For a moment, Ethan couldn’t move.
Shock slammed into him so hard it stole the air from his lungs.
“What on earth was she doing here?” he thought. “With my children?”
His first instinct was anger. Sharp. Immediate. Protective.
No one was allowed to touch his sons without permission. No one slept near them. No one crossed that boundary.
He took a step forward.
The woman stirred slightly, her brow creasing as if she sensed movement. Without opening her eyes, she adjusted her arm, drawing the twins a fraction closer, shielding them from the cold marble floor.
The motion was instinctive.
Maternal.
Ethan froze again.
He recognized her now.
Her name was Lena.
She was the night cleaning lady. Quiet. Efficient. Nearly invisible. He barely remembered hiring her—his assistant had handled it months ago after the twins were born and the house staff had expanded.
He had never spoken to her beyond a curt nod.
Yet here she was, sleeping on the floor of his living room, wrapped around his children like they were her own.
Anger collided with something unfamiliar—unease.
Ethan scanned the room. The couch was nearby, untouched. A folded blanket lay beside them, as if she had tried to make a bed on the floor instead.
He crouched slowly, careful not to wake the babies.
They were peaceful.
More peaceful than he had ever seen them.
Usually, his sons slept fitfully. They cried often. The nurses changed, the routines changed, but nothing ever fully soothed them. Ethan had blamed it on bad luck, on temperament, on anything but himself.
