When the clock struck midnight, Ethan Whitmore quietly unlocked the front doors of his mansion.
The house was supposed to be silent.
That was the rule. Silence meant control. Silence meant order. Silence meant nothing unexpected had slipped through the cracks of his carefully managed life.
But tonight, the silence wasn’t empty.
It breathed.
Ethan paused just inside the doorway, his expensive shoes resting on polished marble. Somewhere deeper in the house, he heard a soft rhythm—slow, steady breathing. Not one breath.
Three.
His spine stiffened.
The twins were supposed to be upstairs, in their cribs, monitored by the night nurse. Everything in this house followed a schedule, especially where his six-month-old sons were concerned. He had made sure of that. The twins were the one thing in his life he did not allow disorder to touch.
He loosened his tie, irritation flaring as he moved down the hallway.
The sound grew clearer as he approached the living room.
A low hum. Almost like a lullaby.
Ethan stopped cold in the doorway.
On the living room floor, bathed in the warm glow of a table lamp, lay a woman in a blue cleaning uniform. She was curled on her side, one arm bent protectively around his two sons.
His twins.
One baby clutched her finger tightly in his tiny fist. The other lay pressed against her chest, his cheek rising and falling with each of her breaths, as if he were listening to her heartbeat.
All three of them were asleep.
