The Billionaire's Secret Quartet

Chapter 1413
Bridget was a kind woman, a hard worker with a heart of gold. Over the years, she had been caring for Hertha and the twins
wholeheartedly.
“Don’t say such things,” she chuckled, “you pay me a fair wage, and looking after you is part of my duty. Ms. Kensington, Ms.
Everhart, I bet you haven’t eaten yet. I’ve got one more dish to whip up, and then dinner is served.” With that, Bridget bustled
back into the kitchen.
Hertha and Thalassa each cradling a child, settled onto the couch.
Little Helena wiggled out of Thalassa’s arms, and though Thalassa thought she was off to play, the toddler fished out a pack of
cookies from between the couch cushions instead.
Clutching a chocolate chip cookie, she held it up to Thalassa, “Auntie Thalassa, have a cookie.”
“Mama wants one too.” Julian wriggled out from Hertha’s holding, grabbed a cookie, and offered it to Hertha with all the
seriousness of a grown–up. “Mommy, open your mouth.”
He himself opened his mouth wide, mimicking the action he wanted Hertha to take. His innocent eyes were filled with tender
love.
It was a heartwarming sight for Hertha.
Surrounded by such pure love, she obliged with an “Ahh“.
Julian promptly placed the cookie in her mouth.
Helena followed suit, coaxing Thalassa to open up. As Thalassa ate the cookie, she smiled and tousled Helena’s soft hair.
“Thanks, Helena. Did you hear Bridget say we hadn’t eaten, so you brought us the cookies?”
“Uh–huh,” Helena nodded vigorously.
“You’re such a sweetheart. You know, Elowen was just as thoughtful and adorable when she was at your age,” Thalassa said,
gently caressing Helena’s cheek, her mind drifting to her own four children.

A pang of longing surged through her at the thought of her four little darlings. It had been three years since Zephyr took the
children away from the hospital and forbade her from seeing them. And with all her energy focused on caring for Lysander, she
hadn’t had the chance to fight for her right to see them.
Hearing Elowen’s name, Hertha asked with a mix of curiosity and complaint, “Thalassa, does Zephyr really not allow you to see
your children even once?”
Thalassa’s lashes fluttered down as she nodded.
“That’s cruel! He won’t let you see your children or let them see their mother? Isn’t he afraid they’ll resent him when they grow
up?” Hertha was indignant on Thalassa’s behalf.
“I heard from David that Zephyr sent the kids to a military–style boarding school. They’re not allowed to just come and go,”
Thalassa replied.
“What? To a boarding school so young? Those places are tough. Can the kids handle it?” Hertha was deeply sympathetic.
“David mentioned that Lysander grew up in a military school as well.” Thalassa only knew about her children’s lives through
David’s updates.
“So, Zephyr is grooming your kids just like he did to Lysander. Looks like he does care about them in his own way. But keeping
you them is just too cruel to both you and the kids. Maybe once Lysander wakes up, you’ll have a chance at a family reunion.
After all, Lysander can stand up to Zephyr,” Hertha mused.
Then, as if struck by a sudden idea, Hertha exclaimed, “Wait, I know how we can get Lysander the best treatment!”
Thalassa shook off her funk and asked curiously, “How?”
“We gotta visit Dr. Funke.”
“But Dr. Funke won’t even give us the time of day,” Thalassa lamented.
“Didn’t Dr. Funke promise Alaric a dinner to sign some contract or something? We can just go with Alaric,” Hertha suggested.
“But...”
“No buts about it, leave this to me,” Hertha proclaimed, her indignation fueling her resolve.
The next morning, Hertha made her way to the Falconer Group, striding with determined steps toward the elevator.

No sooner had she reached the reception desk than she was stopped, “Miss, may I ask who you’re here to see?” Every
corporate receptionist is like a human radar for new faces.
Spotting an unfamiliar one, they intercept, preventing any potentially ill–intentioned visitor from disturbing the upper echelons of
the company.
Hertha had to pause, but she put on a cheery smile and told the receptionist, “I’m an old friend of your VP. Just need to chat with
him about something.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked, her expression stern, leaving no room for flexibility.
“Do I need an appointment to see an old friend?” Hertha was taken aback.
“During business hours, you need an appointment to meet with our VP. If you don’t have one, I can’t let you through,” the
receptionist insisted.
Hertha swallowed her rising temper.
When did Alaric get so high–and–mighty that he required appointments?
Whatever, she needed his help, so she held it in.
Maintaining her grin, she told the receptionist, “Sorry, let me just give him a quick call.”
Puiling out her phone, the same one she’d had for three years, Hertha scrolled to Alaric’s number.
She hadn’t dialed it once for three years. She wondered if Alaric still used that number.
Ever since she’d stumbled upon Alaric and Georgia sharing a bed, leaving the hotel that morning in a huff, she hadn’t spoken to
him again.
Then her pregnancy came, and fearing the gossip, she cut off all contact with the outside world.
Alaric’s number had been cocooned in her phone for three years.
Now, she was dialing it again after all this time.
Her heart fluttered with uncertainty, not knowing if the call would even connect.

Then the dial tone beeped through.
The call went through!
Alaric hadn’t changed his number in three years!
A few rings later, the call was answered.
Her heart pounded, adrenaline coursing as she scrambled for the right words, but then an unfamiliar male voice came through,
“Ms. Kensington, how can I assist you?”
That voice wasn’t Alaric’s!
Baffled for a moment, she asked, “Who’s this? Isn’t this Alaric’s number?”
“Hello, I’m Alistair, Mr. Falconer’s assistant. Mr. Falconer is in a meeting. His phone is with me. Do you need to speak with him?”
Relief washed–over Hertha upon realizing she had a direct line to Alaric.
“I do need to speak with him, but it has to be a one–on–one conversation,” she said.
Alistair glanced at the caller ID showing just one word: Hertha.