Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Malcolm
The town was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I had just grown too used to the vastness of New York, the towering skyscrapers, the noise, the constant movement.
Here, everything felt still, like it had been frozen in time, waiting for me to come back.
But I hadn’t planned on coming back. Not really.
The excuse was business, a possible development project that my team had flagged as an expansion opportunity. But the truth?
I had no idea why I was here.
The black car rolled to a stop in front of the foster home, the place that had once been a temporary existence, a halfway point between being unwanted and being someone else’s problem.
The building itself hadn’t changed much—same brick exterior, same slightly faded sign near the entrance, same rusted swings in the yard.
I let out a slow breath, adjusting my cufflinks before stepping out.
As soon as I did, I felt eyes on me.
A group of kids playing near the porch stilled, their murmurs barely carrying over the light breeze. I heard my name whispered among them, like I was some kind of myth brought to life.
“That’s Malcolm Sinclair.”
“No way.”
“Seriously, look at him. He’s in a suit.”
“Dude, he’s, like, famous.”
Famous. That was new. Ten years ago, I was just another kid waiting for a chance.
Now, I was a headline, a billionaire, someone who had supposedly “made it.” But standing in front of this place, I didn’t feel like a billionaire.
I felt like the sixteen-year-old version of myself, standing right here, waiting to be chosen and slowly losing hope that anyone ever would.
The front door creaked open, and the house director—Mrs. Callahan, still as sharp-eyed and stiff-backed as I remembered—stepped out, her gaze immediately locking onto mine.
For a second, she just stared, like she wasn’t quite sure she believed what she was seeing.
Then her lips curved into something between approval and curiosity.
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “Look what the world sent back.”
I let out a small breath, stepping forward. “Mrs. Callahan.”
She tilted her head, taking me in, her gaze flicking over the expensive suit, the watch on my wrist, the polished shoes that had never walked this dirt path before. “Didn’t think we’d ever see you again.”
“Didn’t think I’d come back,” I admitted.
She hummed, like that answer made sense, before stepping aside and gesturing toward the door. “Come on in, then. Let’s see if you’re still the same troublemaker who used to sit on my porch pretending he didn’t care about anything.”
I smirked despite myself, stepping inside.
The air smelled like old books, laundry detergent, and something warm baking in the kitchen.
The kind of smell that somehow still felt familiar, even after all these years.
Kids peeked out from behind corners, some whispering, some bolder ones watching me openly.
I had been one of them once, hovering at the edges of visitors, wondering if they were the one, the person who might take me away from here.
But I had been too old, too closed-off. Until the Sinclairs.
Mrs. Callahan led me to the main office, her expression unreadable as she motioned for me to sit. “So,” she said, settling into her chair. “What brings you back?”
Business. That was what I should have said. Instead, I pulled out the envelope from my inside jacket pocket and set it on her desk.
She raised an eyebrow but reached for it, unfolding the paper inside. Her eyes flicked over the numbers, and for the first time, her composed expression cracked slightly.
“This…” she cleared her throat, glancing up. “This is a very generous donation.”
“It’s just money,” I said, brushing it off, even though I knew it was more than that.
Her lips pressed together like she saw right through me. “Money isn’t ‘just’ anything in a place like this, Malcolm.”
I looked away, running a hand through my hair. “Use it however you see fit.”
She nodded, still watching me like she was trying to figure something out. “Why now?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
She didn’t push. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and said, “Miriam’s here today.”
I blinked, the sudden shift making my thoughts stall. Miriam.
Summer’s mother.
I hadn’t thought about her in years. At least, that was what I told myself. But now, just the mention of her name made something tighten in my chest.
“She volunteers a few times a week,” Mrs. Callahan continued. “Does a lot for the kids here.”
I nodded, standing before I had time to second-guess myself. “I’ll say hello.”
She smirked. “You don’t have to act so casual about it. We both know you’re curious.”
I didn’t dignify that with a response, turning toward the door instead.
Walking through the halls felt strange. Familiar yet distant, like stepping into an old photograph. The voices of kids echoed, laughter mixing with the occasional argument, the same sounds I had once lived with daily.
Then I saw her.
Miriam was standing in the common room, her hair a little grayer than I remembered but her presence exactly the same—warm, steady, the kind of person who made you feel safe just by existing.
She was kneeling beside a young girl, helping her tie the laces on her sneakers, nodding as the child whispered something.
She must have sensed me, because when she stood, her gaze lifted—and she froze.
For a second, neither of us moved. Then a slow smile spread across her face. “Malcolm Sinclair,” she said, her voice carrying the same familiarity, the same knowing warmth. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
I let out a slow breath, my lips twitching slightly. “I guess I was overdue.”
She stepped forward, looking me over the way only a mother could—like she was seeing more than just the man standing in front of her. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
Her gaze softened, like she heard what I wasn’t saying. Then, after a beat, she tilted her head. “So,” she said casually. “Are you going to ask about her?”
I knew exactly who she meant. I hesitated. “How’s Summer?”
Miriam’s lips curved slightly. “You tell me.”
Something stirred in my chest, something I wasn’t ready to name.
I didn’t answer.
That night, sitting in my hotel room, I found myself staring at my phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Before I even realized it, I had typed her name into the search bar.
And there she was.
Summer Adkins.
The same girl. But not the same at all.
My chest tightened as I stared at her photo, and for the first time in years, I let myself acknowledge what I already knew.
I had come back for business.
But it had never been just about business.