Mine To Claim

Chapter 3

David

The view from my office window never fails to quiet my mind. It’s the reason I chose this room, the farthest corner of the house, overlooking the stretch of green that dissolves into forest. I can almost forget the noise of the city, the weight of headlines, the endless phone calls that define my life now.

It’s strange, looking back, how quickly everything changed.

Just a year ago, I was the kind of man people whispered about as careless, spoiled, drunk on privilege. But beneath the arrogance, I had something most people spend their whole lives chasing: a family that felt like home.

My father was the kind of man whose presence filled a room without ever needing to raise his voice. He was proud, but his pride was gentle, not the kind that demanded perfection, but the kind that pushed you to be better. His lessons were quiet, almost invisible until you realized you were living them.

My mother was warmth itself. She had this unshakable belief that I could do no wrong, even when I gave her every reason to think otherwise. She had the kind of patience that could tame chaos, the kind of love that made you want to be worthy of it.

And my siblings… God, I had the best ones.

Emma, the eldest, was the center of our family. She was everything I wasn’t, steady, wise, compassionate. Married to Noah, a man who adored her, and mother to little Liam, the most curious, happy child I’d ever seen. Emma could see right through me. Every lie, every excuse, every stupid mistake, she always knew. But she never made me feel small for it. She’d just say, “You’ll figure it out, David. You always do.”

Then there was William, my younger brother and my partner in crime. If I was reckless, he was wild. The world couldn’t tame him. Charming, infuriating, brilliant in his own way, he had that same Walton confidence but wore it with a grin instead of a scowl.

And Monica, the youngest, was the heart of us all. Gentle, thoughtful, always trying to keep the peace when the rest of us fought like overgrown children. She had our mother’s empathy and our father’s resilience, and somehow made everyone around her a little softer.

We were messy, loud, imperfect, but we were together. Sunday dinners at home, teasing each other, Dad telling the same old jokes, Mom rolling her eyes with that soft smile, it was the kind of chaos that made life feel full.

And then, in one night, everything shattered.

I still remember that call.

The club lights were blinding, the bass shaking the floor, and a glass of whiskey was in my hand. The brunette sitting on my lap was saying something I didn’t hear. Then my phone rang.

My mother’s voice trembled through the speaker, fragmented with panic.

“Da…David, Emma and Noah’s flight—it crashed—they haven’t been found—and your father—he’s—oh God, Lucas!”

And then the line went dead.

The rest of the night was a blur. I don’t remember the drive, just the fear clawing at my throat. By the time I reached the hospital, my world had already changed.

William was pacing in the corridor, his hands buried in his hair. Monica sat on a bench, holding a sobbing Liam, her eyes red and hollow. My mother was there, but not really. Her hands trembled as she gripped a handkerchief soaked with tears.

The world went silent when I saw the white curtains drawn over three stretchers.

Emma.

Noah.

And my father.

Our family doctor, Mr. Williamson, found me standing there, frozen. “Your father couldn’t bear the shock,” he said gently. “It was too much for his heart. But before he passed, he asked me to tell you something.”

He took a breath. “He said you’d take care of everyone. That you’d hold this family together.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. The only thing I remember is my mother’s cries echoing through the corridor, Liam’s little sobs, and the crushing silence that followed.

That night, something inside me broke. And in its place, something colder took root.

I buried my grief beneath duty.

Because someone had to.

When the funeral ended and the world stopped pretending to care, I stood in my father’s office for hours, staring at the empty chair behind his desk. That was the day I decided to step into his shoes.

I didn’t want this life. I’d always said I wanted to build something of my own, away from my father’s legacy. But I didn’t have a choice anymore. Walton Industries was collapsing, months away from bankruptcy. My father had kept it from us, probably because he didn’t want to burden us with his worries.

So, I did what I had to.

I worked. I worked like a man possessed. Long nights, endless meetings, ruthless decisions. People called me cold, some called me a tyrant, but I didn’t care. I didn’t need to be liked, I needed to fix what was left.

And somehow, I did.

In a year, Walton Industries went from drowning in debt to being one of the top ten conglomerates in the country. Investors who once laughed at my name now asked for meetings. The papers called me “The Billionaire Who Rose from Ashes.” But none of them knew how hollow that rise felt.

Because while the company recovered, my family didn’t.

Our family dinners were rare now, awkward, quiet things where everyone avoided looking at the empty chairs. My mother had aged a decade in a year. Monica smiled less. William drowned his nights in alcohol and women, the same vices I used to escape.

And Liam… my sweet nephew. He barely spoke anymore.

He was three years old and already knew loss in ways most adults never would.

He’d sit by the window in Emma’s old room, waiting. Always waiting.

I tried enrolling him in playschool, hoping being around other kids might help, but he screamed until I brought him home. His therapist said he was developing separation anxiety, that he needed someone patient, someone gentle. A steady hand.

So I decided to hire a caretaker.

I interviewed countless people, experienced, qualified, and polished, but none of them felt right. They smiled too easily, spoke too formally. None of them saw Liam.

Until she walked in.

Anna Steele.

I don’t know what it was about her, maybe it was the way she didn’t flinch when I raised my voice, or how her first instinct was to comfort Liam instead of impress me. She wasn’t pretending. She was just… real.

And beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you—not the flashy kind that demands attention, but the quiet kind that stays. Her dark eyes carried something raw, unguarded. Her confidence wasn’t loud; it was in the way she stood her ground even when I was being an ass.

I should’ve been annoyed.

Instead, I was intrigued.

She didn’t cower. She didn’t flirt.

She looked me in the eye and told me exactly what she thought of me, and then walked out.

I should’ve let her go. But for the first time in months, someone had made me feel something other than exhaustion.

So I called her back.

Maybe it was reckless, maybe it was stupid, but something told me she was exactly what Liam needed.

And maybe… just maybe, what I needed too.

She wasn’t like the others. She was nervous but real, earnest and grounded. When she spoke, there was no calculation in her voice.

She didn’t flatter me, didn’t try to impress me. In fact, she might be the first person who’s ever walked out on me.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Not just because she was beautiful, though she was, undeniably, but because she felt… alive. Genuine. She had fire.

I caught myself replaying her little speech in my head hours after she left. The way she refused to sugarcoat things, the way her eyes flashed when she said she wouldn’t lie about a child’s needs. I didn’t even know I’d been missing honesty until I saw it standing there in heels, scowling at me.

If I’d met her a few years ago, I probably would’ve flirted with her, and we probably would've ended up in my bed. But that version of me is gone. These days, my impulses are things I fight, not follow.

There was a soft knock, followed by Martha’s voice. “Sir, Ms. Steele is here.”

“Send her in,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and she stepped in.

And for a moment, the air actually shifted.

She looked different in the morning light, composed but slightly unsure, like she was trying to remember how to breathe. Her hair was tied back neatly, a few loose strands framing her face. The white silk blouse she wore looked simple yet impossibly elegant, tucked into a pencil skirt that spoke of quiet confidence rather than vanity.

Her eyes met mine briefly, then darted away. Nervous. Honest.

Something inside me tightened, a flicker of something I didn’t want to name.

I forced myself to look away, to remember why she was here.

“Will you ever learn to knock before entering, Ms. Steele?” I asked, tone deliberately dry.

Her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but thought better of it. “Martha said you were expecting me, Mr. Walton. I didn’t think I needed to announce myself twice.”

Smart. Sharp.

I felt the corner of my mouth threaten to lift and shut it down quickly. “Fair enough. Sit down.”

She sat, and for the first time in a long time, I felt something break through the monotony that had become my life.

It isn’t just attraction; it is just curiosity.