous." She said, "I left without a word last time. Facing Mr. Rockefeller... I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything," I said. "He just wants to see you."
Grandfather's room sat on the third floor, catching the first morning light. We pushed open the heavy oak door; bitter medicine hit like a wave. The man who'd once ruled the world lay sunk in that massive four-poster bed, looking a full circle older than I remembered.
"Lucas." His voice rasped rough, but it lit up seeing Ella. "And my dear little Ella."
Ella hurried to the bedside, sat, and grabbed his withered hand. Her face crumpled with sorrow.
"Mr. Rockefeller, I'm sorry." She choked up. "It's my fault Lucas left, making you wear yourself out..."
"Don't talk nonsense, child." Grandfather lifted his other hand and wiped her tears slowly. "Think of it as a trip. You both needed a change, a new way to live. And look, it worked out, didn't it?"
"But your health..." Ella looked ready to bawl with guilt.
"These old bones were bound for this. If I can still give to the family, it's my honor." His cloudy eyes shifted, like he just remembered. "Where's my great-grandson?"
"He needs five more weeks in the incubator, but the doctors say he's strong, healthy—a tough little guy."
I pulled my phone from my pocket. We visited him daily, snapping photos and videos. I opened the album and handed it over. Grandfather's eyes sparked; he pushed up, and Ella stuffed fluffy pillows behind him.
He stared hard at the screen—the wrinkly, red little bundle. Silent for ages, but his breathing quickened.
"Looks like you, Lucas." He glanced up, eyes wet. "That stubborn spark in his eyes, same as you as a kid. But the mouth and nose? Ella's. Good thing. He'll smile prettier than you ever did."
Ella laughed, her first real smile today.
Grandfather handed back the phone, sank into the cushions, looking eased.
"Thank you, Ella," he said.
She blinked, confused.
"For what?"
"For bringing new life to this family." His voice whispered clearly.
My throat tightened. A bad feeling hit—his eyes too gentle, hiding finality.
"Grandfather..."
"You know, Ella," he cut me off, focusing on her, "Lucas was like that at birth. Two months old, his parents dumped him on me and jetted off to travel the world."
My body froze.
No.
Not here. Not in front of her.
"They said nannies handle kids," Grandfather went on, voice bitter.
"A child would cramp their style. They lived off family funds, worry-free.
Traveled everywhere—except home. Even Lucas's wedding?
They were in Antarctica on some 'polar expedition,' trekking to the South Pole.
Sent a photo with an iceberg: 'Regrets we can't attend. '"
"Grandfather." My voice came sharper than intended. "Ella just got out of the hospital. She needs rest. This can wait."
Blood pounded in my temples. My parents were a dark corner I'd buried deep. Now Grandfather dragged it into the light, exposing it to Ella piece by piece.
"Let Mr. Rockefeller finish, Lucas." Ella interrupted.
Her eyes held something unreadable—pity, curiosity, mostly resolve.
Grandfather glanced at me, apology flickering. But he pressed on.
"Lucas's parents' marriage? Classic old-money blueprint." His voice aged but sharp. "Two top families, pure transaction."
He paused. "Born with silver spoons, they never gave a damn for anyone. Took the pampered life as their due. Raising an heir? Duty. Actually parenting? Waste of their prime."
"That's just..." Ella sighed, trailing off.
"Selfish."
I finished for her.
I turned to the window, back to that judgment behind me. To the world, I stood at the pinnacle. But here, baring family skeletons to the woman I loved left me raw, humiliated.
Grandfather sighed. "Lucas was three, fever at 104, crying for Mommy in his sleep. The old butler called Paris. They were front-row at a fashion show." He paused, sarcasm thick. "Guess what? 'We have the best doctors at home. Why bother us with trivia? Us coming back won't sit bedside like them.'"
I shut my eyes, fingers digging into the windowsill. It hit me—words I'd thrown at Ella echoed theirs. I'd become their echo, hurting her without knowing, even as their first victim.
"I knew early," Grandfather said, "Lucas's upbringing went wrong."
I spun around, confused. "What wrong? You hired top tutors, taught me strength, survival in business, and reaching the top. Was that bad?"
He looked at me, guilt and love mixed.
"But you're hollow inside. No parental love from the start. Outside work, you fumble real connections—with women, with your wife."
We both went quiet.
Grandfather sighed. "Quality time and love from parents shape character, set a family's happiness ceiling."
Ella stood and came to me. Her hand on my arm—light, but real.
"So when I saw your coldness to Ella," Grandfather eyed us, "I knew the damage was done. Words couldn't fix it."
"But Lucas changed." Ella's voice firmed. "He's learning. For our child, our family—he's done so much."
Grandfather stared at me, then her. His tough eyes softened. "That's why I thank you, Ella. Your love and patience made him whole."
Her hand on my shoulder trembled, the quake hitting me. My heart clenched, acid rising. Ella knew my deepest scars now, her look pure compassion. Those midnight shadows I'd hidden? Her light dried them out.
"I know people wonder why I pushed your arranged marriage," Grandfather said softly, tiring but persistent. "You get it now, better than me."
I knelt by the bed, gripped his hand—thin, bony, skin loose. This hand held mine learning to walk, cradled me through fevers. He gave me everything: my wife, my future, an empire. Paved my path with his blood.
"I do," I said, voice hoarse. "I'll cherish Ella. Protect this family. I promise."
His dry hand squeezed mine, weak but sure.
"This time... I win, right?" He cracked his eyes, mischief glinting cloudy.
I froze. Even weak, his competitive fire burned. I half-laughed, lips twitching.
Grandfather closed his eyes, satisfied, body spent.
Ella patted my hand, eyes soft—time to go.
"One more thing," I leaned to his ear. "We named the boy Theodore."
His eyes fluttered open.
Ella added, "Theodore Rockefeller—after you, Grandfather."
He paused, then burst into his heartiest laugh in weeks. Grabbed our hands, stacked them, and said "Good" three times.
We skipped Mrs. Hughes's dinner invite and drove straight to the hospital.
After Ella's discharge, I'd booked a luxury suite across from the hospital. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the neonatal ICU floor. We visited Theodore daily—couldn't take him home yet, but it felt like watching him grow.
We parked at the hotel. Ella checked the time—last visiting slot today. No missing it.
We crossed the street and hit the hospital. Neonatal ICU on six; nurses knew us. They suited us up in scrubs and masks.
Our son lay in the incubator, tiny fists clenched. Pink skin, veins visible underneath. He breathed steady, chest rising soft.
Ella pressed her hand to the glass. Her eyes ocean-gentle.
"He's grown a bit," she said. "Look—his face is rounder."
I laid my hand next to hers on the glass.
"Yeah," I said. "He's growing."
Ella's phone buzzed. Maya.
"Something up, sis?" Ella smiled. "Hold on, perfect timing. Let me show you Theodore."
She switched to video. Maya looked better, fleshed out, almost normal.