The woman was not the nurse. She was the cleaning lady.
Ethan’s heart pounded. What on earth was she doing here? With my children?
For a moment, the instinct of a millionaire father surged—fire her, call security, demand answers. But as he looked closer, his anger faltered. One of the twins had his tiny hand wrapped tightly around the woman’s finger, refusing to let go even in sleep. The other had his head nestled against her chest, breathing peacefully, as though he had found a mother’s heartbeat.
And on her face was an exhaustion Ethan recognized too well—the kind of weariness that came not from laziness, but from giving every last ounce of yourself.
He swallowed hard, unable to look away.
