The room was silent except for the babies’ breathing.
Ethan’s anger wavered.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked.
Lena hesitated. “You weren’t home yet. And when you are… you look so tired.”
That wasn’t an excuse.
Yet it struck deeper than he expected.
He looked at his sons again.
“How long?” he asked.
“About two hours,” she said. “I stayed awake most of it. I promise.”
Two hours.
Two hours his children had been held. Warm. Comforted.
Something twisted painfully in his chest.
Ethan straightened. “You should have informed the staff.”
“Yes, sir,” she said quickly.
“And you cannot do this again.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
He turned away, heading toward the stairs.
“Mr. Whitmore?” she called softly.
He paused but didn’t turn.
“I wasn’t trying to replace anyone,” she said. “I just… couldn’t let them cry.”
He walked upstairs without replying.
But sleep did not come easily that night.
